Believing is Seeing

I've moved!

2011-11-03T16:26:00.000-07:00

Now you can find me here!

25 Reasons I'm Glad I Don't Drive

2011-01-17T23:07:00.000-08:00

Going blind has it's perks. Here are 25 reasons I'm glad that I don't drive anymore.

1. Speeding ticket? What's that?
2. I can't remember the last time I cared about gas prices.
3. All the calories I've saved by not getting my ritual Slurpee while pumping gas.
4. I can afford to eat salmon for lunch regularly with all the money I save on said gas.
5. Never again will a car accident be my fault.
6. Not making car payments.
7. I can (legally) text while in the car.
8. I do not miss awkwardly attempting to parallel park while pedestrians gawk.
9. Not paying for car insurance.
10. Oil changes are history.
11. I can spend paychecks on clothes instead of new tires.
12. My boyfriend gets to be extra chivalrous by driving me everywhere - lucky him.
13. I don't have to worry about getting my car washed... not that I really did this anyway.
14. Pesky parking tickets are a thing of the past.
15. I'll never call AAA ever again.
16. No one ever yells at me for tailgating anymore.
17. When I get dropped off in a taxi, people look at me like I'm a celebrity. I do not feel the need to correct them.
18. What does a carburetor really do? Now I will never need to find out.
19. All this added biking and walking equals exercise. Huzzah!
20. DMV is a thing of the past! Need I really go on?
21. I never have to be the DD.
22. If I'm running late, I can always blame it on the person driving me.
23. I am so cool and modern and earth-friendly by taking public transportation.
24. I get to bless others by paying for their coffee/lunches/dinners/margaritas when they drive me to our hang-out destination.
25. I've learned to take nothing for granted, in a way I never would have if I still drove.

Given this, I have faith that God wants me to drive again someday. It's a hope that I cling to in my darkest moments. In the meantime, I will continue to happily embrace my DMV-free days.

Maybe it's better I'm off the roads anyhow?

Rainbows & Waterproof Mascara

2010-11-02T22:19:00.000-07:00

I'm currently lounging in a random Starbucks nursing a burnt tongue and gettin' jiggy to the hyphy music blasting. Yes, in a Starbucks. I'm assuming it has everything to do with the San Francisco Giants winning the World Series last night. I keep wondering why no one else is dancing.

A good friend of mine is fond of saying that nothing will ever change if you don't do something different. This delightful little jingle has become the foundation of my thought processes this past month, as the nippy air swirling around has begun to paint the leaves around California varying shades of tangerine. October passed in a flash. Visited the sister in San Luis Obispo where I watched her and her Southern Gentleman of a boyfriend complete a half-marathon hand in hand (I have now been inspired to run one myself, even if I have to hold my own hand). I consumed more Happy Hour margaritas with my best friend than I'd care to admit. I quietly wept in front of Van Gogh paintings flown in from Paris. I watched every Giants game as soon as I got home from work and felt like a 35 year old white male. I dressed up as a unicorn for Halloween and am still discovering glitter in unmentionable places. Most of all, I committed to rearranging my heart so that God would be my first priority. Not the first time a commitment like this has been made by yours truly, but this time, a lot of thought has been given to the things I've always considered important in my life. Boys. Friends. Art. The Nordstrom Half Yearly Sale. I won't bore you with details Internet, but I'm really excited to see where God takes my life in the next few months. As always, I'll be sure to keep you updated.

I feel stronger.

The same "do something different" friend accompanied me this past Saturday to a Vision Conference in San Francisco put on by the Foundation Fighting Blindness. Hundreds of people attended, all of them yearning to hear my eye doctor, the goddess Jacque Duncan, lecture on the latest treatment options available for RP. Did I mention that a good deal of those in attendance were blind? Not Laura blind, where squealing is often heard issuing out of my mouth when I walk into a wall, and where I call my cell phone at least twice a week because I can't see it sitting right in front of me. I'm klutzy on the scale of glasses to guide dog. And guide dogs there were. Many of them. Including one who tried to eat my cranberry muffin. Bad guide dog. Anyway, I was expecting the onslaught of white canes and dogs, and was preparing myself for a self-pity sesh, waterproof mascara applied and everything. But no such sob fest occurred. Maybe it was the rainbow that splashed across the gray sky on the drive there. Maybe it was the sight of my genius of a doctor, or the content she was lecturing on - she stressed again and again that the future offers hope, as more and more research is being conducted across the world. Maybe it was the sight of my friend taking notes on my behalf. Although it might have been for his own behalf. You never know when you're going to wake up without peripheral vision. Or maybe it was simply that God removed any and all worry from my heart. I don't know how or why, and I certainly didn't deserve it, but He took care of me. I giggled when the guide dog was able to sneak a lick of my muffin and his owner obviously didn't notice.

I reserve the right to giggle because I will be there someday. And I know I will be fine.

Happy Hour

2010-09-16T14:37:00.000-07:00

I perched on a bench outside the Emeryville BART station and waited, nervously eying peg-legged pigeons that tried to approach me.

Oh, my bad, you might need some sort of back-story.

My friend Sarah and I had been trying to connect for months. She was out of town, then I was too tied up with work, then she was out of town. Finally, here we were, Labor Day Weekend, shopping trip planned out. Although Emeryville is a bit sketch, hugging the outskirts of even sketchier Oakland, it does have an IKEA. And we all know how much girls love IKEA. So the plan was for Sarah to take a quick BART ride over from Berkeley, and I was to pluck myself out of God-forsaken suburbia to venture out into the world. Have I mentioned before that I currently live in a little town called Dublin? Yeah, St. Patty's Day is big here. Have I also mentioned that Sarah has RP?

I wonder if I've educated you lot on retinitis pigmentosa well enough. Sometimes I think that I make it sound like it's God's special little disease created just for me. Because I'm oh-so-special. And cute.

Really, an estimated 100,000 people in the United States are also cute and special. The rumors are true: there are more of me out there. And my dear friend Sarah happens to be among them.

Back to my riveting tale.

There I was, grimly surveying Emeryville, waiting for my blind companion. A large woman of questionable ethnicity rounded on me out of nowhere, complaining of waiting for her boyfriend for a whopping twenty minutes, and asked if she could use my phone to call him. You might remember me mentioning in my last post that I have recently procured the newest iPhone. What you probably don't remember is my confessed love affair with said phone. Cringing, I handed the woman my love after looking her up and down and immediately concluding I could take her if she ran off with it. The woman plopped herself next to me and proceeded to complain that she shouldn't have to put up with this shit. That she was in her prime, and could find another man. I found myself examining her overly long toenails peeking over the dirty Old Navy flip flops and agreed with her.

Finally the late boyfriend arrived, the large woman left, I had my phone stowed safely back in my purse, and then suddenly overheard someone say that the shuttle to the shopping center wasn't running that day. Something about it being Labor Day. Duh. I called Sarah, and she told me to get on the next train that arrived. Plan B: San Francisco. Perfect.

When her train arrived, I climbed on, cursing my bad vision and frantically searching for her. No blind girl. We proceeded to text one another for the next fifteen minutes as our train churned speedily towards the city, laughing that we couldn't find one another. We arrived at the station, and finally spotted each other ten feet away. Lovely Sarah. How I was glad to see her.

The next few hours were filled with girlish giggles and credit card swipes. We compared bruises (mine were bigger). More than once we lost sight of each other, but we took it in stride. You have to.

After deciding to conclude our evening with a few beers, we sat down in a well-lit bar and talked business. Our eyes. Sarah is several more years progressed than I am, and as we made circular gestures to indicate how much of our peripheral we still desperately cling to, I hid my shock as she showed me how much less she can see than I.

For one unforgiving moment, I stared my future in the face.

I almost panicked. Then once again, inevitably, the grace of One who understands filled the cracks and I found myself yearning to cling to Him. To trust Him. I don't understand. But I know that I have years of vision left ahead of me, and really all I care about is being able to see His face clearly for all of eternity. And that He has promised to me.

Once again, dear readers, I have so many of you to thank. Your never-ending support and prayers are appreciated more than you will ever know. I was informed a few weeks ago that my blog was voted to be among the Top 25 Low Vision blogs on the Internet. I am humbled and honored. Thank you so much for allowing me a platform in which to reach the low vision community!

I don't think I've ever done this before, but I'd like to share a link for the Foundation Fighting Blindness (click here) with you. The research that this organization is putting towards eradicating diseases like mine is truly remarkable. Please take a second to browse around, maybe educate yourself a bit on retinitis pigmentosa, and if you feel so inclined, throw a few nickels at them. Again, it is beyond appreciated.

I'd like to wrap this up with a moral, as all good stories should come with a moral. First, please go out and see something today. I mean really look at it. Cherish the way rocks fall together to create patterns. Notice clouds. Blink. Look through your retinas and corneas, and marvel at the ingenious invention that eyesight truly is.

Secondly, try to never get stuck in Emeryville.

Knotted Knickers

2010-08-24T20:41:00.000-07:00

Hello.

Now, now, don't get all excited. I may be sitting here in front of my computer, forcing myself to blog, and yes I might have some random eye disease that may or may not be called retinitis pigmentosa, and oh alright YES I do normally talk about said disease in this here blog 'o mine...

But don't get your knickers in a knot, Internet. Sometimes I tire of talking about eyeballs. I started working at an optometry office a few months ago - ironic, I know - and am discussing all things eye-related nonfreakingstop. Pre-testing patients with "bad" vision and putting up with offhand comments like "I'm so blind!" has been a tad wearing but mostly humbling. I tell none of them about my disease. I share a wan smile and then give them their peripheral vision test that I cannot pass.

I said I wasn't going to talk about my eyes. I even asked you to not get your knickers in a knot. Well apparently I was wrong, so knot away. I was leading up to a point. I've mentioned before that I don't want to be defined by my disease. This is very important for me, but practically speaking, I'm still figuring out how much or how little to talk about it. How good of you to bear with me on my journey.

Now let's talk business.

I've been painting a lot in the last monthish, and have two ideas I want to share with you and your lot of knotted knickers. The first: I want to work with a local wedding photographer (artsy and talented - fledgling is fine) and paint wedding portraits. If you live near me (read: greater San Francisco area) and this sounds rad and marketable, please hit me up. Secondly, and this one I'm REALLY stoked about: I'm currently in the beginning stages of creating a new series of paintings... portraits, to be exact. I want to paint young people I know who are enthusiastic about making a difference and are changing the world in some way, big or small. Each portrait would incorporate that person's specific mission, whatever it might be... AIDS victims in Africa, Thursday afternoons spent volunteering at the local soup kitchen, learning sign language, whatever. Not in a cheesy, over-symbolized way. Sound cool? Hit me up if you'd like to be included - this would be a perfect way to spread the word about whatever it is that you are passionate about. If I don't know who you are, maybe include a photo of yourself and a Facebook-worthy bio. Cool exhibition to follow is guaranteed.

For any and all inquiries to these endeavors and more: artbylauralawson@gmail.com is always a good way to say hi.

I'll close with a self-portrait taken by my new love-child, also known as the iPhone 4. Summer isn't summer without gorging on a perfectly ripe watermelon - can I get an amen?

Boy Meets Girl

2010-07-29T11:46:00.000-07:00

Meet Laura. Humble art school drop-out, fumbling to find her voice, fledgling writer with fierce dreams and no easy way to accomplish them. Meet Chris. Accomplished teacher, essayist, art critic, writer, thinker, poet, philosopher, and most especially, founding editor of online arts journal Escape Into Life. To say that Chris was Laura's idol is an understatement. To say that Chris reached into Laura's life and pulled grains of potential out of her is an even bigger understatement.

Chris Al-Aswad reached out to me two months ago and asked me to write for him. With pay. Apparently believing really is seeing. I would have been less shocked if Brad Pitt dropped down on one knee and begged me to marry him (I would say yes, by the way, on one condition: that Angie stay around. I do love her). Between the two of us, I was a lowly intern, soaking up as much knowledge as I could from my new hero... but to the world, he referred to me as his new reporter.

I am inordinately shocked and saddened to hear of his passing. A genius man, Chris was patient, having a keen editor's eye and settling for no less than perfection. His stylish website (check out my articles here) and professional demeanor made me proud to write for him. His critique - both positive and negative, it didn't really matter - kept me on a high for hours. When he used the word "exceptional" to describe one article in particular, I called at least three friends joyfully. I don't know what Chris saw in me, but he saw something. In him, I saw everything.

To have someone believe in me as much as he did in such an uncertain time in my life has meant the world to me. To my friend and forever mentor, I will never forget you, Lethe.

An Addendum

2010-07-07T00:40:00.000-07:00

You're probably rubbing your eyes in disbelief. Yep, go ahead and refresh the page just to make sure you're not hallucinating, and then pop some bubbly and celebrate my return to Non Writer's Block Land. If it seems like I always begin my blog entries with an apology, very good. You've been paying attention.

