Someway, Somehow

First of all, I apologize to my blog readers for today's post being a day late, but while my roommates blare Jersey Shore - may I take a moment to gag? ;) - here I sit, ready to unfold yet another rambling thought of mine. So here goes!

A couple days ago soon after I logged into my Facebook account I'm greeted with beautifully captured and crafted pictures of historical lighthouses. Being an avid fan of both historical buildings and lighthouses - not to mention great photography! - my hand made the mouse fly to the picture to make it bigger, like slowly lifting the pages of a pop-up book to see the little creatures and furniture tentatively spring to life but unable to stand the suspense and letting the wind whip the page open, the unfurling missed and suddenly there they are, like waking up to the winter-slumbering wildflower field outside your window abruptly drunk on its own heady scent, bending underneath the weight of a thousand wind-tossed rainbows.

Oh dear, let me insert a disclaimer here. It's been way too long since I have plugged that ever-eager outlet into one of several novellas I've got going at various levels at the moment, so therefore...currently plugged snugly into today's blog post, there's copious amounts of electricity coursing through the poor thing, and it all collects and spreads like jittery lightning going half-crazy with the endless possibilities of places to strike...and rambling, run-on metaphors like the one in the previous paragraph arise. Not to mention ridiculously long sentences like the previous. That's something which has always haunted me in my writing though, run-on sentences. I guess I just have so much to say, and my hands and fingers start flying before me like two children running ahead of their unwatchful parents, soon lost amidst the shifting and smiling people, not so far away but yet you only glimpse snatches of them, they seem forever out of reach.

And obviously I've never tried to curb this run-on sentence problem. In fact, many a English teacher/professor has told me I use metaphors and similes too much. Also, I've been told I pack too much detail into my stories. I'll admit, I'm guilty of all three. Too much of a good thing? I never thought it was possible. Definitely not with chocolate, right? ;)

Well, back to my encounter of beautiful lighthouse photographs on Facebook. There's this group of people who have a page on Facebook that take photographs at various locations in the U.P. And from previous experience I know I can't assume everyone knows what that means. It stands for Upper Peninsula, or Upper Michigan. Which is where my parents grew up, and most of our relatives live. Last weekend I had the privilege to visit relatives with my Dad, and enjoyed the endless two-lane highways weaving and dipping through untouched woodland and pines. Well okay, it became tedious after a while, but just the fact that those copy-and-paste forests were leading us to my grandparent's, aunt's, uncles and cousins was enough to keep me from outright groaning. Besides! I spotted a few hawks here and there...and even some bald eagles! Sadly that was the first time I've seen bald eagles in person, and although my Dad was thoughtful enough to pull off onto the shoulder so I could try to take a picture of one, they moved around too much for me to get a clear shot. And I think I could've caught one pretty well with 10x zoom but...perhaps I'll have better luck next time.

I believe my obsession with historical lighthouses started in high school, when one of my math teachers talked about his own passion for them. Perhaps it also stemmed from my life-long love for New England, Upper Michigan and the craggy, dark-gray stoned shores and knolls upon which many a lighthouse and weathered, dilapidated cottage sits. You see, I have always had a small part of me yearn for a sand-smoothed, paint-peeled, modest cottage or bungalow perched on a jagged-edge cliff overlooking the New England waters. Heck, I've even dreamed of living in an old lighthouse! Imagine the storms you could see! I would love to see a lake or ocean churning like a witch's brew frothy and black beneath a low-hanging, wispy-edged sky. I believe I would be both trembling with fear at its seemingly limitless power and yet so awed and riveted I wouldn't be able to move. After all, those same snapping, frothy waters are at most other times calm enough to wade into and even push out a boat onto in the early morning hours and spend hours dozing while others fish and sing a song. I've always been fascinated how water can change its temperaments so, just like the wind. During a lazy, sun-tickled summer day it can ruffle your skirt just so, make the trees and fields whisper and yet it can level entire houses brick or wood, and drive single pieces of hay into trees and makes cars and semi's over sized nails to drive deeply and irrevocably into your solid steel coffin.

