Ok, it’s been awhile. But look at this!

I’ve neglected this blog for sure. I just learned soundslides for a class and I made this about La Boqueria in Barcelona – check it out!

 

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OMG SPAIN

I’M GOING TO SPAIN!!!

From May 19-June 28 I’ll be on a 5 week study abroad trip in Spain, primarily in Barcelona and Madrid.

I.CAN’T.WAIT.ANOTHER.SECOND. I’m definitely sure I’ve never been more excited for anything. I’ve never explored a foreign country on my own or even been to Europe. And Abbey and I have decided to go to Italy on our four day weekend!!

During the five weeks we’ll be visiting cities like Toledo and Segovia, going to museums, seeing historic architecture, drinking one euro wine, going to beaches, navigating ancient cities, meeting Spaniards, maybe seeing a bullfight (I just read Hemingway’s ‘The Sun Also Rises’ so I’m all about that right now even though I’ll probably throw up), trying to look like trendy Europeans, and I’ll be pretending to know Spanish – probably just nodding my head in agreement a lot.

I’m one of 11 students and there will be two instructors, Karl Gude and Cheryl Pell, both of whom I really respect and are so fun.

Follow my trip:

    —> TIP: to see everyone’s Spain posts, search #MSUSpain on twitter.
  • Where we’re staying in Barcelona: Melon District (aka IKEA LAND! The translation of the page is so funny)

Karl made two videos using Google Earth (I’m assuming), giving a visual of where we will be going:

Both videos by Karl Gude.

Here’s a Google map of some places I’ll be:

Highlights of a quarter-life crisis

My personal summer reading list exists in the form of a haphazard stack of used books I ambitiously ordered online in the midst of a quarter-life crisis.

College is making me dumb – I’m positive. It’s the culture. Nothing is expected of me. After a semester of scrutinizing syllabi and assiduously dissecting daily reading, I paused to reflect on a few things.

A 4.0 is a 4.0 whether I highlight every line of the textbook, or skim the pirated study guide an hour before the exam. I was no longer rewarded with shiny trophies to glorify my motivation. Call me conceited or cocky or idiotic. I was burned out and I had an epiphany – I could take a motivation vacation. So I stopped trying. I nestled in the whorehouse of mediocrity.

Settling into my first-class seat two years ago on the plane that is college (purely metaphorically – East Lansing is an hour drive from my house), at such high altitudes I developed a palate for selfishness, laziness, destructive priorities, oddly accepted and encouraged inconsistencies and exerting the minimal effort possible to achieve what would satisfy my dwindling craving for second-rate success. When you idly stir these traits together, add a dash of self-realization and proceed to turn on the blender, you end up pouring a hearty quarter-life crisis into the dirty cup you stole from the cafeteria. Stick a straw in THAT.

There I was. A seemingly obvious statement, but again, I paused. I had a lot of theories about time, about people, about religion and politics and the dynamics of perception. Did I resent idle potential or just working hard in general? I aced accelerated physics at 17. Now I was struggling to find the drive to even open a textbook to study for my final exams.

What I did know is I was falling fast. I wanted to be smart again. Reading, we’re taught, is the gateway to intelligence. Once upon a time I read a book a week, but it no longer fit in my schedule between painting my nails and choking down seven shots of Burnett’s before stumbling to that frat party. ‘I must start reading again,’ I thought, ‘and this guilt will subside. I will be an intellectual!’

Too lazy to walk to the bookstore (it’s so farrrrrr), I lay in bed and Googled my way to a new beginning. I ordered American and Greek classics, NY Times bestsellers, quirky novels that Starbucks hipsters hold in the hand opposite a latte, philosophical manuscripts, gender analyses and critiques of modern society.

My electronic cart bragged of Hemingway, Joseph Heller, Tom Robbins, Aristotle and Homer. It boasted Eggers, Eugenides, Nietzsche, Salinger, Dickens, Jonathan Safaran Foer and Alexandre Dumas. It was far superior to any other collection of well rounded and respected but diverse compilation of books that would formulate the most ideal and beneficial of all summer reading lists that had come before it.

