"If music were a buffet, I'd be Luby's!"

I've been told that I like too much music for one genre heading, much less one person. Okay, you really wanna know why? I'll tell you. I like variety. I like having too much to choose from and getting it all at once. This obsession transfers into not only liking a lot of different styles and artists, but also loving different tones in a single song. That's why I like music that surprises you. I like so many sounds and instruments playing together that it feels like it all won't fit into your ears at once, but somehow it does. I like being able to listen to a song and hear something new every time. Horn sections drive me crazy in the best possible way, because they're so rare and they make my feet instantly start tappin'. A good harmonica riff can stick in my brain and suddenly make me ache in nostalgia about past relationships. There's a distinctive saxophone solo that I and thousands of other individuals cross our fingers for at a certain concert because the beauty and emotion in it is so very rich.

I love when there's momentum in a tune. I like when something builds; when the guitar starts out with some strain and then maybe the bass joins in slowly and before you know it there's drums and harmonica and trumpet out of nowhere! Suddenly all the noise just gets overwhelming and makes you almost jump back at how many melodies are happening at once, yet all satisfy the craving to hear MORE. This sounds incredibly cheesy, but to me, a song is like a journey. You have a start and an end and the beauty, like most travels, is in the time it takes in between both those points. I like a nontraditional trip- often the pattern of "verse-chorus-verse-chorus-bridge-chorusx2" can get boring. I like when you hear something that's completely unexpected and the song takes a new direction that wasn't even audible at the beginning. I like when the end comes and you can't believe how you got there from the first few notes. It feels like it was a lot longer than a 4 minute-and-15-second journey, but then it's over and you either hit repeat, contemplate what all exactly you just heard or move on to the next musical excursion.

I adore harmony- I like cramming as many voices into one line as possible. Singing along is involuntary sometimes. Anything fresh that I haven't heard before always makes my ears perk up. I can't get over a new instrument- give me more ukelele, harp, hurdy-gurdy, violin, tambourine, sitar, xylophone, banjo, accordion, keytar, saxophone, timbrel, mandolin, washboard, kazoo, ANYTHING! I want to hear it and know how it can create a captivating refrain. I love words and the power they have, but sometimes even good lyrics fall by the wayside in comparison to a single sound that astounds you and leaves you, well, speechless. Originality seems to be key here, but there's something else. Just because something sounds like something you've heard before doesn't mean you'll like it and just because it's original or new-sounding doesn't mean that it's gold. No matter what song, new or old, there has to be some sort of emotion placed carefully underneath all those notes- something that rings true with you and makes you feel something bigger than just rests and rhythm. Maybe it's stupid to think that you can physically hear emotions and feelings, but I'd be willing to place money on the fact that you can, and this fact has shaped a whole lot of decisions in my life.


Almost every time that I get to the end of my spastic thoughts I don't even know if they make sense. Maybe I'll get more confident in time. Music Journalism undergraduate, here I come ?



P.S. Oh yeah, about that. College so far is.....interesting. Everything's new and still takes time to get used to, but I love this town. Sundance Records and a handful of friends that are blessings in my life make the days better. Sometimes I feel small, though. For example, let's just say that you'd rather sip an iced chai latte and read Klosterman instead of filling or your lungs with smoke. This is considered out-of-place. Or maybe you'd rather have a dance party versus a frat party....yeah, you're in the minority. We'll see, though.
I know I'm here for a reason, but I don't know if that reason may ever become known, and right now at this moment I'm okay with that. Currently I'm attempting to figure out how to make this dorm room bed seem bigger. No ideas yet.

We never did too much talkin' anyway

I don't even know how to start to explain exactly what I'm feeling right now. The only way I know how to describe it is just this nervous weirdness. I've never done this before- I've never seen almost everything I own packed up in cardboard boxes. I've never not come home. I'm not too worried, but my thoughts just keep racing. There's so much I can't express right now because my mind is going too fast. I keep replaying memories in my head and looking back way too much for my own good. I'm remembering faces and times I don't know how to live without yet, but it's gonna be okay. It has to be okay, right? If anything, I should feel exhilarated at all the newness and fresh scenery and people and go confidently knowing that I am in no way trying to make relationships that replace the ones I currently have. I want to meet new people but never forget or lose touch with the old and I really don't want "staying in touch" to become a cliche phrase. I will honestly miss my bed, my parents and Maggie more than I can think about right now. I'll miss home tangibly and the home that I've made nestled in between a few fantastic friends that truly redefine the word "blessing".