Like I said before, there's going to be more 'electricity' than normal coursing through my 'creative outlet' today, so please, when I go off on rambling sidetracks like that talking about the weather and my obsessions with both violent weather and New England, don't try to find a connection with what I talked about in the beginning of today's post, but simply hold fast to the truth that someway, somehow, I'll get back on topic. Whether it be by my own hand - like now! - or some other outside force shoving or gently guiding me back onto the path I started on. Hey! There's hope right there! I mentioned today's blog post, title! Albeit...it isn't exactly in the context I had intended to, but nonetheless, it's there, right?

I actually borrowed the title from a favorite forgotten song of mine that I had randomly found on YouTube because for me that seems to be both the curse and gift of that site. But...before I descend into yet another rambling sidetrack, let me sternly remind myself that such a story is for another day, next week Wednesday of course! Which will be April by then, crazy right? Although that only means I'm one week closer to...summer break!!!

As with old houses, most historical lighthouses have unique character and architectural designs to them. And while eagerly clicking through the collection of photographs a particular group had captured in various locations in the U.P, thus today's blog post was already adding the first ingredients to that always overflowing 'in-box' on some vast, pockmarked wooden desk amidst those endless filing cabinets. I've always loved coastal life, especially Maine. I would love to be inches from the shifting sands, or the jagged, water-slicked lips of a rocky knoll. I've said this before haven't I? Oh dear. But anyway, there's just something about lighthouses that tugs at my heart differently than old houses do. And that might make you roll your eyes and say 'well obviously, because after all they're lighthouses not houses in general. But I think it's more than that. While a historical house can be anywhere, typically lighthouses are situated close to water. Way to state the obvious, eh? I feel like that's a lame way of stating something more important I'm struggling to say. But nevertheless, there it is. So laugh or do whatever else it is you do when you read such sentences as those above. :)

If I may point out an irony quick. Never learning how to swim, and never really becoming acquainted with boats and how they tend to venture out into very deep waters, I have developed somewhat of a tangible fear of both deep water and boats. So why, you ask, would I want to live in a lighthouse perched on the crumbling lip of the earth overlooking a violent and serene sea? I believe the same answer can be found in my obsession with tornadoes - yes, more violent weather, what can I say? In Sheboygan, Wisconsin I've been deprived...greatly ;). I've never seen a tornado in real life, and I know for certain when I do - yes, I said when, not if - I'll be both so scared my very bones will tremble but yet I'll force myself to take pictures, maybe some video, and memorize everything about that moment, from the pulsating grass, to the screaming winds, to the snapping pines and finally the molten sky of sickly greens and grays and the finger twisting its blackened skin further into the earth, searching for a heart.

I once read a book where a couple lived in a historical lighthouse for a year, and unfortunately I can't remember the title, but the book really touched me. Their stories were heartwarming, sad, frustrating and everything inbetween. And just say I yearn to witness a tornado - or multiple tornadoes would be better - in real life, so do I intend to explore the myriad historical lighthouses scattered throughout the U.P and New England too. And I suppose Wisconsin too. Can't forget about my home state, can I? What can I say? I have an itch for travel. Someway, somehow I'll force myself beyond the fear of places-far-from-home and reach all of the points of my obsessions, and then see where they weave and stretch themselves to next. :)

It's a winter (horror)land

Perhaps it's a sign of laziness, or something else, but when I sat down after slipping, sliding and enduring the stinging laughter of the snow on my way back from the gym I decided to blog about the strange - but not all together unexpected - weather my part of Wisconsin has been enduring for the past day and a half. Why would that be lazy you say? Because I feel like writing about the weather is cliche. Of course, I think pegging summer as my favorite season is cliche too, but that's a whole other story.

Why do I feel like writing about the weather is cliche you ask? Because it just seems like it's the lowest book on the shelf, or the first link that pops up in Google when you're searching for sources for a paper with an encroaching deadline. And by the way, books are the way to go for sources, believe me!

But despite that, here I sit, writing about...the weather. And as you can see from the photograph I've posted of my lovely rainboots, Green Bay, Wisconsin has none other than...snow! In the last weeks of March! And don't let the photograph fool you either, it wasn't just a dusting. It was a full-on blizzard, and even sent forth a thunderstorm last night. Which of course if you've known me and my blog posts long enough you'll know I enjoyed that little bit, nothing like some bright lightning and hearty, rumbling thunder to fall asleep to! Of course my joy ended when I peeked behind the curtain after I go up this morning and discovered everything was layered in an already burdening coat of white, and it hasn't stopped snowing since. Both of my classes were cancelled today, but I braved the ice and slapping snow to workout at the gym on campus. I needed to vent all of my frustration against Mr. Winter on the elliptical machine!