I started this blog almost a year ago to chronicle my journey as I swiftly travel towards Destination: Blindness (running right on time). After many darkly humored rants over the months about my slowly dissolving vision, I was so proud to announce in my last post that I am not really going to discuss my eyes from here on out...

And then I realized something inordinately important. Some of you actually like hearing about my impending fate. I cannot imagine why, but ever since I scrawled in my last post that I am choosing to not write about my disease anymore, I have received an outpouring of love and support from my friends and mostly virtual pals that stop by on occasion. Many of you have indicated none too subtly that you're here for the bus stories and other woes of a visually impaired artist. I mean, surely it isn't the free cookies that have you coming back. (Note: there are no free cookies at said blog)

Of course, this epiphany largely came through the efforts of the LoveBomb team, an organization parented by a nonprofit called ItStartsWithUs that finds a lonely little blogger every week and bombards them with encouraging comments. Shocked, I opened my email account last Thursday only to discover that I had 67 new messages informing me that a plethora of strangers had commented on my blog. As the day wore on, almost 200 people from all over the world had commented on this silly little blog, feeding me enough encouragement to last for a lifetime. If you were one of those gracious enough to read about me showering with my eyes closed, thank you. I am humbled by so many of your comments, and beyond grateful to my new friends Nate and Lauren and the rest of the LoveBomb team for allowing me a platform to share my voice in ways I never thought possible. I hope that I have blessed you half as much as you have blessed me.

I think the Big Guy upstairs might be trying to tell me something.

In other words Internet, I have come to grips with the fact that my eyes are a part of me... just like my awkwardly bendable elbows and obsession with flossing. This is just who I am, and thus it's gonna spill out of me from time to time.

I hope you're okay with that.

(And yes, I'm aware that this photo of me is rather frightening. Tryin' to make a point here, people. Maybe if I offer you free cookies you won't run away?)

Finding A Cure

2010-06-07T15:39:00.000-07:00

So what now?

Almost a year ago to the day, I was told by a cute fledgling optometrist, fresh out of graduate school, that I might have a terrible eye disease that is launching WWIII against my retinas. Her words, I swear.

"Much more testing will need to happen, but it looks as though you might have a disease called retinitis pigmentosa."
"Gesundheit."

As Dr. Chan hesitantly flipped through her handy referential textbook to find the chapter entitled "What To Do When They've Lost Peripheral Vision And You Don't Know What To Say" or even better "So You're An Optometrist And You Suddenly Need To Summon Bedside Manner: 10 Helpful Tips" she urged me not to research the disease that I could barely pronounce until I knew for sure. Yeah, right. You try hearing that your retinas are dying, and see if you don't peep our dear friend Wikipedia once or nine times...

Dozens of Wikipedia visits and one diagnosis later, and here we are. Well, here I am.

Fast-forward through an argument with my parents in which I insisted that designer sunglasses will protect my eyes better (I lost)... a hasty move to Laguna Beach accompanied by an ER visit... memorizing the bus route to the mall quicker than any other route (oops)... learning that drawing naked folks is crucial to my career as an artist... deciding that although I had no issue with said naked folks, I didn't want to go to art school anymore... moving back to the Bay Area to instead focus on journalism...

So what now, Internet? Now that I've admitted to not only growing acclimated to this disease but am self-proclaimed at peace with it? Just sit around and wait? Maybe learn Braille if I feel like it? Rewatch the LOST series finale for the fourth time?

None of the above (except that last one, of course). Simply... move on. There are other things to talk about, to discover, to enjoy, to cry about even. If you've been a loyal follower of this blog from the beginning, or even just from this post, I want to extend my deepest gratitude for your support, encouragement, and prayers throughout this ordeal; your words of kindness have helped cure me. This blog has been a great source of therapy for me, flashes of peace here and there amidst deep pain. I will of course continue to blog, but about things more focused on the arts and my budding career as a journalist; you will not see me mention my eyes very much from here on out... besides the occasional quip.

Oh, how I do love the occasional quip.

New Normal

2010-05-03T21:58:00.000-07:00

I showered with my eyes closed today.

It required a bit of discipline, but I was able to maneuver myself through my 15 minute suds fest without peeking once. As I clumsily felt around for my Victoria's Secret body wash, feeling like an idiot, I realized that it really wasn't that difficult to scrub-a-dub-dub without the advantage of vision. My senses became heightened. Little eyeballs popped up on each fingertip. I became aware of the sound of the pounding water that I normally tune out, almost as if I could hear each individual drop hitting the tub in a melodious succession. I thought to myself, "I could do this."

There's this prototype being developed in Australia right now called the bionic eye. Basically, scientists have been able to befit a camera lens into the retina which transmits light through the optic nerve. Blind people are able to recognize faces and read large print. By the time I lose my vision, I am sure that this technology will be even more sophisticated. In a matter of decades, blindness could be completely eradicated.

Oddly enough, news like this does not bring me any level of joy. I feel no sense of comfort or relief. Until my eyes are miraculously healed or a cure for retinitis pigmentosa is discovered, I will still feel handicapped and alienated. Call me vain, but I'm not a huge fan of the notion of black wires trailing out of my eyelids. Don't get me wrong: when the time comes I'm sure that I will be keen on the idea, but for now...

I am at peace.

It has taken almost a year, but I am completely at ease with my disease. I have finally reached the Acceptance stage in my grieving process and have learned to adapt mentally and physically. I don't run into things anymore; now I remember to look left and right and up and down before I move anywhere. I laugh at myself when I can't find my cell phone and then realize that it's right in front of me. I don't feel a surge of pain wash over me whenever I hear the word blind. I cheerfully mount the bus each day along with illegal immigrants and homeless men and say hello to them. I look forward to the day I am a mother, instead of dreading not knowing what my children will grow up to look like.

My faith is my medicine.

I don't think about RP very much anymore, and truth be told, I usually forget that I have it. My vision is good enough at this moment in time that it's easy to forget that I can't see very well and blame the never-ending bruises on my clumsiness. Of course there are the occasional tears -- as I was working on an abstract painting the other day, a lone teardrop sped down my cheek in a bid for freedom as I tried not to think about going colorblind in a few years. There will always be little flashes of inconceivable torment, but thankfully they are getting to be few and far between.

I spent a particularly lovely morning on the beach the other day, pouring over the book "90 Minutes In Heaven" which describes Don Piper's experiences as he died in a car crash, went to heaven, and was raised back from the dead 90 minutes later. His body was extremely mangled and disfigured, and he underwent years of recovery and dozens of surgeries. Piper writes about discovering a "new normal" as he learned to adapt to living back on earth as a handicapped person after experiencing the glories of heaven -- not an easy feat to be sure. I highly recommend this book (if for nothing else than to pour over his illustrious description of paradise) as this concept of a "new normal" struck a chord embedded deep within me. As life chips away at us, we learn how to evolve and how to expect a different normalcy than what we are accustomed to. What starts out as an inconvenience or a disability can morph into the norm, if we will let it.

I encourage you to yank yourself out of your comfort zone this week and strive to create a new normal, even if it's just for a day. Maybe that means going through your closet and donating those five jackets you never wear to a homeless shelter, or maybe it's something as simple as closing your eyes while you shower. I doubt it was easy for the disciples to forfeit their families and careers to follow Jesus, but their faith was rewarded... and their lives were never the same.

Now we see as a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. 1 Corinthians 13:12

Journalism > Art

2010-04-13T17:17:00.000-07:00

So. I feel the need to apologize to my 11 or so dedicated readers (hey guys!) who so patiently stand the very -- dare I say it -- unbearingly long hiatus in-between my blog posts. I promise you this, I visit this website just about every day and start typing out a new thought, only to question myself and the content I spit out. Will my loyal fans really want to read about my incessant flossing habits? I mean, they're probably interested, right? What about my latest LOST theories? Or the worst PMS of all time?! Cue: unfollow!

Truth is, I have a confession to make to you, Internet. My boat is being rocked big time these days and I'm not sure what to totally make of it yet. My family and closest friends don't know what to make of it either. Right, I'll get to it, then.

A few months ago I had someone prophesy over me that God will touch many people through my writing. Smiling, I thought of this little blog and the loyal 11 (now 10) followers that have stuck with me through my infrequent posts about eating too much candy, dealing with failing eyesight, and the bus system of Laguna Beach (riveting stuff!). As I made the move from the Bay Area down to Orange County last August and started out art school fresh out of the E.R., what turned into a way to keep in touch with friends has become a therapeutic place of joy and solace. I found time and time again that I was able to grasp and accept my poor vision and reliance upon public transportation through writing sometimes better than any other method. I have always had a deep seated love for writing in all forms, but it's something I've shied away from wanting to pursue career-wise, knowing that art has been expected of me since the ripe age of 3... so art I have grown to love and nourish.

I am going to leave art school.

Actually, this news really might not be as shocking for you, Internet, as it has been for those that have known me since my days of shoving crayons up my nose in my eagerness to dwaw pwetty picshaws. ~~Many~~ A few of you have encouraged me to pursue writing a novel or two, and I am very interested in that and have begun to work on one, but I think this is something bigger. I get such a joy out of writing, out of doing THIS, that I want to explore it deeper. Make something out of it. I believe that writing holds such a cavernous level of opportunity for me, the artist-turned-writer, that I cannot ignore it.

To those that are calling out to their nearby loved one, imaginary friend, or garbage man to help them scrape up their jaws from the floor, I offer a little bit more explanation:

1. I liked some aspects of art school and I'm glad I tried it out. I've wanted to go my entire life, and now that I've done it, I regret nothing.
2. I will never give up painting and drawing. I still love it, I just don't want a degree in it.
3. This has little to do with my eyes. Yes, getting a degree in art seems rather foolhardy considering I am gambling on the use of good vision in my future, but even without my little buddy RP I would still be composing this post.
4. I learned a lot this past year and my art is worlds better. Again, I'm glad I went to art school for a year and I do not view it as a waste. Yes, I am far behind scholastically, but I am okay with that as long as I am following my dreams.
5. I have been thinking about this decision for the last two or so months, and have spent time in constant prayer and conversation with family and close friends to determine that this is not a move made hastily. It isn't.
6. I have a yearning in my heart to write that I've never felt about art. I feel like art and I are good buds that will always hang out, but writing is my soulmate. At the risk of sounding like the cheese ball that I am, it feels so right.
7. I think I can touch more people with my writing than my art, and that folks, has been the goal all along.
8. I am planning on attending a community college this next fall to re-prep my General Ed and transfer to a four year university thereafter. I will continue to live in Orange County (after a brief three month rendezvous with my peeps in the Bay this summer).
9. The goal is to study journalism and pursue a degree in arts journalism. Writing about art, what could be more perfect?!
10. Yes, Jon supports me. He would support me if I claimed my new life goal was to star in the next Twilight movie or be the next Rachael Ray (yeah right on both those accounts). My parents are supportive as well; art school is expensive!

There is a part of me that feels like I'm cheating on myself. All my life, I have striven to assemble an artistic image of myself. Moody. Different. "Oh, that's Laura. She pronounces her name Lar-uh. Isn't that so cool and artsy?" "Oh, there goes Laura. She dresses really strange but it's because she's an ARTIST." See the pride that's been working itself out? The notion of being an artist is admittedly more cool and unique than a writer -- how boring and normal. But how much joy do I really get out of painting? Am I just in it for the praise and glory? I don't know, but I do know that I would rather visit a gallery and do a write-up on the work I see rather than be the hand behind the work. I know that I have a long ways to go, but finally, FINALLY, I am at the beginning of a great and long adventure that I was born to explore. I would love your criticism, prayers, and feedback. If you want to yell at me and tell me I'm wasting my talent, go for it. If you want to throw me a fist pump over the interwebs, be my guest. If you want to tell me my writing sucks, well... er, email me.

Thanks guys. Your love and support is BEYOND treasured.

Buses & Birthdays

2010-03-30T13:23:00.000-07:00

As I hopped on the bus yesterday afternoon, grateful to finally be on the move towards my destination after waiting in the beating sun for over half an hour, the friendly bus driver looked over at me with a crinkle in his eyes and said in a grandfatherly voice, "Good to see you again!" Trying not to be embarrassed that he recognized me, I shot a quick smile back and nodded, as I began to make my way to the back of the bus, rather unsuccessfully trying to blend in with the Route 89 locals. Finally finding a seat, I looked around to see who my traveling companions were for the next twenty minutes. To my right, a somber Mexican lad about my age, wearing Oakley shades and an untrimmed mustache that poked out of his lip like a black sea urchin. Directly across from me, an older Japanese fella who looked as though he lived and breathed surfing: tanned and wrinkled skin that smoothed neatly over his muscles; square, expressionless jaw, and a montage of threaded bracelets befit him to look like the true Laguna Beach local I supposed he was. Next to him, a young boy holding nothing but a tennis ball. How curious. Directly to my left, a girl about my age eating a slice of ham and cheese pizza that made my mouth water. For a few short miles, the five of us were silently joined together as the bus lumbered down Laguna Canyon Road, hugged on the sides by the steep, green canyons. I often wonder about the lives of my bus comrades as we share a brief moment together, brought about by the common denominator of not driving. Everyone on the bus has a story to explain why they are there... because explanations are surely necessary; why would anyone choose such a travel means? I remember back when I drove (the good ole days), I used to unabashedly stare at pedestrians on the road, judging them, wondering why they weren't driving, wonder why they weren't NORMAL. It seems so strange to live in California and not own several cars, or at least one... we truly live in a privileged area of the world, and it is so easy to forget to appreciate the blessings that seem so "normal" and make us truly among the richest in the world. So even though I wouldn't necessarily choose a bus driven life for myself, it helps keep me in check, makes me appreciate the humanity that humbly accepts something less than normal... and are grateful to have it.