It's 3 AM and of course I can't sleep. I've done this off-to-college-farewell twice before, but never exactly like this. The first time, I hugged two girls that adopted me like a sister sophomore year and promised myself I wouldn't cry until I got out of the car and into my room and I could listen to Ella to soothe me. The second time was, well, a memory that never seems to fade of a couple dozen forehead kisses and running out into the rain early the next morning to get a present left for me bittersweetly. But, you know, I don't think there will be a cd on my windshield and a rainy emotional breakdown-scene happening like the last time. This time it's me leaving and it's not poignant, really, it's just straining and too much and almost uncomfortable at times, like I wish it was just over already. But, on the other hand, I'm a sucker for holding on just a little bit longer. I wish the word "goodbye" took a lot longer to say out loud than it did many times earlier today.


It's going to be alright.
It's going to be better than alright.
It's going to be good.
It's going to be wonderful?
...That last one's a pretty strong adjective. We'll have to wait and see.


You know, I'm not the world's biggest Bob Dylan fan. I understand why he was important and how he revolutionized music and I strongly believe he was essential in a sense. But I find myself struggling to really dig into his music and actually feel something. But for some reason, one of these tracks just cuts into me, you know? It makes sense why it does- it's thick with emotion and this sense that he's looking over his shoulder, but he's leaving regardless. I'd heard it before it was given to me on a cd, but it affected me a whole lot more once I heard it in a certain order. It was probably intentional and the lyrics are blunt enough to burn and stick with me for quite a long time after the harmonica solo. It makes sense that I'd come back to it right about now, this exact same time, whether it's healthy to hold onto it or not. Ha, and I though Dylan could hardly make me feel something, much less tear up? Wrong again.

But, I do like the baby-sized converse

I wish I liked babies more.

I really do!

It was my New Year's Resolution to like babies more, actually.

It's not that I dislike them or think they're horrible or anything but they just make me extremely nervous. They're always moving and gurgling and taking in the world and I'm afraid I could screw some of that up. I don't mind looking at baby pictures- I mean, that part I like and I can handle. A baby of any species is adorable- giraffe, hippo, duck, etc. They're precious in pictures, yes, but it always happens that I end up being asked to hold one. Some cute mother is holding her bundle of joy and bouncing it so perfectly and then they ask, "Do you want to hold her/him?". Of course, I never know what to say after they ask and are staring back, waiting for an answer and batting their eyelashes and looking at you as if to say "compliment my child's cuteness or I will kill you". Sometimes I oblige and then I'm just panic-striken. I trust myself holding things, but I just don't want to screw anything up. I don't want this little person to be at all uncomfortable and I know I can't do that little rocking-bouncing-mom-arm thing so I lose confidence. And then there's the other thing- the staring. Children can win any starting contest and they just look at you with those big innocent eyes and I, A). Feel like they're secretely judging me or B). Think there is a camera installed in that tiny retina. It's unnerving. I'm not saying BABY-PANIC-MODE happens daily but when it does, I feel part-idiot and part-inept. I just don't want to screw up, you know? I don't want to teach the wrong thing or do something that would cause the little sunshiney face to start to cry. Paranoid much?

You know....I have no honest clue why I am even writing about this at all.

Train table up and seatback in the full upright position

Okay, true story from a few weeks ago.*

(*Actually some of it might be, well, "embellished", but I mean, I promise I would never just lie. Sometimes everyday life just needs a little excitement added. A few well-chosen adjectives never killed anyone.)

I think I like sitting in the airport terminal just as much as I like flying. There's something kind of exhilarating about being somewhere where you're surrounded by strangers and no one quite knows who you are. You're another face in the crowd-- another passenger like them. You could be the ridiculous girl who is wearing sunglasses inside and four-inch heels while going towards baggage claim. You could be the dad with those three screaming kids who just spilled their carry-on snacks on the floor. You might even be the guy with his macbook, paying $24.94 for wireless internet just to entertain himself. I mean, people can see your outward appearance, but they can't discover YOU. Your personality, how you cry everytime you watch Bambi, the most played album in your music collection-- no one really learns that just by looking at you. Unfortunately, appearances aren't always all they're cracked up to be.