But, even as I conjure up hate-mail and angry haiku's to Mr. Winter another part of me - that annoying sensible side that's always there, laughing at the spontaneous side, knowing it will always conquer - knows its futile to be mad at the weather. After all, it is Wisconsin, so shouldn't I - on some level - have expected this? The answer, of course, is yes. But let me tell you something. Twice now the snow has melted on campus here, and also in my hometown of Sheboygan, only to be replenished. And like I've already said about today, that replenishing wasn't just a sprinkling of confectioner's sugar over a buttery, fluffy pastry. No, not in Wisconsin. This was like accidentally ripping open an industrial-sized sack of flour and having it raining down on you in smooth and biting textures. Something you can't just brush off, or melt away with a string of 50+ degree days. It's staying there for a while, and all you can do is unearth your winter clothes from the back of your closet and mumble under your breath.

Even with all of that reasoning, I still find myself pinning for the days when I can walk to class without wearing/carrying my bulky winter jacket, wear a long-sleeved sweater/hoodie or anything else with long-sleeves for the matter, and can ditch my winter boots for flats. In short, I'm yearning for 60 degree weather! Which is another thing Wisconsin loves to do. While it's dangling the tantalizing sweet and fragrant bud of spring above our heads, it will sometimes lower it down so we can cup it in our hands and burst from our houses in t-shirts and flats, dancing in the puddles of melting snow, reading outside all day underneath a gentle halo of sun while flattened and brown grass gasps at the warm air rushing over it, thankful to see daylight again. Then the steel door swings shut, that blissful warm air is twisted away until cold seeps out of it, and the cloak of winter falls again, smothering the grass, driving us back indoors, and laughing heartily with whipping winds and singing snowstorms as our closets fill to the bursting point with bulky winter clothes we had stashed away.

Okay, I fear I'm being cynical here, but really, I'm tired of winter. Now I know you're thinking, oh really? It wasn't obvious at all until now. And I know, I hide it well don't I? Since I love to contradict myself, and perhaps even start arguments with myself in my head - and both have happened, albeit you're probably not surprised by that - I know I wouldn't want to live somewhere where they never got snow or rain, like say perhaps where one of my friends lives, in Bakersfield, California. It neither snows nor rains there, and while I sit here now, occasionally glancing out at the pulsing, layered white world beyond my window, I think...how boring that would be. I would rather have snow, rain and fluctuations in the weather - unlike say, Los Angeles - then not have any at all. For how much I despise the wildly changing weather patterns of Wisconsin, I know that if I ever fulfill my dream of moving to Oklahoma - yes, I said Oklahoma, and why? Honestly, I've been obsessed with it since middle school. Just when you thought I couldn't get any weirder, right? - or to New England, I know that I would miss the haphazard weather patterns. Albeit, New England gets its fair share of snow as well, so maybe I wouldn't be escaping it after all. But at any rate, as long as I plant myself somewhere that gets sufficient thunderstorms I'm fine. I've been deprived all my life, it's my right to be treated to them the proper months out of the year!

Well, after all that I guess I can't honestly say I never have nothing to blog about. After all, if a novella of mine can start from just a single scene sketched hastily in my mind, or a lone character, a fictional or barely remembered house I glimpsed while gliding down a rural country highway...then I can start a blog post from just idly staring out my window, and yearning for the days when I can trade my winter boots for flats, and my winter jacket for elbow-length hoodies and (gasp!) tank tops. Dare I say those two words? I think I will, and maybe scream them to the blizzard still waltzing and sprinkling its pounds and pounds of flour onto the campus.

The shirt that still fits

Ah yes, if I can't think of something to blog about every Wednesday you can be assured I'll think of some obscure, metaphorical title. After all, that's half the fun of blogging isn't it? Not only thinking about something to post, but also conjuring up an interesting title to pop up in your follower's blog reel and make them tilt their head and think "what?"