I was elated. I was ready to TRY. Try in the sense that I would read these novels poolside in huge designer sunglasses, attracting only the guys who could make a witty comment about the author because they cheated on the test when the same book was assigned in their English class.

The prescription for my demise arrived two weeks later in a broken cardboard box with a note from the postmaster informing me that my package had exploded in transfer and most items were probably recovered. A foreshadow of disaster, you say? I think it would take more than a bad tape job to throw me from my quest.

Flinging Cosmo and Esquire magazines from the bookshelf in my apartment, I hurriedly unpacked the contents of the undeserving parcel and cast them upon one another in place of the unfit literature. The worn look of ‘gently used’ gave them an air of experience. The dog-eared pages were evidence of repute without arrogance. The more pertinent titles intuitively jutted out slightly in contrast to the last minute indulgence buys. They weren’t stacked too neatly, of course. I didn’t want to look like a snob.

I salivated at the thought of reading such highly esteemed prose. I stared at the shelf. It looked like the bookshelf of a READER. I could impress my houseguests by nonchalantly suggesting they borrow a book from my collection (carelessly gesturing to the shelf with a lackadaisical wave of my arm) if they were craving a deep thought or two. But remove one book to read it and risk ruining the OBVIOUS PERFECTION OF THE STACK? I couldn’t mess up an opportunity like that.

No way I’m moving even one of those books. Absolutely not. It would be counterproductive to look like an idiot. I’d end up missing that ONE book necessary to a superlative bookshelf in the eyes of the viewer. I don’t need to read to be smart. What was I thinking? I can do other things if I’m yearning for a little knowledge. I’ll just have to start out next semester strong by reading the class syllabus.

I’ll highlight it, too.

The shorter of a two-post series concerning social networking hostility

***Due to the ridiculousness of this post combined with the ridiculousness of Facebook, I’ve decided not publish the second of the two-series post. The title should be amended to ‘A short post concerning social networking hostility’. It’s just ridiculous.***

Today in my ‘suggestions’ panel I was informed that eight of my Facebook friends are ‘fans’ of spooning, and the question was indirectly proposed that, oh, wouldn’t I also like to be a ‘fan’ of spooning?

I love a good spoon as much as the next commitment fearing twenty-something, but I also love eating Peeps (not only around Easter), reading fanatically religious debate discussion boards, taking pictures at Meijer, organizing my closet and hording sparkly things my grandmother gives me. I don’t plan on becoming a Facebook ‘fan’ of these things. That would be embarrassing.

Not to say spooning is embarrassing. But if you’re a public ‘fan’ of spooning, what creepy ‘fan’-like obsessions are you hiding? Is the public adoration of a mainstream activity some sort of compensation for not telling anyone about your love for neo-Nazi memoriablia or Harry Potter adult fanficton?

I don’t want to know the greasy kid who incessantly tapped his ratty, untied Reeboks on the back of my chair in high school calc class is a ‘fan’ of spooning with his newfound, semi-cute, ‘I’m dating you because I know nothing about your past’, girlfriend. I bet she finds his public love of spooning adorable and gushes to her Theta sisters about it.

If only she knew.

Meijer one penny horse

Cockroaches and Cold Showers in DC

**this post is really long. feel free to scroll down to the pictures.

It’s strange not to have to worry about cockroaches in my bed.

I’m back after spending my spring break in Washington DC at a homeless shelter, volunteering at a soup kitchen and working at a crisis stabilization recovery house. Our group of 12 included 10 participants, two site leaders, and one staff advisor. The only person I knew beforehand was Gabe, and consequently I befriended 10 amazing people.

