Racing Stripes

______I've always been compelled to keep a personal timeline through text and image since I was young, and this has been accomplished through a variety of mediums: diaries, sketchbooks, scrapbooks, and even restaurant napkins. Diaries and the like are basically self-portraits you write in order to figure yourself out, to figure out wha image you are projecting into the world. That being said, I don't always see my own image clearly, which is perhaps strange since all this text is accompanied by none other than pictures of myself.

______I see photos of myself and don't always recognize them as me. I see them as someone I recognize on a daily basis but often fail to view that person as myself. I've always struggled with body image, but recently it's been less about body image and more about attempting to construct who I am in my head, noting what it is other people see in me--not necessarily just in terms of physical appearance, but with personality and demeanor, too. I feel like I'm composed of parts and pieces due to pulling personalities and styles from my friends and other influences, taking in their little witticisms and sayings and absorbing and merging them with my own. Perhaps all this image-taking and writing is just me trying to figure out how everything I've come into contact with congeals into one cohesive Ali.



_____ I know I have blonde hair and hazel, sometimes dark green, eyes. I have a scar on my chin from crashing my bike into a parked car and a caterpillar-like scar on my leg from where I had a large birthmark removed many moons ago. I nibble on my nails but don't bite them. I twiddle my hair a lot. I've got some pretty decent sewing skills and lots of pin-pricks on my fingertips to prove it. I spend more time with words in my head than I do speaking them. I get exhausted by people quicker than most, and thus need a solid amount of alone time per day. I don't think I've gone a day in my life without nibbling on some form of chocolate.

_____ Though I have a plethora of photos of myself from day to day that I can look at and definitely confirm as me, I suppose I never think of myself as a specific-looking person when I'm doing something. I suppose in the end, that's what's important: seeing yourself as the actions you perform or the things you do rather than solely your outward appearance.





Dress: Lulus (similar)
Jacket: F21
Gloves: ASOS (similar)
Tights: ASOS
Heels: Jeffrey Campbell
Choker: Valfré (similar)
Rose earrings: Charming Charlie (similar)

Rose Thorns

 ______My dog was halfway toward the center of the lake, swimming eagerly toward something dark in the water: a massive black duck with one feather that stuck up like a cowlick does on a small child with unruly hair. The duck had a brass beak, beady eyes, and was as still as a decoy near the lake's edge up until the moment my dog darted after him. With a great leap and splash into the water, Gunner was off like an Olympic swimmer, his orange hunting collar catching the sun like a traffic cone in hot sunlight. He was determined to catch this duck even though it swam incrementally farther away from him.

 ______With each stroke of Gunner's paws against the water, the duck quacked. Quack, swim forward, quack, swim forward, quack, duck-paddle forward a little faster, quack, I'm scared this hairy beast is gonna get me now, quack. It was almost as if the duck was saying, "Stop. Please. Stop. Go away. Stop. Omuhguuhuhguhuhhhhhhh. BRUH."

 ______I think he was.

 ______I followed Gunner around one edge of the lake, only to watch him swim after the duck in the complete opposite direction. Now, the edges of the lake aren't friendly mowed lawns from backyards that were smooth and easy to glide around; rather, they are infested with tall grasses, brambles, and thick ferns that gathered dragonflies, wasps, and other insects gifted with flight. My legs were scraped from hobbling over uneven ground and brushing past spindly weeds.



 ______I reached the shore of the lake where Gunner was closest, huffing and puffing and not ready to blow any houses down, and also sweaty as a gym sock that had been used for not one cardio workout, but three. There was a long scrape on my lower leg and another on my ankle. I poured over the events of my dog and his duck-wrangling adventure, helpless to do anything, praying he would not drown of exhaustion from chasing ducks. If I had to, I would jump into the lake and rescue him. But that time had not yet come. I still had hope, though it was very little.

 ______And eventually, and thankfully, and perhaps with enough thinking that I somehow rooted the duck on to speed up just enough, the duck with the skewed feather had gained enough distance from my dog that Gunner stopped swimming and merely paddled in place. Gunner recognized that he would fail to catch up with the duck. He was lost now. He looked around; to the left, to the right, to the left again. He was directly in the middle of the lake.

 ______And there it was.

 ______The neighborhood swan.





 ______Now, the neighborhood swan is no kind feathered friend; rather, dear Charles--oh yes, he has a name, a rather polite name for a rather impolite creature--dear Charles is quite the nasty little scumbag. Born to kill and burning the fires of hell within his soul, Charles did whatever he could to wreck havoc among the lake and any humans who neared him. He possessed a mighty, shriek-like hiss and a threatening wingspan that a small jet would cower in fear at.