Well anyway, I believe that was just a rambling of sorts to stall the inevitable explanation behind said peculiar title. Why do I have to stall, you ask? Well, because sometimes I come prepared with a blog idea already neatly written out - somewhat mind you - stacked, stapled and ready to thumb through while other times - okay, most times - i end up just sitting here in front of my laptop, that ever-blinking cursor like tapping fingers on a desk edge, until random dog-eared pages fall into my lap, or onto the floor, or all around me. And I catch a snippet of something, of an idea, of a sentence, of a strange title, and my mind, seeing all these confetti-like sheets of paper fanned out around me, starts skipping across the sagging floorboards layering the narrow hallways weaving in and out of the labyrinth of filing cabinets in my mind. Pulling a few sheets from one, a whole stack from another. Most of them aren't labeled, but it finds them easily enough, and what am I left with? A sheath of haphazardly stacked pages with curiously connected letters resembling sloppy, new-age cursive acting as my outline.

Such is the reason behind today's blog post title. I was sitting here, on yet another Wednesday - already March! :) - when suddenly my mind sprung forward, snatched a corner of a sheet that was probably sticking out of one of those overstuffed cabinets in the back labeled 'miscellaneous' and let it slip through the floorboards, where it sits now, somewhat translating to my blog. The last few blog posts, you see, I've been focusing on music. And granted last week's was on old houses, I'm turning once again to music, and the peculiarity of YouTube and it's ability to suck me back into the music I listened to as a middle schooler and early high school student.

I can't remember exactly when I gave away all of my Jump5 albums, but it was definitely a defining moment for me. Did I feel any more mature afterwards? Did I immediately start rocking out to Journey and Pat Benetar like I do now? No to both questions. The thing is, even after giving away my Jump5 collection, I still loved their music. But it wasn't in a 'listen to every day' kind of way anymore. It was more of the way one views the scenic countryside from an airplane window or a helicopter. At one time - back in middle and early high school - I was skipping through those swaying, patchwork fields, and feeling the wildflowers fling their scent gaily in my direction as they bent with the satin wind.

But now, I'm like that passenger staring down at the countryside unmarred by a film of clouds. Those same patchwork fields and heady scented wildflowers are now golden and multi-colored squares sewn by man and time into the shifting skin of the earth. No longer do I purposely fling myself into their depths, but view their beauty and meaning from afar, still feeling that tug somewhere inside me.

Then along came YouTube, and whether I purposely set foot in said fields of wheat and wildflowers, I didn't even have to cross the threshold and there they were, literally folding over it, filling my room with their equally organic and perfumed scents, drawing me back, even as I stay planted amidst my steadily humming glass globe of Journey, Pat Benatar, Heart and Peter Cetera. How did these fields come to inch across my threshold of newly discovered music? And more importantly, why am I not closing the door?

One reason is, to go back to the whole airplane metaphor, even when I had distanced myself from those fields - Jump5's music - I still a place in my memory for its importance. Like traveling far away from your family's home, to attend college, or start a new job. There could be hundreds, even thousands of miles between you and them and yet you feel that tug, those fields whispering in the back of your mind, tumbling down your own narrow corridors, slipping between the cracks, raining down on you in your sleep, or when you lean back in your chair, taking a few minutes to travel back to that threshold, and step gently over, embracing the memories that live there.

So with that said, even though I have sold all of my Jump5 albums, and will probably never own them again - perhaps I'll end up selling all of my albums now that I think about, after all I primarily use my iPod and the speakers I can attach it to - I still find myself hunting down that threshold amidst the ever-expanding walls and room of the mansion I call my music tastes. And perhaps another reason why I will never forget - or abandon - Jump5 entirely is because of the fact that most of their music came out in the early 2000's, which - being so close to the 90's and all - is another era of music I place gingerly behind the most elegant built-in, lead diamond mullioned hutch in my mansion, where - like my iPod, at least I hope - it can be sheltered from the tumultuous, free-for-all music industry that is currently lapping at the freshly painted clapboards of my mansion, itching for a way in.

Okay, I promise I'll halt the old house metaphors and stop confusing those of you who are wondering why I am comparing my music tastes to an expanding, historical mansion. That's a metaphor that goes back to the beginning of my days on Pandora, which is a long story, so I'll just move on! There was a time when I thought I loved every Jump5 song that ever came out, and perhaps then, and more so today, I realize that could never possibly be true.