These past few weeks I was fortunate enough to not have to ride one bus, as I was in the Bay Area for my Spring Break to visit friends and family, and then my dear friend Amanda and sister Cassie were in Laguna the following week to visit me for my birthday and their Spring Breaks. The amount of love that was poured into my life these past few weeks blessed me again and again, and I want to thank all of the people that helped make my birthday so awesome: you know who you are! Jon's birthday is the day before mine (yeah, we know, this is kinda rad) and together we had an amazing week celebrating including a trip to Half Moon Bay for some horseback riding (a truly stellar adventure until his horse bit me) and a little jaunt down to San Francisco to see Wicked, which is by far the best performance of ANYTHING I have ever seen, as a little happy birthday gift from his future in-laws and my current parents. The week up north was topped off with a fiesta at Blue Agave Club in good ole Pleasanton -- my home away from home. It was so fun to see many of our mutual friends gather together to celebrate our first joint birthday out of many. I noted many times throughout the evening that our friends seem to be morphing into married couples, which means we are slowly but surely transitioning into a new phase in life. I couldn't be happier.

Amanda and Cassie's visit last week amounted to a week that I will remember for the rest of my life. From hitting up as many beaches in one day as possible, to visiting the Getty in Los Angeles and seeing in person one of Monet's cathedrals that I had copied while in high school, to several birthday dinners with both friends and family, to having raw fellowship and taking hundreds of pictures on Amanda's fabulous camera that made me drool several times (seriously though, I surreptitiously had to wipe up drool more than once)... it was the best birthday week a girl could ask for.

Oh, did I mention that we hiked through three cities? Yeah, that was not necessarily intentional... we got lost one afternoon while traversing the beautiful Laguna Beach trails that I was so eager to show off. One minute, I'm telling the two of them about Bear Grylls on Man vs. Wild and how he's been forced to drink his own urine on more than one occasion (a perfectly safe, albeit disgusting, thing to do as long as it's consumed immediately) and the next minute we're hopelessly lost and I find myself having to hold my own pee... just in case. You'd think I was kidding, but you'd be wrong. Anyway, we ended up having to follow the toll road in Irvine back to my house. Yeah, at the end of the hike we ended up closer to my house than to our car. Pretty embarrassing, and Amanda and I were majorly huffing and puffing by the end of that two hour long adventure, but a certain dear little sister of mine was completely fine, unintentionally rubbing it in our faces that she's currently training for a marathon. Show off.

I just noticed that the detestable rain from this morning has momentarily ceased, which means I can walk down to the bus stop and journey out into the world, so I'll end with some of my favorite photos from the last two weeks. And no I will not be including any from that insane hike... you think we wanted to record that?!

Gaga vs. Collins

2010-03-10T02:47:00.000-08:00

A friend just asked me via Twitter if I ever sleep. Oh yeah, cuz it just so happens to be 3:06 AM and I'm tweeting my little heart out. Oops. I got caught. I tried to explain what it's like to be an art student: incessant drawing at all hours of the night to redo homework because the initial attempt wasn't quite perfect the first time around; so much work to do, all the time! Although I did manage to forget to leave out one minor detail: I am not doing homework tonight.

Jon and I are currently running off of 6 weeks without seeing one another (self proclaimed pity party right here), and tempers are running a little high. During our nightly Skype ritual earlier this evening, we started to get into a friendly banter about the pros and cons of Phil Collins (there are only cons)... a musician I happen to LOATHE. Right up there with 60 year old women who dress like they're 25, ant trails leading into the house, and the dog I live with. I teasingly asked my beau what musician I like that's equivalent to how I view his beloved Phil Collins, and he said without skipping a beat, "Lady Gaga." Gagaloo?! You mean this genius of a musician, who is literally redefining fashion by creating iconic and unforgettable outfits by her very own Haus of Gaga (if you knew me in high school, you'll know why her unique fashion choices speak to my heart so)? The woman who had five hit singles in 2009? Anyway, our friendly jesting soon turned into a theological conversation. Yeah, you read that right. I'm not really sure why or how, but ten minutes later I found myself having a good old fashioned predestination vs. free will discussion... I'll let you guess which side I was on.

We argued our viewpoints solidly for a good hour or two. Both arguments were well formed and based off of Scripture. Neither one of us wanted to relent, especially me. His degree in theology(!) was pitted against my stubbornness and so-called "life knowledge" as I put it, and I began to grow upset, citing this difference as something we needed to be compatible on in order for our relationship to eventually flourish into something more down the road. Tired, tears stinging, I stonily told him goodnight about an hour ago as both of us were exhausted and at our respective wits' ends. For some reason, this was of the upmost importance to me. How could I be with a man, as wonderful as he is, if we disagreed on such a cataclysmic level? I mean, I know it's not pertinent to our salvation, but surely it sets up the foundation from how we base our faith and thus our day-to-day lives?

Since our row, I haven't been able to sleep, and it's now in the middle of the freaking night. For reasons that have nothing to do with being an art student. Frogs are warming up their vocal chords outside my window and I could have sworn I heard the hoot of an owl a few moments ago. Trying to distract myself with Twitter and failing miserably, I realized with a jolt that Jon and I have gone almost a year in our relationship without needing to have this particular theological conversation, at least on such a deep level. An entire satisfying year of getting to know and falling in love with the man of my dreams. We've run into minor bumps in the road before that we've had to learn how to clumsily coast over, but nothing that seemed as vital as this.

Who am I even kidding.

Forgive me (actually don't) as I brag a little bit about my boyfriend, who as I mentioned in my last post should win an award for Boyfriend Of The Year. Take a look at what the man sent me for Valentine's Day last month:

In case you're having trouble viewing all the goodies, that's a ton of Godiva chocolate, jewelry, a wallet, a Papyrus card, and a little volume entitled "Love & Respect" which is seriously changing our relationship (and comes highly recommended). The best part about Jon isn't even his fabulous gift-giving abilities (or how handsome he is). It's his selflessness, his ability to show me how beautiful I am in his and God's eyes, his insane heart for ministry and kids, his beautiful voice that brings tears to my eyes EVERY TIME, his fervor for life and music and culture that so captivates me and makes me want to be so much cooler than I am, his extreme devotion to his friends and family, his tender heart to take care of me and my eyes... and I'm only scratching the surface. Here's a little sketch I did of him a few weeks ago:

One day last summer I looked at him and with a voice that trembled, betraying all the fear in my pounding heart, voiced something that had been troubling me for awhile: "What will happen when I can no longer see?" He glared at me, and said in a quiet voice dripping with seriousness in a tone that I would never dare question, "Don't you ever talk like that again." This man is head over heels for me... this lazy, Lady Gaga loving, McDonalds inhaling, flawed specimen of a woman. And I have no idea why.

So here's to you, Jonny, my best friend and soulmate. And here's to a bump in the road here and there. I know that I can trust you to hold me all the tighter when these bumps sometimes threaten to send us flying. I understand now that we're not going to agree on everything, and that sets us apart, makes us unique, and ultimately makes us stronger. I love you for the handsome, motivated, opinionated -- yes, even Phil Collins loving -- man that God made you to be.

...and yes, that second to last photo is a screen shot of us via Skype, to pay homage to the last six months of tortuous long distance.

Happy almost anniversary, baby. I don't want to be on this journey with anyone else but you.

Diagnosis of Excess

2010-03-09T04:19:00.000-08:00

I have before me an almost completely empty bag that just hours ago was filled with chocolate covered gummy bears, strawberry sour belts, generous chunks of white chocolate, and all sorts of other delicious delicacies that earlier today cost me $...

Nice try. You thought for a second that I was going to tell you how much I spent at Sweet Factory today loading up on goodies, didn't you? Well you thought wrong. Plain and simple.

Okay, fine, yes it was an embarrassingly high amount of cash to spend on candy and YES now that you ask the candy is almost completely gone. You know the new law in California that requires restaurants to display the calories for each meal item in the menu? Yeah, apparently that rule doesn't apply at Sweet Factory. Although, upon second thought, most people probably don't purchase MEALS there... such a shame, because I'm sure that once I learned I was about to purchase (and later greedily consume) thousands of calories I might have given it a second thought...

Now before you get all grossed out, thinking "Oh man, and here I was really starting to like this girl, and she has to ruin it by conjuring up images of binging, stretch marks, and rotten teeth" let me give you a little background information: when I was growing up, my loving parents were strict. I'm talking Republican, Presbyterian, spanking strict. Strict enough to not let me or my sister have candy, soda, or television (generally speaking). Halloween's brief candy treasure hunt around the block each year was far better than Christmas morning, and I can distinctly remember doing nothing but watch the Disney channel each time I spent the night at my Grandparents'. When Cassie and I were allowed to care for a pet parakeet apiece, I named mine Candy and she named hers Sugar... I suppose we were trying to live vicariously through our pets? Guess what happened when we finally became old enough to make decisions for ourselves. We went CA-RAZY. Drinking soda at restaurants became a rite of passage (so long, nonfat milk), television quickly became the most addicting thing on the planet (even shows like MTV's Parental Control that make you stupider after viewing were watched in awe), and candy. Oh candy. Twix bars and Sour Skittles and Nerds and even Valentine's Day Conversation Hearts galore. There is literally not one kind of candy that I do not like. Unless it has nuts in it.

Sorry nuts. Sorry Mom and Dad.

Jon and I visited Cassie in her lovely college town of San Luis Obisbo a few weeks ago. (Sidenote: It must be pointed out that he drove down from Northern California to pick me up in Southern California to then take me another 5 hours north to visit her, then took me home and finally himself home... boyfriend of the year award?) Anyway, while we were hanging out over dinner one night in a crowded bar where the Olympics were blaring on TVs all over the place, at one point Cassie interrupted Jon's story that neither her nor I were paying much attention to and bluntly said, "You'll have to excuse us. We weren't allowed to watch TV when we were growing up so whenever there's one around we have to watch it." I had to laugh because although I'd never shared this exact sentiment with my sister, we both felt the exact same way. Because we weren't exposed to certain things growing up, we subconsciously feel that we need to make up for lost time now. Even when things get just a teensy bit unhealthy. Like spending $8 on candy at Sweet Factory. It feels better admitting that now after I know you won't judge me.

As I was walking home from the bus stop today I felt God tell me to look up, and I obeyed without thinking. What I saw made me halt in my tracks. In the middle of the street. What was it? Clouds. Just clouds. But oh what clouds! They were ordinary... and stunning. Dark blue, pregnant with impeding rain, patches of pale sky showing through, moving hurriedly as if running late for a very important date (you'll forgive the Alice in Wonderland reference, the movie came out this weekend and I'm all in a dither), all of them skating gracefully upon an invisible board keeping them afloat. In an instant, I felt calmness and comfort that had nothing to do with the $8 bag of candy secretly stashed deep inside my purse. See, I had purchased that gargantuan amount of sugar to ward off the impending pain that was becoming more and more difficult with each wave of reality. I received a tidy little bundle of papers in the mail earlier today describing to me, in all its unsympathetic glory, the results of my electroretinogram last month. An ERG, in case you are dying of curiosity, is a horrid form of torture that involves suction cups on the eyes -- no really -- and is used to determine whether or not patients have retinitis pigmentosa. At the bottom my doctor typed a little unfriendly note to me: Findings are concurrent with diagnosis of retinitis pigmentosa.

Findings

Are

Concurrent

With...

Upon first reading that sentence at the bottom of a page of mish-mash, I tasted each word on my tongue, verifying its authenticity, trying to find a lie in the ink. A kind little white lie. I turned to the last page of the report, hoping against hope to see a big fat JUST KIDDING scrawled across the page. No such luck. Maybe it's April Fools Day? A quick glance at the calendar, and my sanity... no such luck. Official diagnosis? Check.