 ______Gunner knew that this swan was no equal adversary. Charles would often paddle to where the lake met our grassy backyard, waddle up to the shore, and hiss at Gunner just for giggles and shits. Occasionally the two would have an amicable meeting where Charles may fluff his feathers and Gunner may simply cock his head at the swan, but mostly the two were sworn enemies with their teeth gritted.

 ______Thankfully after some flustered paddling from point A to point B, to point B to point A, and even sometimes from point A to point C and back to B, Gunner returned to my calls and swam up shore, avoiding Charles the swan. He crawled up the sandy shoreline, placing a paw on a dead crawfish as he did so, and shook the muddy water from his back (and on to me, naturally). I yanked him by the collar all the way home, fringing the overgrown edges of the lake, relieved that my sweet little puppers didn't drown doing what he loves most: hunting ducks and responding to the nature's wild call.



Sheer rose bodysuit: Urban Outfitters (similar)
Skirt: Urban Outfitters (similar) (similar)
Heels: Stein Mart (similar)
Necklace: Nasty Gal
Rose earrings:  similar

Blue Dusk

______Unless I am intently focused on the completion of some task, there's a gear spinning in my head reminding me of something else I could be doing at that moment. Part of this inability to be completely at ease at all times is anxiety, part of it is likely from existing in a world where you fault yourself if you're not constantly in motion, whether that be mentally or physically. It is retracing thoughts you've already had to make sure you've thought them correctly. It is making unnecessary lists and crossing things off your unnecessary list. It is a constant hum, an anxious white noise machine that spits sounds of buzzing electronics and the heightened voices of news casters arguing over one another.

______I call these things--these happenings of overthinking, of worrying, of not knowing how to chill the heck out during downtime--The Screamings™.




______I suppose The Screamings™ begin about halfway through my morning workout, the moment I wake and become something more than a tired shell of a human stumbling through her typical morning routine. You know, that moment the tea or coffee kicks in and you realize it's a new day with new checkpoints to reach.

______The Screamings™ can pertain to anything: thought-screaming scenarios that I weave in my brain, thought-screaming encounters with friends or dogs I dream of petting, thought-screaming ideas of future projects to work on in the studio, or even thought-screaming all the things I need to buy at the grocery store and their exact location within the store. If these thought-screams could be illustrated, they would be words tangled in swirling lines that swept across the page like a smudgy charcoal tornado; the paper would be cheap newsprint that'd rip a few times but could be pieced back together.

______Though my brain screams, I wouldn't be myself with it. Were I not constantly busy or thinking of things to do and make, I'd probably not be me. Better busy than stagnant...

Bralette: Alter'd State (similar)
Top: (similar)
Skirt: Urban Outfitters
Jelly shoes: Juju (similar)
Antler ring: c/o BornPretty
Braclets: c/o BornPretty

Remnants

           My bike whizzed along the hot pavement, its tires crunching rocks and spitting them out behind me like tiny meteorites. The sun had finally submitted to the clouds that had rolled in, leaving me with a breeze that was as cool, calm, and collected as an Abercrombie & Fitch store’s atmosphere. Except thankfully, the outside smelled much less terrible and much more like dirt and honeysuckle. I prefer dirt and honeysuckle over the migraine-inducing stench of an A&F store any day.

            I biked on past the familiar trees, turn-offs, and corroding metals that littered the old highway. I had biked this road hundreds of times due to the low traffic and rolling slopes and remembered a variety of landmarks that described the locals: a butterfly banner that whipped in the wind and whispered, “welcome,” a house with a tin roof that shined copper and nickel, a rusty '48 Ford with one broken light, and a rocking horse that sat on the porch of a fenced-in home. 

            I heard a rumble of thunder. It was faint and far away, but I was arrogant and confident enough in my biking abilities that I figured I could out-bike any storm if necessary. Screw Tornado Chasers, I was the Tornado Runner Away-er. Let it be known that I did not realize I could not out-bike any storm if said storm was coming from the direction of my home. Naturally, I thought it was going to always be behind me. Naturally, I was an idiot.

            Suddenly, a vertical strike of lightning branched down from the sky and struck the ground in a nearby neighborhood. I totally flipped and made a verbal screech. A car coming from the opposite direction had its windshield wipers on, indicating rainfall. The lightning strike was followed by a boom that shook the ground. There were flashes of lightning that lit up the sky, flickering on and off like the lights in a room.