Honestly, there were some songs they produced that - to me at least - were just awful, and don't get me started on their last album, which of course I was so excited for. Only to find out they had completely changed their style and sound and Hello & Goodbye ended up collecting dust on my bookshelf, while I turned to their older albums for solace. Why you ask, if I claim not to listen to them anymore, am I bringing such a fact up? The truth is, I have no idea, I guess it still annoys me! But at any rate, Jump5 did have some amazing songs, and more than one has managed to stick in my mind like a persistent sticky note clinging to the haphazard surface of a fridge amidst the children's scrawled masterpieces and the constant shifting of bodies back and forth against it.

One of those songs, if I may temporarily admit my obsession with what was termed as - and might still be? - bubblegum pop, was their song All I Can Do. Now I know most of my readers probably haven't listened to Jump5, or maybe never even heard of them. But trust me when I say this: that song alone literally dominated the soundtrack to my middle school years. Think of a stubborn tape stuck in your old car's tape deck, and every time you start up the car it starts playing a certain song, over and over again. Before you even turn the key in the ignition you know it's going to start playing, and you groan inwardly, or perhaps curse. But eventually, when enough hours have spun by beneath your wheels and the wind has danced on your shoulders and face, you find yourself singing along, not minding its constant repetition, like a carousel ride that keeps going around and around, the same scenery somehow becoming new, all of the horses changing colors, prancing beneath you.

Well, that rambling string of metaphors was kind of like what that song did to my head back in middle school. How my parents - and not to mention my CD player - handled it's constant repeat is beyond me. A couple months ago I favorited the music video for All I Can Do on my YouTube channel, 'just for the heck of it' I thought, and I preceded to listen to it. Again, and again. Now granted, this isn't an every day occurrence but I guess the point I'm trying to make - and ironically having to shove my own thoughts out of the way to do it - is that the possibility for that obsession is still there, those fields are right outside my door, waiting for me to slip between their swaying depths, and dive deep.

Am I saying I'll go back to listening to Jump5? Definitely not! But a certain fellow blogger of mine who says she works out while listening to Jump5 has led me to wonder if I shouldn't download a few of their songs onto my iPod while I work out just to give me some different pumped-up music to listen to than Def Leppard, Heart and Bryan Adams. Albeit granted, I know I wouldn't restrict myself to only listening to them while working out. After all, when they played such an important role musically in my middle and early high school years, how could I not turn back to them occasionally? And along those lines, in my blog post entitled Break out the bubbly every once in a while I crave that sweet, tantalizing festive pop of that bubbly, sugary and addictively sweet music tumbling down my throat, and refreshing my mind. Sure most of the songs are full of meaningless lyrics like candy is full of meaningless calories, but that doesn't matter. Jump5 made wholesome and non-offensive music that I still appreciate today.

And the whole 'sugar comment' isn't to say that all of their songs were like All I Can Do, or the whole album for that matter, a lot of their songs had substantial meaning, and an important message to convey, and I appreciate that as well. So, with all of that said, I still feel like I haven't effectively explained the title of today's blog post. Well, here it is then. I thought about my recent habit of favoriting Jump5 songs on YouTube and adding them to my channel and then that got me thinking about the whole idea of how I thought I had 'outgrown the Jump5 shirt' only to find it crumpled and just a bit neglected on the floor of my closet, tried it on out of pure curiosity - the death of all, right? - and found *gasp!* that it still fit! Hence, today's blog post title. Ta da! And please, no comments on how it took me until the very end of today's post to explain it. At least I managed to out run my thoughts and actually say something on my own for a change, right? :)

All the pretty little (old) houses

No, I did not grow up hearing all of the traditional nursery rhymes morphed into subjects about old houses, or twisted to relate to them. The title of today's blog was simply a product of my imagination and a convenient title to the idea that has been forming in my head between last Wednesday and today.

Albeit, one could probably make a nursery rhyme about old houses, don't you think? Or a children's book? But I'll leave that to people who actually know stuff about such things, and continue with today's topic! And yes blog readers, the streak of music-related posts has ended and once again I fall back on that ever so comfortable, over-stuffed couch I sink into again and again.