So as I looked up at the opulently beautiful clouds swirling all around me, enclosing me with pure hope, I looked up at them through dying retinas. Dying retinas that will someday be healed, if not during this lifetime then when I greet my Creator for an eternity of perfect vision. The Genius that so carefully and lovingly crafted our eyes: the optic nerves, corneas, lenses, who painted unique colors onto our irises, the One who thought up the idea of vision in the first place. And I wept as I embraced the sky sweeping overhead, because it truly is okay to weep, to grieve the loss of something so precious, so irreplaceable. And I vowed, right then and there, looking like a crazy fool or just a crazy blind girl in the middle of the neighborhood, arms high above my head and tears splashing on the pavement, to drink in excess. To binge. To indulge. To get drunk in the beauty. To make up for lost time. In this unceasing beauty that was placed so thoughtfully around us for our enjoyment. The majesty of Earth itself. The glorious wonders of our planet, bubbling and hissing and whispering and roaring with life, I must soak it in, I must appreciate it, I must use these eyes. These tools of communication, which I as an artist use to communicate back to the world. To communicate the beauty... so that others may see as I see.

Enjoy our planet with me. Fall in love with it, grow wild in it, get intoxicated in the wonder.

Note: These images are not mine. They are from a very inspiring design blog which you can peruse here.

Seeing is Believing

2010-02-25T03:00:00.000-08:00

I'm still reeling.

No, Edward Cullen is still (unfortunately) a fictional character, Heidi Montag is still the biggest joke on the planet, and Michael Jackson didn't come back to life. Something did happen though. Something gigantic and undeniably life changing... in my little world at least.

This past Sunday morning I found myself quietly sitting alone in a church I don't remember the name of in Anaheim, $80 poorer after having taken a taxi out there. Yes, I paid to go to church. You would too if you couldn't drive, didn't have anybody that loved you enough to escort you to faraway places at 8 AM on a Sunday morning, and were about to be healed from an incurable eye disease. Yeah, you read that right. Healed.

Now before you get your knickers in a knot, I must give a disclaimer: I am not (currently) completely healed from this travesty known as retinitis pigmentosa.

But I believe that I will be.

An old friend of mine had been urging me for weeks to find a way to get to Anaheim that weekend as he and a ministry team from Bethel School of Supernatural Ministry up in Redding were gonna be in town for a "Firestorm" as they called it. Knowing that I wouldn't easily be able to transport myself the 35 miles, I laughingly told Chris that maybe I could hitchike out there in the name of Jesus. Clearly not amused, he said that I NEEDED to get there. I still didn't take him too seriously until the night before when his phone call interrupted a rather uneventful Saturday night reverie. He put me on the phone with another dude, Daniel, who first told me -- and very accurately, I might add -- what I looked like ("cool glasses" included), and spewed out prophesy over prophesy about my life. Quickly telling me that my passion lay in drawing and painting (well I knew that one) he poured out God's heart for me, telling me I was a princess in the King's eyes and that He loves my heart for creating. Daniel soon began to pray over me for healing. Well, not too much happened with my eyes, but a warm, tingly, drugged-up feeling happily saturated my entire body as the Holy Spirit immersed me with healing power. My back felt the warmest, and at the end of the conversation, I felt the gnarled muscles that had been knotted up for years due to bad drawing posture and a car accident or two began to unclench; my muscles literally felt smoother to the touch and were pain-free. When Chris came back on the line, he chuckled at my awed voice as if to say, "Well duh. What did you think would happen when you threw God into the mix?" I was sold. I immediately set my alarm, heart pounding, barely able to sleep that night due to the excitement at the possibility of God granting me a miracle upon my doomed eyes in the morning.

See, it's not that I didn't believe in the healing power of the Lord before this night, I just didn't think it could happen to me. I grew up in a church where real healing was a thing of Biblical stories, and although I believed that miracles could indeed happen today through Jesus' name, I had never known anyone to experience a true healing. Little did I know that the same Jesus I thought I had known my entire life was about to come charging in.

I know that many of you who read my blog don't believe in God at all, and frankly, I'm surprised that you've read this far. Truth be told, I've been a Christian all my life, and yet there have been a surprising number of times that I also have doubted the existence of any Creator. Friends, let me tell you right here right now, that God is real. The stories of miracles performed in the Bible are more than exaggerated accounts of a wise man who walked the planet 2,000 years ago. These miracles are happening today, right now. Want a firsthand account? I would too. I'd be happy to oblige.

So there I sat in this nameless church, dutifully waiting for God to show up. The charismatic service passed uneventfully, and the Bethel team made their way to the front to face us lowly invalids in the congregation hoping for miracles. My eyes searched for Chris and Daniel, and my excitement mounted as I wondered what it felt like to be healed, if I would experience that same tingly, almost drunken sensation. Unexpectedly, I found myself staring into the eyes of a lovely woman a little older than me with a most delightful British accent. She had a prophecy for me, and was asking if I'd stand up in front of the entire church to receive it. I immediately bounced up, eager for more of the wonderful "your artwork will be valued by those all over the world" type things I'd heard the night before. "Do you cook?" she asked, smiling. Well, not really, but I've always wanted to! "Yes." I replied, thinking that spaghetti and scrambled eggs counted. She went on to tell me that my cooking will bless others, that I'm a woman of integrity, that... "Wait a minute." a voice interrupted her. It was Aaron, the head of the team, staring hard at me. "Hold out your hands." I did so, a little worried. "You have the fire of healing in your hands. People will be healed before you even begin to pray for them." What?! Me, the gift of healing? I thanked the two of them, sat down in shock, and began to marvel at what I had been just told. It WOULD be like God to give me a gift of something that I barely believed in, sans a recently healed back perhaps not believed in at all...

After the service was over, people began to eagerly make their way towards the Bethel group to receive healing for their various ailments. Daniel approached me out of nowhere (curse this bad peripheral vision) and asked if I wanted to join in the prayer. Without thinking, I replied yes. Without thinking even further, I allowed myself to be led over to a woman who had been suffering from a painful dislocated shoulder for almost a year. Without really knowing what to do or say, I awkwardly placed my hands on the woman's shoulder and began to pray that Jesus would heal her shoulder and bring back mobility. Within seconds, we heard an audible *pop* and she was waving her arm all around, ecstatic that it was completely better... Daniel looked over at me, lazily smiled, and said as if he were commenting on the morning news over breakfast, "See? There ya go!"

As if in a dream, I asked the woman if there was anything else wrong. She mentioned that one of her legs was longer than the other and it gave her back pain. Sitting down, I stretched her legs out and prayed over the right foot that it grow as long as it's twin. The words hadn't even left my mouth when I felt the leg move and grow towards me. The woman remarked casually, "Well, that's an interesting feeling!" We watched as the foot grew out until the two legs were even. She began to walk around, immediately aware of the significant difference, happy as a clam.

The shock began to wear off and metamorphosize into utter joy.

Needless to say, I felt so richly blessed by my new friends at Bethel that I was eager to spend the day with them. We spent the gorgeous afternoon in Laguna Beach, and I was prayed over many, many times. Each time, a warm, tingling sensation flooded my eyes, and my eyelids uncontrollably fluttered as if I was having a seizure. My peripheral vision didn't seem to change much, but my sensitivity to sunlight was greatly diminished, and became almost extinct in a matter of a few minutes. Praise be to the God of all creation! The undeniable power of God was so clear and evident to me; it lay before the naked eye. I believe that my eyes are gradually healing, which, as it was assured to me, is very common. I'll take that.

We Christians are called to live a life of faith in a world that scoffs at the existence of anything inexplicable or supernatural. Jesus said that those who do not see His body in the flesh and yet still believe are blessed. Sometimes we get so caught up with our faith walks that we find it hard to believe when a very real miracle stares us in the face. This week as I was rereading the passage in Mark where Jesus healed a blind man, it struck me as interesting that this man did not believe that Jesus was the Christ until after his healing. Jesus didn't require much faith of this man in order to heal him of his blindness, but after his encounter with the Lord and his eyes began to take focus and recognition in more ways than one, the man was so struck that he couldn't help but believe.

Perhaps the same will happen in your life.

Pride & Prejudice

2010-02-11T17:27:00.000-08:00

"Oh... wait a minute. I wanted to take a look at your drawing."

The rushed words caught me by surprise. I had started to pack my bags, relieved to be done with school for the day and very much looking forward to Tuesday night television. I touched the pause button on my iPod which immediately quenched the sounds of music -- I don't remember what I was listening to -- and I slowly revolved on the spot, searching with my tired eyes to find my professor, who I was surprised to find right next to me, staring hard at my charcoal labor of love that I had lost myself in for the previous two hours.

He didn't return my gaze.

I glanced at the clock, which informed me that my classmates had emptied out of the room and into the dreary night a good five minutes ago. Silently fuming, I turned back to my teacher, who continued to study my drawing and spoke more to himself than to me. "See, what we're trying to accomplish here..."

He ripped apart my work for a good ten minutes. After ignoring me the entire class period, which I was truthfully rather okay with given a rather distasteful run-in the week prior, he had finally decided to acknowledge the presence of my "rushed" and "disproportionate" drawing. I patiently listened to his criticism, soaking it in and making mental notes of how to adjust my homework accordingly, and tried very hard not to think of the bus that was surely whizzing by the school that very minute. The bus that I was not on.

See, I could have interrupted his reverie and rushed out to catch my ride home. In the cold and drizzle that is so yucky for Laguna Beach, this option seemed quite fruitful. But I needed this critique. I needed to know how to improve my work. Daddy and I are not paying for a steep art school education to catch buses. Better to stay at the school overnight. Even if it meant missing a brand new episode of LOST. Missed buses might not mean much to you, ye reader, but my life revolves around the bus system. Concerned about the environment? Nah, not really at all to be honest; my eyeballs and I are just a hazard to the road. Consider yourself not in danger of being featured on the next Red Asphalt series.

Tonight, I marched into the same classroom, trying not to be peeved at the very sight of my irksome professor, whom I had admittedly begun to loathe at an alarming rate. While setting up my drawing and sharpening my charcoal, minding my own business, I turned to find him lingering. How annoying. I could tell he was itching to tell me more about my disastrous drawing without trying to make his intentions too obvious. Hiding my misgivings, I asked him, "So, did you want me to redo all of these lines or just progress from here?"

He began to -- there's no mistaking it -- eagerly pour his obvious wealth of knowledge into me. It was important to him that I understood exactly what he wanted to me to grasp. Prideful and stubborn, insensitive and repetitive, this man that LCAD has employed to educate me truly wanted to make a difference in my art tonight... my art, the most important thing in my life. The drawing sucked. He knew it, and maybe a little voice inside of me had known it all along as well. But he worked with me. Patiently. As I watched and listened, nodding when he shot me deeply inquisitive looks to see if anything was sinking in, my distaste for the man melted away into the charcoal sodden floor beneath our feet. Here was a person whose personality clashed with mine like a hangover and Monday morning, but our shared adoration for showing others the beauty we discern united us. As he continued to teach me the techniques that he so fawned over, he mentioned other artists that had operated in the same vein... one of which being William Merritt Chase.

Chase?!

I happen to have spent a year of my life replicating one of Chase's most well known paintings, "Idle Hours". I have always felt a connection with the Impressionist artists of the 20th century whose enchanting works I have copied so many of, but this painting was always, inexplicably and yet so understandably, the most special to me. I poured myself into it, making it perfect, and it remains to this day the only painting of mine that has followed me everywhere I've moved, lovingly hung on a wall near my bed. I will never sell it. I am rarely proud of my own work, but even to this day I consider "Idle Hours" one of my stronger pieces.

I know a certain professor that would be proud.

The Shadow Proves the Sunshine

2010-01-24T23:09:00.001-08:00

What's that, sunshine? Shyly peeking through the clouds? Hey there, little buddy. Don't worry, I won't bite, the big bad tornado is gone now. That's right, come out now, you little squirt. I didn't move down to Orange freaking County for wind and rain and hail and TORNADOS. Granted, it's no Haitian sized earthquake, but the weather that Laguna Beach endured this past week was certainly no walk in the park. Southern Californian roads are not equipped to handle proper drainage, so they flooded... as did my classrooms. Oh that's right, my first week back at school and we're rained out. I missed more than one class due to this sucky weather, as the bus lines were continuously not running. Then running. Then not running again. I considered joining the vagabonds and bums that parade downtown Laguna just so I wouldn't have to go home and chance missing another class. It felt weird: being so mentally pumped to embrace my raging hell of a spring semester, only to be stuck indoors as the rain angrily pounded my bedroom window and lightning put on shows every half hour. I don't even know that being able to drive would have made much difference... it just seemed safer indoors.

So I was left inside, bored and with little to do other than read interview after interview with the -- yes, I'm gonna say it -- pathetic Heidi Montag and her latest plastic surgery ordeal... which isn't even over yet, as she recently confessed that she wants to augment her breasts even larger to be a size H... for Heidi. Since I look up to her and her model Christian lifestyle, for a moment I considered making mine a size L for Laura but then realized I might never be able to stand up. Other than watching interviews with the reality-star-turned-mannequin I unabashedly watched the entire season of MTV's Jersey Shore, and although I'm quite positive more than a few brain cells were lost in the process, it was extremely entertaining. I'm kinda sad that I'm not 4'5" and orange, because then I could have been Snooki for Halloween this year. I suppose that I could always pull off JWoww with my size L boobs. Fist pump!