He was wearing a fedora. Not one of those oddly-colored ill-fitting ones that you see teenage girls sporting, but a real one. It was brown tweed and he looked like Frank Sinatra. I thought I might melt then and there. I've watched too many old movies, but I swear that a man with a blazer and a hat can do anything and girls will stick to him like velcro. He was sitting in the chair next to mine at Terminal E7 and I was slyly trying to keep looking his way while acting like I was skimming through a magazine. He reached for his bag and took out Nine Stories and I nearly screamed. This man with a hat that for some reason intrigued me was now reading one of my favorite books! It may be my overactive imagination but at that moment I imagined our whole life from his marriage proposal to me at that big tree in Animal Kingdom at DisneyWorld to us having wheelchair races together in the nursing home. I was subconsciously fixing my hair and trying to casually turn his way when it happened. His phone rang and he answered it. No, that's not the crisis- it's what's next. He opened his mouth and spoke.

"OMG no way! You've gotta be JK-ing with me! LOL! XOXO!"

My ears were crying. Not only did he use AIM abbreviations in real life, but he said them in such a way that made it seem like this was just a normal speech pattern. My daydream of DisneyWorld and old people suddenly vanished. How could this happen? He was supposed to be a dapper, suave, literary fellow who ordered champagne and spent summers at the Lourve. Instead, I was sharing my personal space with a twelve year old girl with too much caffeine and text messages. I wanted to say something to him, but the "convo" he was involved in seemed important, so I just said "g2g" with my body language and went to distract myself in the Hudson News stand.

So what did I learn today? Hats are deceiving. Srsly.

Hope is here in a plastic box

There are so many things we spend our existence trying to get people to notice. Outward appearance is so meticulous, with so much of time spent on hair and clothing and the right facial expressions to make at the right place we want to be seen at. Posture and smiles and gazes are all analyzed on a daily basis and apparently seem to reveal so much about a particular individual. If a picture is bad, we delete it; after all, we wouldn't want something tarnishing the way we want to be seen. Someone will wear a certain band's logo or a certain designer label as if to let it speak for them; to say "hi, this is me" without ever becoming audible. Sometimes it's like habits seem perfected by people, as if to appear better on the outside. I've said it multiple times before, but I hate perfection. There's beauty in the breakdown. I thrive truth, good or bad, because it's REAL. It's not a fairy tale or a false facade someone puts on to impress, but it's the gritty reality. And sometimes reality can be beautiful in a way if you look hard enough.

I think the things that speak the most aren't the most obvious, the ones we haven't spent time on, but are just so genuine and unique that you know they had to be natural. The way the last letter of your signature always dips the same amount below the signing line. The way your nail polish is always chipped on one hand more than the other. The way you grip your steering wheel on the turns but the rest of the time use it as a percussion instrument along with the beat of the song that's playing. The way you always pray over your meal, closing your eyes in reverence while we're about to eat fast food, even if no one else does. The way your voice takes this serious tone if you sense that anyone isn't feeling well and you truly want to help them. The way your room looks messy but you can locate everything perfectly. The way you mark your silverware with pink nail polish on the handles so that when we use it at enormous family-reunion dinners, you get yours back. The way you always let that person cut in front of you when driving and you never say anything negative, you just let them. The way you tuck in someone's tag when it's showing. The way that you will leave little notes of encouragement everywhere for people to find. All these things- they're not obnoxious, they're extremely interesting. There's so many more movements that reveal so much to me, I think, and I don't feel "creepy" for noticing. What seem like little gestures are so much more; small impulsive actions really do speak louder than words. Practiced life is so mundane- I'd much rather learn from observation. Perfection is pointless- real life is much more interesting and practical than a happily ever after.



You know, it's funny, but the only thing that's made me feel at all like I am getting older- no, not college, moving out, turning 18, looking the part or taking on responsibilities-- it's the fact that I'm drinking my coffee nearly black now.