The reason for the twist on the nursery rhyme title perhaps is the final key into the lock you all need to truly label me as an old house fanatic. Well, I say, swing that door wide! For i will run through it and dance on the threshold. I make no secret of it, and therefore find it amusing that I truly can make anything relate to old houses.

Over the years that I have become more and more of an old house fanatic I've spotted many old houses in various places, and unfortunately most of those times I have either been minus a camera, or the person driving was unable to stop so I could take a picture. Also, it could have something to do with the fact that I don't drive, therefore I am at the whim of whoever happens to be behind the wheel, and for the most part said person isn't as estatic about the old house I've spotted as I am. How to convert them, I wonder? That's a good question.

While thinking up today's blog post, I started recalling all of the old houses i've spotted over the years, and because of a lack of pictures - not the mental kind mind you! - those pictures are foggy and distorted, like aged window panes over the years that seem to meld into the transparent air, returning to the liquid sand that bore them. But, there is hope. I have faith that at one time I will eventually get pictures of all the old houses taking up residence in my head, so they no longer only have an existence in my mind. I yearn for concrete evidence, evidence of my obsession, my passion, and the whimsical or dilapidated architectural features that snagged my gaze along a narrow country road, or a busy highway, or sitting silently atop a hill above a random road taken on the way home.

That's just it! Most of the old houses I love and don't have pictures of are scattered around my hometown of Sheboygan, like a spider web torn by the wind, hanging in rags, useless to the spider who once lived there, but still the web is connected, even if by a few transparent threads that only the spider can see, and still travel. For instance, I recall the latest old house I've spotted. There's a highway my parents travel when bringing me back and forth from college to Sheboygan, and just beside an overpass alongside the highway is a fairly large light blue and light pink Victorian. I yearn to see it up close, and of course get a picture of it.

When I glimpse such old houses I am always in motion, and usually that motion is on a country highway so I am allowed but a fleeting glimpse, just enough time for the details and outline of said old house to stick itself to my memory, where hopefully it will leak through the cracks and holes into a temporary filing cabinet somewhere in my mind, a special room where such vague and fragile 'photographs' are stored, like a black room - is that what they're called? - where photo's delicately come to life amidst the liquid and dark.

There is a major difference between spotting an old house and watching it slide by like an old fashioned film reel going in fast forward, and viewing each slide at your own pace. You can sit there, your finger on the 'next' button and not hit it for a full five minutes, just taking in the picture, every aspect of it. I feel the same way with all of the old houses caught up in my mind. I yearn to just stand there, camera poised in front of me, its eyes unblinking, as are my own, just feeling every paint-peeled wooden siding, or foggy-paned window...with my eyes.

There's another old house I think of, an abandoned farm actually, on the way to my great aunt's farm in Upper Michigan. Last August - which was unfortunately the last time I was there - I convinced my parents to stop alongside the road so I could take a couple of pictures of the farm. The house, bearing the familiar gray-brown siding and sagging roof, was obviously abandoned for quite a few years, as was the barn. I had always searched that side of the road for it, waiting for it to appear so I could catch a longer glimpse this time, but now...I have pictures! But once I've been away for a while and look back on those pictures I realize...they're not enough. I want more! Which is natural probably, you think of better angles, a spot you could've zoomed way in on, etc. All you can hope for is to return once again to the site and hopefully have a chance to snap away to your heart's content. Albeit if that were the case, I'd be at some sites for hours! Some day perhaps that will be the case. A girl can dream right?

Some 'old house sites', per se, I haven't returned to for probably well over a year or two, which is just the way of life I guess, but that doesn't mean I have to like it! Now, you might be thinking, with such a strong itch and a wandering eye coupled with a heart swelling for love of old houses, wouldn't that be enough to push me past the fear of driving? And the answer is...no. Ironic? Maybe. Hard to understand? Perhaps. But that's the way I am, and I guess another factor is the fact that I can't afford a car anyway, and who needs the extra cost for gas and maintenance right? Now that may be a cynical and very limited way of looking at the fact of owning a car, but I guess that's always been my take on it.