Other than becoming an entertainment junkie this past week (Jon will be so proud when he gets back from his youth retreat) (Sorry Jon) and consuming an entire box of Brown Sugar Cinnamon Pop-Tarts (can I get an Amen!) I kind of fell back in love with my amazing Savior this week. Before Jon left, we had this stunning conversation at like 3 in the morning -- pretty much when all our best convos happen actually, when he's grumpy and my emotions are soaring, ironic right? -- and God spoke through him in a way I've never experienced before... it was almost as if Jon wasn't even a part of the conversation, and it was just my Savior and I. Hanging out. Getting to know one another all over again. Soaking up the warmth and wondering how I ever lived without it. Kind of like the sunshine today. Only a lot better... and a lot warmer. God said to me, "Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you" (Hebrews 13:5). It seemed kind of silly to put the things of this world -- I'm talking to you, hail -- before such an amazing Lover.

I had to shower today without my contacts in since one of them badly ripped last night and I have to wait a few days until new ones are shipped to me. For a second I tried wearing my glasses in the shower... yeah, dumb blonde moment of the day. To all the dumb blondes of the world: glass fogs when it hangs out with hot water. It's called condensation. Anyway... RP aside, my eyesight is truly terrible, but since I didn't really have the option not to shower, I blindly sudded up my body and hair anyway. And you know what? I was just fine. By memory and touch I was able to feel around for the various things I needed in the shower. It was a very normal experience. And, as silly as it may sound, God whispered to me during that hot shower. He told me that when I am really blind someday, when I won't have the luxury of putting on foggy glasses, when I have forgotten what colors look like and put on mismatched clothing... He will never leave me. He will never forsake me. The warmth of His comfort drew me ever closer into His sweet embrace. I have found my Great Healer.

I'll close with this fantastic and moving video. If you have 8 minutes to spare, give it a watch, and think about where God is leading you and how He is cradling you at this very moment.

Confessions of a Tetris Addict, and Other Stories

2010-01-13T17:03:00.000-08:00

Confession that may not be news to you at all: I take this blog way too seriously. A few weeks ago I was shopping with Jon and came across a graphic tee that rudely proclaimed "No one cares about your blog." Nervously chuckling, I showed it to Jon to scrutinize his response (which wasn't decipherable), and then quickly hid the shirt behind a mannequin just in case he secretly purchased it later to nonchalantly wear in front of me. "Oh, this old thing? Weird. I didn't even realize what I put on this morning... did you take the time to read it, by any chance?" Heaven forbid my boyfriend not love my blog.

It's not really for him anyway; it's for you. As of late, a surprising amount of people have sheepishly admitted to me that they read this... as if it's a shameful thing, to stalk. What's up, guys! Forgive me if my conversations with you have become a little lax as of late... it's sorta hard to engage in new and interesting topics when you consistently interrupt me with "Oh yes, I read about that already. Page 3. Yawn." I swear, my generation's children will be born with iPhones in their hands, and tweets already typed out: "Just born! Not as bad as I expected, now onto Operation: Don't Let Mommy Sleep." Think I'm joking? A friend of mine has a MySpace for her two year old kid. Read: toddler. Still isn't potty trained and she's already got her Top Friends all figured out. Mark my words, if the O's and ten's will be known as the social networking era, then it's gonna be trendy for our kids to be social outcasts and loners. Sidenote: Please don't think for a second that I don't want you learning about my life through my blog. I kinda like it a lot, and am now deathly afraid that you're going to go hunt through stores for that darn T shirt, ducking behind mannequins in your greedy quest to quell my blog...

I happen to have a really addictive personality. Besides social networking, it's shoes, tanning, Twilight, wedding blogs, changing my hair color, ~~shopping~~ retail therapy, and guacamole -- just to name a few. My latest and greatest obsession is a delightful little game that I like to call Mindless Bliss. You probably know it as Tetris. Yes, Tetris. You read that right. It's nerdier than my Star Wars trading cards collection. I'd like to think that it makes me smarter. I recently wrote a nine page paper on Tetris and what it says about human nature -- it says a lot, in case you weren't aware -- and in my paper I discussed a study that was recently performed, pitting students that regularly play Tetris against students that have never played, to test changes in brain activity after three months. The findings were astounding! Brains of individuals who regularly play Tetris are larger than the brains of those who don't. Only problem is, scientists find no correlation between the swellings that occur and actual cognitive intelligence of any variety. Meaning... my brain is bigger than yours, but for no good reason. Great. Mind you, that's not going to get me to stop playing. Although school starts in a week and it might be dangerous for this addiction to continue while I attack 19 units.

As of yesterday I'm back in Home Sweet Laguna Beach for the first time in over a month. Back to listening to my three year old roommate scream while getting a diaper change. Oh, how I've missed this. Not. She probably updates her Facebook status as it happens.

What I really do miss is throwing my parents' border collie a bajillion slobbery tennis balls. Drinking wine out of communion cups with best friends. Smoking hookah while learning about Jesus' amazing love. Traversing the bitterly cold but oh-so-worth-it streets of San Francisco to scout out the best pizza joint. Sushi with old friends and Rock Band with new ones. My long trip home was a fantastic end to a great year, but I'm more than ready to welcome this new one with waiting arms. Rest In Peace 2009... it's been quite a hoot.

Flying Dreams

2009-12-19T22:08:00.000-08:00

I guess I hate flying.

It wasn't always this way, friends. Oh no. I used to stare wistfully at the Expert Travelers who rolled through Security with their smart Louis Vuitton luggage and imagined myself part of their club someday. Ya know, because artists do typically have to look professional and have some serious attitude on all their many business trips. Growing up, my mother hated flying. Gripping the arm rests and closing her eyes, she bore flights as best as she could, despite her obvious fear. I always sort of chided what I thought was a silly apprehension, and made it none too obvious that I would be happy as a clam to fly every day of my life. Clearly my clam got cooked with some garlic and butter, because I recently discovered to my unhappy dismay, that I simply hate flying. Hate it. Maybe it's my addiction to LOST that got to me -- that may be it, as during my most recent flight to Oakland I looked around the plane more than once for Hurley's curly hair. How to know when you've watched too much TV. Besides my fear that I'll be deserted on an island and that there won't be a Jack Shephard to rescue me, I suppose that I now fear extreme tragedy because it's happening to me. 100,000 people in the United States have retinitis pigmentosa, the dreaded macular degenerative disease that my doctor says I most likely have. That means that there are 99,999 people for me to reach out to.

The lovely Dr. Jacque Duncan, ophthamologist and head of retinal research at UCSF, is my new best friend. Sidenote: who knew that ophthamology had that extra 'h' after the p?! My family bet me that it did, and I lost the bet, convinced that all the signs around the office were simply, uh, misspelled wrong... common mistake for them to make, to be sure... riiight. Still in shock over my blunder, I was dilated and marched into a small, claustrophobic room to wait for The Doctor while Jon and most of my family waited bored outside. Inside our prison cell, Dad and I made small talk as we waited for The Doctor... this woman I had heard so much about, Googled countless times, and been recommended to by another doctor who firmly told me I should see no one else. We waited. And waited. Finally The Doctor arrived in all her fairy godmother glory. She could have been my aunt. Or my best friend's Mom. She was friendly and exponentially knowledgable. After many questions and answers and peering into my eyes with a light that could rival heaven itself and other tests and more waiting... she told me that nothing was definitive. More tests need to be done at another date, and she needs to watch my eyes to see if and how fast they get worse. I may have a different disease. Great. Towards the end of my precious time with her, in this exam that I had waited four months for, she kindly ignored her vibrating Blackberry and asked me if I had any more questions for her. I didn't know how to get the words out without betraying my fear to my avidly listening father. "Is there, er, I mean... how likely... when you see patients that are my age with these symptoms... how likely is it... do you think I have it?" I finished finally, hating how childlike the question sounded. She looked at me gravely, deciding in a flash how to respond with the knowledge that was as real as my loudly beating heart, and said quietly in her perfect bedside manner voice, "Probably. Yes, with these symptoms. Probably." I loved her for her honesty.

Trust me, more often than not, I mentally revert back to a four year old, screaming for Mommy to buy me the newest My Little Pony. Learning that I have RP has made me mentally selfish. I want people to ask how I'm doing and get angry when they don't. I take it for granted that so many people are praying for my healing. I am more concerned with appearing like I am handling this all so well rather than actually turning to my Savior to save me. Truth is, it hits me like a brick, friends. It really does, every day... usually when I am in a crowded place and strangers don't understand why I am bumping into them. I look at them as they briskly stroll away, annoyed, wanting desperately to explain to them... and yes, I have thought about wearing a T-shirt everyday that says "Ignore me, I have RP" or at the very least getting that tattooed onto my forehead but the problem is, nobody knows about this disease. Why aren't people more aware? Why don't people care about things that don't affect them? It is my goal to care, to reach out to those that are struggling to maintain hope while they literally watch their world being taken away from them. My vision is being robbed from me, and I demand a cure. I will continue to pour forth efforts to find one.

This. disease. will. not. get. me. down.

New Chapter. Scratch That, A Whole New Book.

2009-12-13T00:18:00.000-08:00

I'm starting over.

As an artist, that is. Going to art school has rudely peeled off the shiny façade I used to carry that my work was anywhere near good. I'm not trying to be modest here... trust me, apparently modesty isn't my thing. Jon and I had a conversation recently about our flaws (oh, what a fun talk that was! You should try it sometime!) and he informed me that I struggle with pride. This was news to me; I thought that I was already keenly aware of all my flaws, and pride was not on the list. Case in point, I guess. Anyway, my flourishing art career as I know it has crumbled into a sad little pile of ignorant self expression. Suddenly I find myself surrounded by professional artists. I'm talking about freakishly amazing, world renowned geniuses that pay other, less qualified artists to paint their pictures for them. Yes, THIS HAPPENS. I recently tried to test out of a beginning drawing class for next semester, and as much as I hate to admit it, I proudly showed my advisor (the Dean of the Fine Arts Department no less) my portfolio of drawings, positive of my ability to get out of a wretched beginners class. After a millisecond of peering at my work, he promptly pulled out his laptop and showed me some daunting drawings that my own drawings quivered at, and said in an exasperated little voice that was clearly meant to be consoling, "Now, don't you want your work to be this good?"

Hello, Fundamentals of Drawing I. Goodbye, two drawing classes from community college and years upon years of private lessons. Toldja I was starting over.

Art school is brutal in more ways than one. Lately my homework has asked me to find a very loving friend to pose nude for me. Apparently I'm not very loved, as I found myself having to do Plan B: draw myself. This proved to be the hardest drawing I have ever attempted (you try posing in a mirror and holding that pose while you draw), and no I will not post it on here.

Thankfully after next week's finals, I get to enjoy an entire month of being around my biggest fans (friends and family) cooing over my artwork, who are blissfully ignorant to the mere fact that I suck. In addition to a month of zero nude dudes and giving Christmas prezzies, I get to look forward to the biggest event of the year, perhaps my entire life: The Diagnosis. This Friday I will be finding out what exactly my retinas are up to. While at UCSF for my visual field diagnostic two weeks ago, I learned that I might have a type of retinitis pigmentosa in which my genes are simply mutated, and once the mutation is located and gene therapy applied, my eyes won't get any worse, and it won't be passed along to my kids. Did I mention it won't get worse?

Hallelujah. Praise Jesus for hope, that little ray of sunshine that envelopes my heart. It's the only thing that keeps me sane. I hope you will be praying this Friday the 18th, at 3:30 PM PST, when I meet the infamous Dr. Duncan for the first time and greet my future. I'll be sure to keep you updated.

The Best Way To Spread Christmas Cheer...

2009-12-01T21:45:00.000-08:00

I simply adore Christmas music, don't you?! If you don't, go away. I don't want any Scrooges reading my blog. I even downloaded Andrea Bocelli's new Christmas album in honor of my father (who is quickly turning into the Bay Area's own Josh Groban), and guess what? Not half bad! Beautiful singing voice. I still prefer Taylor Swift's holiday tunes, but hey, that's just me. I'm headed home this weekend for an eye exam and plan on snuggling up to Jonny while watching Elf for the first time all the way through; I fell asleep during last year's attempt. Hey now! No snide remarks about me not being a true Christmas fan if I haven't yet watched Elf. I don't see YOU guzzling down nutmeg ridden eggnog (not the Lite kind) by the carton-full. I mean... who does that?! Anyway, while I'm in town I plan on loaning Jon the tree that I bought a few years ago. That was a fun story: I needed a cheap tree to trim for my new condo, and whilst at Target, I spotted the last one on sale that was on display. I persuaded the cheerless employees to grudgingly sell it to me, and proudly carried it out the door completely assembled and in one piece. Jon actually just scored himself an internship at a fantastic church up in Alamo, and moved into his brand spankin' new apartment last week. No more Hayward! *round of applause* Pretty sure my tree and all the sparkly and girly ornaments that come with it will be the perfect finishing touch to his new bachelor pad. I'm also gonna sneak in a bunch of mistletoe to hang around the place. Doesn't hurt to have extra excuses to be kissed.