            As soon as the cars had passed, I made a U-turn and headed for the hills (aka my parents' home). I was about three miles from home at this point, but it was no use: the thunder continued to boom and crash like Zeus had started a rock band, intense lightning show included. Honestly, Zeus? This was not the time. 



            The lightning went sideways and flashed even quicker now; Zeus must have hired a hoard of Pikachus to help with the light show. I turned off at a nearby town and rolled my bike under an arched alcove. There was a fire station in my view. Under its awning, sitting casually in rocking chairs, there were a few men sipping some beers, laughing, and pointing at the skies. I checked my phone and my dad was already on his way to rescue me from the freaky-leaky skies. Just as he pulled up in his rumbling Diesel truck, the sky broke open and soaked us both.



            Cheers to Daddy Hval for rescuing me in the midst of an immense downpour... he's the real MVP.

Post-Op Patience

______Well kids, I survived my septoplasty surgery that took place a week and a half ago (which hopefully explains my missing presence on all of your blogs). I've been taking it easy propped up in bed for the past week, alternating hot and cold liquids down my windpipe, feeling accomplished when I can eat a diced up banana in under half an hour, and getting physically drained and utterly sleepy after eating. I was basically an infant. An infant with sick bruises under her eyes and a penchant for mushy peas.

______Seriously. Food has been a trial and so has keeping my eyes open. You think surgery inside your nose wouldn't affect your chewing, but nope! Your mouth sure does move your nostrils around quite a bite. 

______The past ten days have been annoyingly exhausting even though I've been doing little to nothing. I'm finally getting to the point where I can eat slightly less mushy things (aka food that isn't baby food or frozen yogurt) and get up and move around the house. I thought the first couple of days post-op would be paradise streaming Netflix and drawing whilst propped up in bed, but all I wanted to do was sit upright with my eyes closed since I was so tired all the time. There wasn't really any pain--the worst of it was The Sore Throat That Thy Demon Lord Satan Cast Upon Me that wouldn't go away for eight days. But I know being able to breathe through both my nostrils will be so so worth it in the end! I can already feel the effects of it.

______That all being said, I want to apologize for being so inactive on my blog and with commenting and keeping up with you guys' lives; I am definitely back on that starting...

______...

______...

______...NOW!

______P.S. That is Gunner, and he was my snuggle buddy while I was in bed. Quite a handsome lad, I must say.

You You You, Me Me Me

______Blogging seems so selfish sometimes: snapping photos of your outfits, scrawling personal thoughts which trickle into digital text, dubbing yourself the monarch of this online assemblage of photos and words created by you, you, you.

______But.

______To me, blogging isn't a selfish thing. I think it's brave what some post online to initiate conversations, and admirable how they can share their thoughts and be so forthright. I believe blogging is about creating connections not only with others but also with yourself, perhaps even about revealing things to yourself.





______Maybe at first you began blogging with an interest in fashion or beauty and wanting to express that, but soon became conscious of your interest in traveling, or discussing some particular aspect of your life, or writing silly stories that maybe only ten people read a week. Or perhaps after months or years of blogging, your posts evolved to the point of realizing all of your passions and the common thread between them. Because that's what's important: your passions. Your appreciation for things. Your appreciation for other people. Self-discovery, self-acceptance, comprehending yourself as a single living entity that germinates thoughts and actions which are purely your own.

______Coming to terms with those things... your interests, your likes, your dislikes, the things that make you tick tick tick, the things you struggle with internally on a daily basis... can be difficult. But writing these things out to an anonymous audience that doesn't judge but understands helps you in your journey to becoming you.



______And discovering who you are is important since you're stuck with yourself your whole life. Totally wild, right? But you are, so you might as well get to know yourself. Take yourself on some dates. Write about yourself. Take care of yourself and buy yourself a chocolate chip cookie every now and then. Or a raisin one, if you're into that kind of thing.

______I digress. Since I've started blogging, I've learned so much: I've bettered my photography to the point where I know what aperture is and could actually explain it to someone, written more than I ever used to, and have realized I need to snuggle and pet more chickens in my life. Like, tons more.

______I'm picturing one of those ball pits but instead of being filled with colorful plastic balls, it's filled with chickens I can gleefully maneuver through. It shall be formally dubbed The Chicken Pit and all are welcome to revel in its earth-shattering glory.

______Why do you blog?




Top: Charlotte Russe
Skirt: Modcloth (similar)
Jelly shoes: BooHoo
Necklace: Nasty Gal (similar styles)
Earrings: Charming Charlie
Ampersand ring: c/o BornPretty