And yes, I do dream about taking weekend, totally aimless drives through the countryside, just following my heart's whimsy, whatever road looks appealing, wherever I spot a good opportunity for a photo or of course...wherever I spot a tantalizing old house. I also dream about meeting someone - and I'm not talking boyfriends here, just in case you got the wrong idea! - who holds such a passion as mine, someone I can peruse the countryside with, with a fine-tooted comb, someone to glide over the pockmarked roads with.

But anyway, enough about my wanderlust heart and constant itch for travel that always rubs like coarse sandpaper against the delicate flesh of the reality of my bank account, my lack of a vehicle or driver's license and most ironic of all...lack of people around me who share my interest of the countryside, and hunting for old houses to take pictures of. Perhaps, now that i reflect on it, these desires and passions were placed in me for me to overcome such obstacles as my fear of driving. But, like I said before, enough about me reflecting on the ironies in my life. Hell, you've probably spotted them all already, right?

Back to the old houses in my head! And you know when you read that, i mean that in the most literal sense there is. There's one such old house I was fortunate enough to get a few pictures of over Thanksgiving break, but unfortunately I haven't been back since to get some better pictures. Yes, there I said it, I'm complaining about the quality of the pictures. When I know I shouldn't be when there are some other old houses taking up residence in my head that are still wisps of fading memory and pure resilience, not yet having the privilege to take concrete form in a picture - on my computer and Facebook anyway. But still, it's disheartening to snap a few pictures, finally able to stand before the beautiful structure itself and then go back to look at the pictures on your computer and go...oh, the sun's blocking it out, or the angle's wrong, or it's too dark. Why? Why does this happen?

Oh no, I sense a rant coming, something akin to 'it's unfair' and 'my parent's camera sucks' and stuff like that, but I'll spare you and will instead dive into a story about one of my most beloved old houses that I haven't seen in what is probably two years, or at least a year. Well, in any case, too long! Like most of the 'pretty little old houses' holed up in my head, I have inserted them into novellas I've started. Perhaps this is just another attempt on my part to immortalize them, because perhaps from the moment I glimpse them alongside the road I know I could not have the privilege of doing so again for a very long time. So perhaps I have my own black room in my head, preserving these impromptu mental pictures immediately, like flash freezing fruit in Florida when you know the temperatures are going to drop dangerously low.

Well, that was quite odd, flash freezing fruit and a black room all the same metaphor. Then again, it is my head and mind we're talking about, so perhaps that isn't so odd after all. Anyway, back to the beautiful old house I was talking about. So there's this horse rescue farm I volunteer at during the summer and spring - and when I lived at home while attending college, during the winter too - there's two routes to take there, one involves the highway, and one involves the countryside. Now if you honestly have to think about which one I desire more, then perhaps you could re-acquaint yourself with my blog posts!

I remember along that country route to said horse farm there were quite a few charming old houses, which is expected right? But perched atop a hill branching off of the highway, vines twisting and arching delicately up the cream city brick was the most beautiful Colonial-style home I'd seen in a long time. It had a hipped roof, ornamental brackets underneath the deep overhang, a covered front porch and black shutters. How could I remember all these over a span of possibly two years? Because of the black room in my head, and the flash freezing too! Okay, that's not really it. Perhaps I have a photographic memory, or there really is some metaphorical black room in my mind that instantly preserves such mental images, until I can capture them on film, and they live forever on my computer. So technically, my laptop is an extension of my mind, is it not?

Okay, today's blog post is making me ask all kinds of weird questions. Introspective questions I usually leave for characters in my novellas. But like I was saying, it was a beautiful home, and it frustrates me that I can't clearly picture it now, or even worse, find myself doubting my own mental picture, wondering if it's blending with another picture, or perhaps I am imagining qualities of it that aren't really there. Such questions as these are why I yearn so fiercely to get a solid picture of all of these old houses, so I don't have to wonder anymore, don't have to feel the weight of that filing cabinet against my conscious, or feel their presence lingering every time I work on the novellas they're in.

Perhaps these are also the reasons I have thought more and more of becoming a traveling photographer and writer. I could capture all of these old houses, and more, in all fifty states! Now you're probably definitely thinking I am an old house fanatic, and have more than a little itch for travel. One day I promise to follow the whimsy of my heart, and the haphazard path of my eyes, and see what my camera can capture, and what pictures I can paint in my mind, and paint into words into a novella. Some day...soon.