I spent a delightful day at the beautifully decorated Disneyland last week for my sister Cassie's 21st birthday with her and her techno-savvy boyfriend Allen, and while we were there we discussed how Thanksgiving gets a bad rap decoration-wise, being shoved halfheartedly in between Halloween and Christmas. I mean, you don't exactly see stores pulling out all the stops to throw up Thanksgiving decorations as soon as summer ends, do you? We searched and searched the park for signs of a big plastic turkey or cornucopia, but the best we could find was some live turkey that President Obama pardoned from becoming a meal. Talk about America's dumbest tradition ever. Our fun filled and exhausting day at the Happiest Place On Earth couldn't have been more perfect, and the family oriented week spent at my Grandparents' pad complete with Hearts games, root beer floats, and cousin rowdiness was the same.

My crazy family has never really been the "let's go around the table and talk about what we're thankful for this year" type, but if we were, I would have announced that I am thankful for my vision. Extremely thankful. I have two very important eye exams coming up: the first being an extensive visual fields exam this Friday, and the second, my official diagnosis later this month. Learning about the loss of peripheral vision that my eyes have already sustained only makes me more thankful for what I have left. I was told this summer that it is extremely unusual for me to still maintain the color vision that I have. I like to believe that my eyes know how important color is for my career as an arteest, and they're not quite willing to let go of that yet. I am thankful. It is only by God's grace that I nurse this peace within me, and I thank Him everyday for the friends, family, and amazing boyfriend that He has blessed me with in order to wake up each morning and face another day with failing eyes. Most of all, I have hope. Hope that I will be healed, and at the very least that a cure will be found before my children's generation. I trust Him, and I know that this walk of blind faith will seal my faith in a way that would have never happened if retinitis-pigmentosa hadn't reared it's ugly little head at just the right time. Trust me kids, the Big Guy upstairs knows exactly what He's doing.

Fun-Sized Harry Potter

2009-11-14T15:23:00.000-08:00

There are only three things I want to discuss today. Candy, nude dudes, and Harry Potter. You heard me right.

My mom recently mailed me a box full of Halloween candy that trick-or-treaters didn't claim. Either she's stingy, or Bay Area kids are still heading out to Blackhawk every October 31st. The postage mark informed me that she spent $7.10 on shipping the Fun Sized Kit Kats and Milky Ways that are now littering my bedroom floor. Sending me an expensive box of cheap chocolate would be my mother's idea of a care package while away at college. I love her. I don't, however, love the person responsible for coining a measly bite-sized worth of candy "fun". There's nothing fun about being left wanting more.

I recently discovered that a friend of mine has been flagging the photos of nude drawings that I post on my Facebook from my Figure Drawing class, thus ensuring their prompt removal from my page. I was slightly furious. Listen folks, if you don't like my art, please don't look at it. Plain and simple. But just as a forewarning: Artists. Have. To. Draw. Naked. People. I don't know how many times I have had to patiently explain this to Christians. "Can't you just draw models with clothes on?" one pastor asked me once. The answer, simply, is no. In order to truly understand the complexity of the sinews that bind together legs and arms and facial structures, one needs to learn, truly learn and practice, what the anatomy of the human body looks like. Naked. Suffice it to say that I personally choose to depict nudes in my art in order to celebrate God's glorious creation; I love finding beauty in a body that our world wouldn't necessarily consider "attractive". Still have qualms? Give me a buzz. I'd be happy to discuss it further... or offer a demonstration. ;)

Onto something a bit more magical: my favorite wizard with a lightning bolt scar. I am a HUGE Harry Potter freak. Huge like Hagrid-huge. One year I dressed up for one of the midnight movie openings as Moaning Myrtle, and won $20 in a costume contest. This last year I wasn't able to get tickets for the midnight showing of Half Blood Prince, but loyal fan that I am, saw the 3:10 AM showing instead. And dragged Jon's tired butt with me. We recently rewatched it together, and I was annoyed at how he acted as if it was his first time seeing the movie... Anyway, earlier this week I reread Deathly Hallows, and cried (like usual) all the way through. Towards the end, *spoiler alert* when Harry gives himself up as a sacrifice to Voldy, I couldn't help but think of Jesus. I know, I know. Please stop wincing. I don't really care to delve deeper into my Harry Potter theology here (hi, Biola friends!), but I did find it ironic, since many Christians find reading Harry Potter books to be less than prudent.

Oh, and P.S. I declared my major yesterday: Illustration Hybrid Painting & Drawing, with a minor in Sculpture. Preeeetty rad.

I'm No Edward Cullen

2009-11-04T02:19:00.000-08:00

It's 2:23 AM, which clearly signals Time To Blog in LL's brain. It's like a little happy alarm goes off in my head, and I obey. Never mind that I have work tomorrow morning, or that my eyes are twitching with tiredness. I'm listening to The Fray's "Happiness" (guaranteed to yield excellent Genius results) and am in an excellent mood. Prepare to be benefited.

Jon recently visited me for a few days, and it was pure bliss to have him around to cook for and snuggle up with to watch Arrested Development while eating frozen grapes (pretty much our favorite past-time). We took modelesque beach pictures, double dated with our new favorite (non married) couple, celebrated Halloweenie like the forest fire and Smokey the Bear that we are, and scoffed at the disappointment that "Where the Wild Things Are" ended up to be. Obviously, we're some cool cats.

While my Taxi Driver was in town, I decided to donate blood at the blood drive going on at my school. Now, let me preface this story with a story. A year ago, I decided to pierce my rook (a delightful little unnecessary piece of cartilage in your ear that really isn't good for anything other than piercing -- see photo) and it resulted in the world's.worst.infection. Seriously. I was in the ER twice, ICU for a week, and almost lost my freakin' ear! Ever since that fun experience, I've had a crippling fear of needles + blood. Part of this completely rational fear resulted from my IV not being screwed in tight enough one time... but I won't go into that story here. Anyway, I talked it over with the ever supportive boyfriend, who strongly suggested that I sign up to donate blood to conquer these fears, and do some good for some poor cancer patient out there. Sidenote: Jon cannot give blood due to an insufficiency of iron in his blood, so I'm quite positive that he was trying to secretly live vicariously through me. Go big or go home.

When I arrived at the Red Cross trailer on Monday, a few minutes late for my appointment (this story wouldn't quite have the LL touch if it didn't involve me running late), I could only think about three things: Bon Iver's "Blood Bank" EP (quite excellent; give it a listen), the fact that my skin was stained green from my forest fire hair dye (awkward), and I was as nervous as a pimply boy asking his crush to the Prom. Except worse. Pimply boys don't (usually) have green skin.

After I answered a series of questions that determined I wasn't a prostitute or from Africa, the kind Latina woman with missing acrylic nails and Winnie the Pooh scrubs set me up with my own personal little blood bag. I laid down on my cot, shakily asked for a blanket (WHY are Red Cross trailers so cold?! Why, cruel world?), and contemplated telling her that I had changed my mind. As I set about mentally planning how I would color a little red dot on my arm so Jon wouldn't suspect anything, she pricked me (I thanked God for my lack of peripheral vision which enabled me to not see a thing), and my vein started proudly emptying it's contents into a tube. It was strange. And kind of disgusting. And... not that bad.

The whole thing was over in a flash, and I was relieved have my arm back, and to accept some Nutter Butters and orange juice. Some payment for human blood. I decided that I liked challenging my fear in order to help someone. It put me way outside of my comfort zone, and it felt good. Next on the agenda? Eating a worm to experience true hunger. Just kidding...

Zoology

2009-10-27T15:25:00.000-07:00

I've always loved animals. As a child, I preferred caterpillars and roly polies to dolls (Okay sidenote: I just Googled "roly poly" to verify it's spelling, and Google thought I meant to type in "roly poly eat". Ew?! Let's just hope that the general population is more interested in finding out what these critters eat, not whether or not they're actually edible...). Aside from my creepy crawly obsession, I loved playing with horses and pretending my sister was my pet cat (what?). As I got older, Beanie Babies were a special favorite too, because they were animals of course. A human Beanie Baby seems kinda creepy...

I'm equally a dog lover and a cat lover. My entire life I have dreamed of purchasing both a Sphynx kitten (hairless little darlings) and a Persian kitten (tiny bundles of furry joy) on the same day so they'll be best friends. Another sidenote: No one has ever appreciated this idea but me. If you think that it's humorous, artistic, or in any way ironic, please let me know and stroke my ego. I may or may not want to rub your much appreciated support in Jon's face, who is convinced that it's an idiotic idea. He is also allergic to kitties by the way... think that's gonna stop me? Think again. A dream's a dream. Benadryl is good for you, hon.

Dogs, on the other hand, Jon and I agree on a bit more. We both adore them and are eagerly awaiting the day we bring home a German shepherd pup. As of late, I've also been thinking more and more about getting a seeing eye dog eventually. I mean, who wouldn't want a dog accompanying them to the post office?

To me, animals are God's way of creating unique and beautiful things just because. Just so we (and He!) could enjoy them. I love animals, and want my home someday full of them: tarantulas, frogs, tropical fish, parrots, snakes, horses... I can't help but laugh right now, as I mentally picture accidentally leaving the tarantula cage open and not being able to see as little Freddy crawls into my bed... Regardless of all the problems that could arise with caring for a zoo someday, I stubbornly don't want to forego it. I love animals!

And then there's Kaia. The seemingly adorable puggle that I currently live with. I thought the little bugger was cute at first, but now the unceasing whining is driving me bananas: I can't sleep, study, or video chat on my beloved Skype without incessant interruption. And I mean incessant. Mosquitos-eating-the-living-daylights-out-of-you-while-camping-and-you-forgot-to-bring-bug-spray-incessant. Someone save me. I am being held captive by the deplorable whining of this creature:

Please bring shotgun. Just kidding. Kind of.

My First Ever Drawing Tutorial

2009-10-23T00:41:00.000-07:00

It's Midterms Week here at LCAD. Amongst my studying, LOST and Glee watching, incessant drawing (oh how my back is screaming at me right now), and landing a job (!) at the Admissions Department at my school, I decided to sneak away to give my blog a little well-deserved attention, for...

*drumroll please*

... my first ever drawing tutorial! Don't look so surprised. It was in the Blog title, you idiot.

Anyway, I felt inspired to do this after pouring over Nathan Baird's fabulous art blog earlier this week. For those of you that are not Valley Christian alumni (God bless you), Mr. Baird was my art teacher extraordinaire for the better years of high school. You'll notice, amongst the delightful gouache paintings and cartoons, that he often posts his work in sequences of completeness. Obviously I have seen this done before, but it had never occurred to me to do it myself. Until now. I will be showing you five steps of a large charcoal drawing that I finished tonight. Enjoy!

First I toned my charcoal paper down by rubbing large vine charcoal over the whole page, then smudging it with a paper towel. Then I began measuring (notice the white marks) and laying down shapes for the figure.

I then proceeded to block out the shadow areas using simple, geographic-like dark shapes. No detail yet.

I smudged the shadows in with a chamois and paper towel (no fingers allowed due to the oils). Since the paper was pre-toned before I began, I only needed to create dark and light tones as the medium was taken care of. The dark tones are easy: simply block in shadow. Light tones are a bit trickier: I had to sculpt away the charcoal with my kneaded eraser. I used a small stump to blend the lights and darks together in small, concentric circles to make the skin appear organic and soft.

Once the flesh was largely finished, I began to work on the sheet. It was easier than I expected it to be. I also touched up the face, legs, and feet with a charcoal pencil, used for extreme detail work.

Ta da! The finished result. I paid attention to reflected light (may have gone a tad overboard on the back), fixing the folds of fabric, and detail throughout the entire body.

Easy, right? I'd love some feedback from you folks. All constructive criticism welcomed! Thanks for reading!

Confessions of a Braille School Dropout

2009-10-17T15:02:00.000-07:00

Painting is where my heart finds solace. When I set up my canvas, pick out the appropriate brushes, put on an old "Blame It On The Wookie" T-shirt (thank you Matt Rider), fiddle with Genius until I find the right tunes to match my mood, and start sliding the wet bristles across the crisp, white canvas... I finally feel at peace. I lose myself in that tranquility and utter stillness. My back screams for proper posture but I take little notice until I stand back to admire my work from afar, and then hastily glance at my calendar to determine how soon my next physical therapy appointment is. All of my worries and concerns just scamper away when I paint, like Bambi in hunting season. Hours melt by unnoticed. My angst is poured into the artwork... not necessarily even the subject matter, but on the strict concentration that is required to make that cloudy sky look like perfection. Just ask Jon: when I am in a creative thought process and am knee deep in pigment, my focus is so fiercely demanded by my work that conversation lags. I would prefer it not even be there. Painting is my worship; I live to embrace meeting God in a task that He understands only too well: creating beauty.

