After spending the past two months working two jobs--neither of which I really love--and then spending evenings, sitting down, feeling lost (mentally, emotionally, artistically, creatively, spiritually), I finally found something worthwhile. An old memory card, buried beneath the mundane artifacts of day-to-day living, surfaced in my desk drawer. Opening it, I found magnolias, hundreds of them, when most of the ones on the tree outside my window have already withered and died in the late July heat.

I have not written poetry in seven months. I have not developed what I consider decent photography in many more. And I have not sketched a portrait in ages. This is me, artistically dead, and so afraid to begin again. That nagging fear of mediocrity, just failure by another name, threatens to stifle me again.

I have squandered a good deal of the summer, but I cannot spend any more time lamenting that. Now, I must listen to that crazy child in my head, following wherever it leads, and it begins with these magnolias.

As e.e. cummings once wrote, "perhaps the thing is to eat flowers and to not be afraid."

247 Deviations and 42 messages in my inbox.

That's what happens when you let APs take over your life, shove your artistic ability into a closet for several months at a time, and forget about dA.

Apologies to all who watch my work, or are watched by me. I will try to respond to your comments in a timely fashion, and comment your art in the same manner...just give me a bit of leeway, so I can catch up, alright? The negligence was necessary, unfortunately, for the sake of my grades and my sanity. I should improve, now that my exams are over and I'm accepted to college (never thought I would see the day, Georgetown 2013 :])

Also, during the spring, I went to Italy for ten days and took oodles of pictures (and by oodles, I mean over 2,000). I should be posting some of those soon, hopefully before summer's end, at any rate. I would really appreciate any feedback on those photos, as they're my most recent work.

To sum up my life right now:

"The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep."

~Robert Frost, "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"

This entry is spawned from, as all the best works are, procrastination, and because Bee (alettertonoone) told me I should have one, to which I replied that I was enough of a confessional poet on fictionpress without divulging my life story here. She's probably laughing maniacally while reading this.

Now the existential question: who am I? On second thought, I think it's easier to tell you who I am not.

I am not an artist. I'm just someone who spends her time trying to capture life, which often moves too quickly, in a lens that she herself is perpetually trying to evade. And I started drawing faces this year in order to avoid doing homework (already, you can tell that I try to avoid a lot of things) and my sketchpad is like a memory-book of what and who I care about.

I don't call myself a poet, although I dream of being one. I'm just someone who dabbles with the dictionary on a daily basis, who strings her heart between the syllables of a stanza (and if you couldn't tell, I'm addicted to alliteration). Poems are the only places that I never lie; you could learn more about me from fifteen lines of verse than in this entire entry. So check out my fictionpress if you want to get to know me.

I don't believe in love, abab rhyme-schemes, politicians, or happy endings. I do believe in hormones, free-verse, the human potential, and coincidence.

I'm rarely to-the-point, and never completely sane. But no interesting person is, and I'd like to think I'm interesting. You can judge that for yourself, so thanks if you've read this entire rambling monologue.

I'll leave you with Voltaire: "The secret of being tiresome is to tell everything."