I have not painted once since I moved down to Laguna Beach on August 29th to pursue art school.

Come again? Show stopper, I know. Fully aware of how much this impacts your personal life... just kidding. But seriously, something doesn't match up. I find out that I have this horrible eye disease and have limited time left to create my beautiful paintings, and yet I shy away from the paintbrush. My easel stands at the ready, Daddy's pocketbook has been emptied to purchase the plethora of shiny new oil paint tubes that demand to be noticed, and Christmas is coming. Which means I'd better get my ass started on some gifts. And yet the canvases remain depressingly white.

Don't get me wrong, I have been doing a lot of art. A lot of drawing that is, and a sprinkling of liberal arts classes as well. I tell people on a regular basis that I love school and it loves kicking my butt. Here is the aforementioned self portrait, composed in Vine and Compressed Charcoal, measuring 19x24":

Earlier today, I found myself at an art boutique of sorts, the kind my mother would go gaga over. My Aunt Sue makes jewelry and she wanted me to model this truly hideous beaded belt for her booth... no, I didn't take pictures. I was happy to do so, and strolled among the booths with the jeweled belt blaring around my waist, poking around at the art and speaking with various vendors.

By the end of my jaunt, I was ready to purchase a freakin' seeing eye dog.

I'm now starting to understand where the unceasing and unflattering bruises on my legs are coming from. I lost track at how many times I walked into a person or a booth, started to knock items over, or got annoyed glances from the people around me as I strolled around looking like a head-in-the-clouds Luna Lovegood. Simply put... I am starting to understand the effects of seeing in tunnel vision. Although I am sure that this has been an ongoing problem for several years now, I never really noticed it until an optometrist sadly informed me two months ago that I have the worst peripheral vision she's ever seen in a young person. The reality of retinitis-pigmentosa is starting to set it.

I haven't painted in a month and a half because I have been terrified to confront this mounting fear. Holding the paintbrush squarely in my hand and allowing the right side of my brain to completely control my actions as I watch my artwork come alive... in other words, doing what I love to do above all else... will not always be such a luxury. I fear that the ugly truth will be staring me in the face when I sit down with my old friends, Ultramarine Blue and Alizarin Crimson (yes, I am a nerd).

I realized today that I deeply miss it. I can't avoid my passions forever. I am making it my business to paint. Today. Right now. I want to be prepared the next time I bump into a startled soccer mom at Target, instead of running away bursting into tears (yes, this has happened). I can feel that God is longing for some hang out time at the usual spot. Please excuse me while I find my favorite paintbrush and dust off the nearest canvas.

Nudity & Ghouls

2009-10-11T15:24:00.000-07:00

My phone just bleeped with a texty poo from my Jonny informing me that he was blogging. Not sure if this was a subtle hint that he misses my oh-so-interesting blogs (yeah, right), I immediately set about writing one of my own. You might say that I have a teeny tiny streak of competitive nature flowing through my veins. Who, me? Get angry when I lose a game of Settlers of Catan? Quit a Scrabble game early if I am losing? *whistles*

Lately, a day in the life of LL has been kind of like chocolate ice cream with a bit of hot fudge on top. Not quite boring enough to be vanilla, but certainly nowhere near Dulce de Leche or Phish Food (my two personal faves). Mango gelato? Dream on, kiddo. My time has been filled with Skyping friends near and far, meticulously drawing more naked folks than I'd care to confess here, reading about how our world's coral reefs will probably be destroyed by the time our kids are born for good ole Environmental Ecology (least favorite class, whatup!), hanging out with the Kingsfield Crew (which is always marked by good times), and enjoying clam chowder at the currently rainy Laguna Beach. On the plus side, I tried Indian food for the first time and am now a fan, the parentals genuinely seem to miss me, and I've watched last week's truly stellar wedding episode of "The Office" probably at least four times now... and I unabashedly tear up every time. Now would be the moment to point out that Jon reminds me an awful lot like Jim Halpert, but that would just be bragging.

For Figure Drawing, our latest task has been self portraits. I know, I know... we thought the same thing. But my professor (pretty laidback guy that insists we call him Sergio and often forgets to assign homework) assured us that he just wants to see our naked faces, not bodies... phew. Here's last week's self portrait, composed with vine charcoal and measures 19x24", for your viewing pleasure:

Let's just say: all nighter. I'm currently slaving away on another one, due tomorrow morning. So far, this one is proving to be a little rough. You'd think it would be fun drawing your own face for hours at a time, but you should think again. By the end of this I'm pretty sure I won't want to look in the mirror for a week.

My buddy Justin and I (Sidenote: only recently have I learned that the word "buddy" is extremely uncool. Think I'm going to change my preferred lingo for all you hipsters out there? Think again.) went to Knott's Scary Farm last night, which was basically Snoopy on shrooms. Talk about sensory overload... I'm still nursing a pounding headache. Not to mention that my black ballet flats literally broke towards the end of the evening, and $10 for a Stella Artois seemed maddeningly overpriced. All in all however, I adore haunted houses, and although these were a bit cheesy, I was scared more than once. Okay, more like all night... until I wisely perceived after awhile that the ghoulies targeted the screaming girls the most. Note to self: You are a girl. Stop screaming. Here are some of my favorite photos encapsulating the evening:

This one clearly illustrates how they hid in the maze to pounce upon unsuspecting victims.

Goodnight, all. I'm off to finish the shading on my upper lip... anyone?

Fallin' in love with Fall

2009-09-30T12:16:00.000-07:00

I adore this time of year.

To pay homage to my Golden State heritage, and it's world-wide fame for boasting warm weather no matter what the calendar indicates, I had always declared summer to be my favorite season. I promised myself every year that this would be the year I became a beach bum, camping out on the sand, becoming BFFs with UV rays, in order to score a sun-kissed glow (confession: any sort of glow I sustained was usually procured in a very fake way...). I had screen names like CaliBeachGurlxo, went to the County Fair each year, walked around at vintage car shows pretending to know all about '69 Camaros (hey, this did impress the boys), wore flowy sundresses,

and aspired to live my life like a Taylor Swift song.

Now that October is almost here, this year I find myself cheating on summer with fall, and ooo I feel good! Na na na na na na... I knew that I would, now...

Here is a hopefully short list of everything that I love about fall:

1. Trees changing colors. Duh.

2. Pumpkin spice lattes.

3. Indian summer. It just sounds so romantic.

4. Fall fashion is, in my humble opinion, the best fashion all year round.

5. Halloween -- an ideal excuse to pig out on candy, obvy. And let's not forget the parties, costumes, and decor.

6. Mini pumpkins.

7. Taking pictures at a pumpkin patch.

8. Starting school... really.

9. Pumpkin carving. It smells truly awful but makes a great staycation date.

10. Black Friday. Um, hello Christmas shopping (with a few snagged prizes for myself)!

11. Leggings paired with huge sweatshirts and Uggs.

12. Candy corn. I am one of those that like it, sue me.

13. Sunflowers.

14. NFL.

15. New TV!

16. Literally perfect weather: warm with cool breezes. Love it.

17. LOVE haunted houses.

18. Candy apples.

19. Horseback riding. This just seems like a fallish activity.

20. Scarves.

21. Leaves crunching underfoot and dancing through streets like fairies (gotta sound artistic here).

22. Pumpkin pie.

23. Bonfires.

24. Fall weddings. Love, love, love the apple greens paired with chocolate browns; the rich, golden ambience that fall weddings can afford. Sign me up!

25. My sister Cassandra turns 21 this November, which can only mean one thing: family wine tasting!

I'll close with a few photos of favorite autumnal memories. Happy fall!

This was my last Halloween at 2126. I yelled, "Let's all get in character!" about two seconds before the photo was snapped and this is what happened.

Carving with friendsies a few years back. And yes, I did have freakishly blonde hair.

Here's the almost-legal sister at Thanksgiving in Minnesota a year or two back.

And finally, an oldie but a goodie. Pretty self explanatory.

Bosom Buddies

2009-09-27T22:48:00.001-07:00

*cracks knuckles*

*taps fingers on keyboard*

*smacks gum and sighs*

I have too many things to write about. I recently learned that at any given moment, women are thinking about 6 different things at once, on average. Here are my current 6: Wedding gowns. The homework I haven't yet started. Skype. Jon. Friendships. How I haven't eaten anything today other than donuts and Nerds.

Let's see. Discussing my recent obsession over wedding gowns like these will only lead to gushing wedding talk, something I doubt too many of you out there want to eagerly pour over. Then there's my neglected homework. I need to make two drawings by tomorrow: one of an egg carton, the other a still life of socks. How thrilling. There's not too much to say about Skype; in short, I'm obsessed. I'm also obsessed with Jon, but Jon as a topic is much too broad (sorry babe). Writing about eating junk food all day will just make me feel guilty, and who wants to hear about their poor eating habits? Friendship it is.

Thanks to the prompting of my spiritual leader of a boyfriend, I listened to Mark Driscoll's podcast on friendship yesterday. That, coupled with the thoughts that have been swirling around in my pretty little head for the past few months, are what will be spewed in the following. Ready... set... blog!

I believe that the word "friend" is thrown around too loosely. When we start calling our acquaintances our friends, not only do we put some sort of expectation on them that they probably won't fulfill, but we will also be falsely comforted in the knowledge that we are surrounded by people who love us. In reality, when hard times fall, who will we feel comfortable leaning on? Who will really be there for comfort and support? Probably not our drinking buddies. Probably not our coworkers. Probably not a lot of people on our Facebook friends list. And isn't that what being a true friend is all about? It's more than finding someone with a good sense of humor who can spin the latest gossip. It's about finding people who will truly appreciate your heart, and will love you despite your flaws.

I'm starting to wish that I had blogged about something else.

You see, I have always believed in quantity, not quality. When I posted on someone's Facebook wall, "Hey, it's been a long time! We should get together at some point!" I would really follow up with them and make sure that we kept up on our friendship. This applied to everybody. Old coworkers, old boyfriends, old friends of friends, random school acquaintances. I was more concerned with surrounding myself with a busy social life to conquer loneliness than I was investing in real, life-long friends. Now, the Bible warns us ladies to guard our hearts. We are something to be treasured, and for us to understand our hearts' true value, I believe that it is important for us to not just throw it around. This not only applies to boys, but also to our friendsies.

I have learned a lot about being a good friend this past summer. What it means to become a loyal and reliable friend, and who I consider to be loyal and reliable back. Throughout learning about my vision (or lack thereof), I was constantly surprised at the montage of people that were there for me. For prayer. For hugs. To call or email me to offer sympathy (by the way, I'm not that blind yet, so no need to write your emails in extra large font). Trust me when I say that tragedy unveils who are the true friends in your life: the people you can call at any time of night to chit-chat about how your day went (just kidding...).

Also, people change. You may be thinking "duh" but this is something that has only recently truly resonated with my brain. Sometimes, it's okay for people to come and go from our lives; perhaps they were only meant to be your friend for a short portion of time. And really, it hurts, but it is okay. We all go through life transitions: birth (hey, that is quite the transition!), adolescence, high school, college, grad school, engagement, marriage, children, sickness, death. I like to think of my life as a big, leafy tree. One with lots of branches that would make me want to shed my adulthood and amble my way up to the top. One that birds build their nests in. Okay, back to the main point here Laura: the growing tree represents our life, and the branches shooting out of it, going every which way, are our life's transitions. Getting braces. Going through a divorce. Starting a business. Losing a spouse to cancer. Some bigger than others, but each one alters who we are as humans. And many of these crooked shifts in life cause us to lose old friends and gain new ones. The ones who remain constant are the keepers.

And that's okay.

Ephiphany

2009-09-20T14:54:00.000-07:00

I have had many different roommates over the past 2ish years. I have shared rooms with strangers from Craigslist, lived with my friend's parents, lived with best friends, and even briefly moved back in with my own parents (gah). Out of all my numerous and varied living situations, my current one has got to take the random cake.

As you probably know, my decision to move to Laguna Beach was made in a split second. Literally. Exactly one week before my move, I realized that I wasn't going to be able to afford living in Savannah and didn't want to be so far from my eye doctor; the same day I was accepted to this school in Laguna. I had one afternoon to find a place to live in Orange County before classes started the next day. I didn't have a car, wasn't familiar with the area or bus systems, and had spent the previous night in the ER. But I did successfully find a place to live that will work for the time being (yay month-to-month lease!), and moved in late that Sunday night...

It's a family situation, but nothing like what I've experienced before. Sarah, a single "cute mom" (ask me about my obsession with cute moms and you're bound to hear an earful) is about five years older than me and has a darling two year old daughter Emma, a chatterbox with a budding and extremely creative little mind. Sarah's parents James and Anne live right next door: as my landlords, they're fun, artsy, and unintrusive. And let's not forget the adorable puggle Kaia, a cuddly pup who is well-behaved and has one of the best begging faces I've ever seen. Kaia has a urinary tract problem because she eats rocks to get attention. What's not to love?

And then there's Daniel.

Oh, Daniel. Where do I begin? Dan is a third year animation major at my school. He lives in a bedroom in the mysterious upstairs of my home; I live in a tiny "prison cell" (as Jon so kindly calls it) bedroom downstairs. At first, Dan seemed artsy, intelligent, and perfectly normal. I should have known better, as NO artist is perfectly normal -- beware, ye reader. Hawaiian swim trunks on a daily basis ("They're nice enough to wear as shorts!"), obsession with all things animation (c'mon dude, I'm a Fine Arts kinda gal), and a fascination with pizza (still haven't figured this one out). Dan is a very nice guy, but lacks what I'm going to delicately call social skills.

In my Figure Drawing class last Friday, the very animated model we were rendering exclaimed that our class had much more advanced social skills than other art schools she models at: Art Center and Otis to name a few. We quipped that at least we were able to hold conversations with one another, instead of relying on computers or our cell phones. I guess I had never really thought about it too much before: artists often do not know how to function around people, which has probably contributed to the cliche of a "starving artist". Without progressed social skills, we aren't able to network, and our artwork doesn't get noticed.

Now, I consider myself an extremely social person. In a voicemail from a friend the other day, she mentioned that I seem "to know everybody!" However, if you know me well, you know that I have hermit-like tendencies to withdraw into myself, especially from the people that I live with. My tragic realization this weekend has been that I am one of "those" artists. Daniel probably views me in a very similar light to how I perceive him to be... oh dear.

My mission this week is to reach out to other artists, regardless of their way of dressing or their area of interest. I am positive that all of us socially awkward art junkies can unite! Hoo rah.

Ding!

2009-09-16T13:58:00.000-07:00

Ah, there's that joyful sound again. It's a doorbell! It's an oven timer! It's a torrent that has finished downloading!

Wait, what?! Do mine ears deceive me?

Laura Lawson torrents tunes? (That should be the name of a band. Or at least a comic strip. Just sayin'.)

I have dark circles under my eyes and 13 gigs of new music in my iTunes. I may or may not have stayed up until 3 AM every night this past week downloading free music off the Web. I'll plead the 5th on that one.

It's all Jon's fault anyway. I chastised him for months on end for "stealing" music, and then he explained to me that I'm simply stealing copies of music, not the actual music. Oh, okay. That makes much more sense. Sign me up.

This was never an option on my Mortal Enemy, aka my good ol' Toshiba "Eternally Slow" PC. Perhaps I should devote an entire blog to how much I am utterly in love with my new MacBook Pro. Our relationship is progressing quite nicely. Toshiba feels jealous and neglected. Too bad, sucka.

Favorite download thus far? It's a three-way tie: Anuhea's self-titled debut (kind of like a feisty, angsty Fiona Apple), Cobra Starship's "Hot Mess", and Miley Cyrus' new single, "Party in the USA." What?!

As a sidenote to my mother: I would never have purchased these CDs anyway, so it's giving the artists some good healthy exposure. That's what I keep telling myself anyway.

To Those Who Ask

2009-09-10T15:00:00.000-07:00

I have such a freakin' hard time asking for help.

I'm grateful that God graced me with long, gazelle-like legs, because I am quite positive that I would have never asked for help reaching for something too far to grasp if I was shorter. When I went shopping in high school I would simply avoid looking at clothing that was too high to reach. You name it: college applications, jam jar lids, parallel parking, operating my gorgeous new MacBook Pro, cooking... I am stubbornly independent. I'd rather learn how to do something myself, even if it means learning the hard way, and become self sufficient. If I could be a social hermit, I probably would.

Now, in case you've never witnessed it before, let me tell you right here, right now: God has a sense of humor.

The day before yesterday, I had a few hours to kill before class, and I was dead-set on getting my nails done. Ragged, chipped, and torn, my hands looked like they had been through the garbage disposal. So off I went, cheerfully riding my brand new mountain bike, directions to the nearest Yelp-approved nail salon tucked safely away in my pocket. I hadn't really ridden a bike in a year or two, but it was only 3.2 miles away, according to MapQuest. Piece of cake.

Wrong.

Huffing and puffing after about 2.5 miles, I was forced to start walking. "Nail... salon... need... manicure..." worked as a great motivator to push me until I was at the intersection of my Holy Grail: Happy Nails. I was soaked through with sweat, desperately parched, and couldn't move another step. Literally. Purple stars swam in my eyes, and I collapsed on the pavement, thankfully securing a shady patch. I had heard of heat exhaustion before, but... but what? Didn't think it could happen to me? Didn't think that only drinking a small glass of orange juice a few hours before would hydrate me enough for a long bike ride on a 90 degree SoCal day? I'm sure it looked like I had been hit by a car. I waited a few minutes, tried to sit up, and failed. Reluctantly and feeling rather dumb, I dialed a few numbers in my cell phone, trying desperately to ignore the stabbing stomach pain, and when nobody answered I dutifully dialed 911, praying for help. For the second time this month, the paramedics were on the scene to rescue me.

Now I'm not going to lie, it felt rather nice having all these strong-looking firefighters come rescue me. But I also felt foolish. Extremely foolish. They offered me a canteen of water, which I lustfully consumed in a minute, trying to ignore the whiney little voice that popped up in my head, "But this is tap!" Shut it, you.

My pride I had lost, and heat exhaustion, coupled with a new respect for Laguna Beach weather, I had gained. Loyal Uncle Gary eventually arrived to take me home, and I had to endure phone call after phone call that night of worried relatives and a certain boyfriend admonishing me to drink more water. And to not undertake such an ambitious adventure. Alright, already. I get it.

I'm unable to drive because I was not gifted with good eyesight. Meaning I will have to be asking for help for the rest of my life. That is the way that God designed this world: we are to rely upon one another. We're supposed to. That's what being a family is all about. I'm becoming more and more used to asking people to help me, and I'm surprised to find that more often than not, people rise to the occasion. People want to save the day, to help a fellow human being in need. And I am learning to be eternally grateful.

So, does anyone out there want to take me to the nail salon?

Accident Prone

2009-09-06T00:46:00.000-07:00

I'm writing to you on this warm and quiet evening from the comfort of my Grandma and Papa's spare bedroom. Cushy pillows, a hummingbird nightlight, handmade root beer floats, and tragically losing a Hearts game a few minutes ago... home is where the heart is, and we all know that there's no place like home.

Exactly one week ago, I made my last-minute move to Laguna Beach; we (Mom, Grandma, and Papa) traveled down the I-5, a pretty straight and boring shot from Northern to Southern California. I rammed the small Avalon full of my belongings: clothing, a new printer, and of course art supplies. We made the most of the cramped drive, taking frequent stops for necessities like pea soup at the infamous Pea Soup Anderson's and some calorie-infested key lime pie at Marie Callendars. The weather was simmering but our spirits were high as we sang along to Willie Nelson. Then towards the very end of our journey, only minutes away from my grandparents' home in Rancho Santa Margarita, our vehicle was struck from behind while waiting at a red light.

In that millisecond, I was positive that someone I loved, or myself, was seriously injured or dead.

When the light of heaven didn't come forth, I turned off my iPod and was met with complete and utter shock. We were hit by an old man bumbling along at 30 mph in a brand new 2009 Prius. He didn't even brake. We struck the car in front of us, and the paramedics were on the scene in record time. All four of us climbed out of the car on our own accord. Besides painful bumps on the back of our heads and a minor scratch on Papa's hand, we were completely fine. Whilst surveying the extensive damage to the trunk of the car, it quickly became obvious to all that my many possessions which were now spilling all over the street had acted as a shock absorber and had taken the brunt of the hit. We should have been killed, but we were okay... shaken and terrified, but perfectly fine.

The policemen, doctors in the ER a few hours later, and everyone else that has heard the story since then have all said the same thing: "You are incredibly lucky." My Grandma has said over and over, "If it weren't for stopping for pie..." We are now caught up in the middle of insurance messes and back pain that hopefully some physical therapy and TLC will cure.

But God has never stopped taking care of us. It is an absolute miracle that we escaped the accident virtually unscathed, and I refuse to believe that this is simply because of "luck". God is working here. It is so crazy to think of how life unravels, and how we grow along the way. There is no such thing as an accident; God is there all along, ready to send forth His angels to protect us, and cradle us in His arms when we are hurting. Just one more rung on the trust ladder, kids. Sometimes we have to learn it the hard way.

Art school here in Laguna is absolutely amazing, by the way. LCAD was founded off of the traditional French Academy of Art. Founded in 1666 and located in Rome, this school stressed that learning realistic form and figure must be mastered before adopting personal style. This is an ideal lost in art schools today. I had no idea that LCAD is one of only a handful of art institutions left in the United States that still embraces this teaching. I have always operated under the belief that realism must be attained in my art before I can truly understand how to create abstraction. If it weren't for learning I had RP only a month prior, I would have ended up at a completely different school.

Life has been a roller-coaster this past month: learning I have an incurable eye disease, last-minute decision to move to Laguna Beach, surviving a car wreck I should have died in, starting art school in a strange and new town. I have never felt closer to my Lord. Coincidence? I'll let you decide.

Eye Spy

2009-08-27T15:31:00.000-07:00

Georgia? Georgia who?

Are you someone that hates change? It's weird; I almost feel like I embrace it. So many changes have occured in the last month, I barely even know where to begin. It's currently 3:34 PM and I'm still in my sweats and a stolen T-shirt that may or may not belong to Jonny... reeling from all this change. Get ready for work in two hours? Psh. Let's talk about change. And I don't mean the pre-teen, voice-crackling, adolescent kind.

Reader's digest version. Ready, set, go.

Wasn't approved for private loans > Art school in Georgia is ridiculously expensive without said private loans > Quickly, find a Plan B! > Applied to the Laguna College of Art + Design in beautiful Laguna Beach, California > Was told that I may have a progressive eye disease called retinitis pigmentosa at an annual eye exam > Currently waiting to see the head of genetic retinal research at UCSF for a formal diagnosis > Moved back in with the parentals when I made the decision to not drive anymore > Got accepted to LCAD...

And now, ladies and gents, I am scrambling my life together to move to Southern California instead of the Dirty South. And scrambling my heart together to embrace an artist's life without vision.

*cricket*

I am so, so happy. No really, I am. Obviously this is a lot of change all at once, and it's hard to know how to process it all, but here's the thing: God is never going to leave or forsake me. I know that He has this all under control. The very human part of me wants to ask: why me? Out of the many people in my family, I am the only artist and need my eyes arguably more than most, so why am I the one with this supposed hereditary disease? We don't know who I got it from or how. All we know is that my genes are mutating, and those little rods and cones which enable me to see the glorious wonders that God has created are slowly dying and causing blindness. I was astonished to learn that I have already lost 70% of my peripheral vision. But here's the thing: I don't need to know "why me". It is impossible for me to see the bigger picture, so I'm going to trust the One who can. Blind faith, if you will. Har har har.

Even though our lives can be whirlwinds at times, we can take comfort in knowing that our Father does not change like the shifting shadows, my eyesight, or the price of gas in the Bay Area.

To support efforts of finding a cure for RP, please follow my Twitter at www.twitter.com/retpigmentosa

Just Peachy

2009-07-18T18:19:00.000-07:00

I just so happen to be moving away from the lovely and liberal San Francisco Bay Area to Savannah, Georgia in T-Minus 49 days.

Preparation Checklist:

Eat lots of peaches. Check.
Tell my parents that I'm moving 2,692 miles away... and get them to believe me. Almost check.
Sell my stuff for much less than what I believe it to be worth. Check.
Find a place to live. Check coming.
Learn to love humidity.
Create a blog. Check.

This blog has been a long time coming. Go ahead world, let out your breath. The title was originally supposed to be "From the Golden Gate to the Big Apple" or something unoriginal like that, but then I didn't get accepted into my Brooklyn-based dream art school: Pratt Institute. I comfort myself with the knowledge that Pam from The Office failed out of Pratt, so maybe it wasn't meant to be for me either. In any case, here I am... stoked to move to Georgia. I must be out of my freaking mind. The Savannah College of Art and Design boasts unparalleled facilities and a beautiful city, not to mention a study abroad program in Lacoste, France. I could get into that. Besides, india.arie graduated from SCAD, and I'm almost positive that I like her music.

I've been talking about moving away to art school for a long time. I've been creating art even longer. Let the ghost walks, fried food, and bugs commence.