Believe me, I’m no saint, nor will I pretend to be. I haven’t done real community service since high school. I took this trip, funded entirely by the pay from my two part-time summer jobs, to prove to myself that I can recognize how fortunate I am, and remind myself not to take it for granted. That, in itself, is selfish. I also, obviously, wanted to help people. I want to benefit someone other than myself, and maybe impact, if only for one day, the life of someone who is trying to get his/her life together. It can’t hurt to contradict some stereotypes we have about each other. Blah, blah, cliche.

My mom keeps prodding, as good mothers do, “Did you have fun?” I hesitate. She worries. I did have fun, in a sense. I would consider it more of a learning experience, however much I hate the expression.

I encountered two extremes of DC; the bright, crowded city where elephantine stone buildings have shot up from the paved earth, among honking horns and the bustle of the diligently employed and fervent consumers. I also witnessed the poverty-stricken street corners where abandoned building are background to stolen shopping carts and plastic milk crate-chairs littered with the displaced and hungry.

The 12 of us slept and (barely) showered at a shelter called the Center for Creative Non-Violence, on the same floor as the men’s ward (unbeknown to us until the last two days). Our beds were our sleeping bags over thin mats on the floor in a big room, where other volunteers slept in clusters next to us. Our belongings were heaped next to our beds on the floor. Cockroaches scurried under the worn couch during group talks, and I drew my knees to my chest. Gabe found herself spooning with a cuddly cockroach in her sleeping bag after a nap. At 5:45 a.m. the shower-head launched icicles at my miserably tired eyes. ‘Get over it,’ I reprimanded myself.

The first two days consisted of waking at 5:30, walking a mile to SOME’s soup kitchen (So Other Might Eat), setting tables, preparing food, serving two rounds of breakfast and two of lunch, pouring coffee, cleaning tables and chairs, mopping, and resetting for the next round. SOME’s staff was (for the most part) courteous and professional. I was told that they “serve the poor, but do not serve poorly,” and I found this strikingly respectful. I donned my little green apron and smiled while asking each customer how many sugar packets he wanted.

Things the ASB (Alternative Spring Break) DC group did/saw at the soup kitchen:

EXTREME mopping

EXTREME  coffee pouring

EXTREME vases

EXTREME skylights

EXTREME sugar

EXTREME oranges

EXTREME spring break flashing

EXTREME forks

EXTREME pb&j

…. among other EXTREME things.

One does not have to be homeless to go to a soup kitchen. Some were obviously homeless, rolling suitcases behind them to the table, yet others had styled hair and decent clothing. The customers were hispanic, black, white, russian, polish, & other races, with about 80% men and 20% women. I was constantly complimented with appreciative thanks from the customers, and came to recognize and converse with them. Though surprisingly quiet, the mood was usually cheerful and upbeat.

I lost my cool once. A woman refused my Sweet’N Low sugar packets because it “makes food taste nasty.”  That’s fine, more for the next person. The hot topic at her table was the new bill passed on stem cell research. She asked me, “Do you know who that stem cell stuff helps?”

“Everyone?” A seemly obvious answer to me.

“No, it helps you white people, you and your little friends and white people!”

“No,” I answered, “that doesn’t even make sense. It helps everyone.”

“No, it ONLY helps you white people!”

“NO IT DOESNT!” I stormed off to refill my coffee pot. Did this woman not understand I was there to help her? Did she not appreciate what I was doing? Did she resent me for my race, could she not comprehend the degree to which I resented her racial stereotype? This woman was clearly uneducated on the matter, and I wanted to set her straight.

A moment later that same woman shot up from her seat in the heat of another argument with a fellow diner, yelling about monkeys and her food being poisoned. And then I learned that 40% of DC’s homeless are mentally ill.

Another 40% of homeless have substance/drug abuse issues. To complicate it further, 40% of these two barriers (mental illness and substance abuse) overlap, according to SOME’s organization. This was apparent when an extremely drunk man threw up on the diner across from him at the table. This scared the shit out of me. He was shaking and could not talk, so I ran to the director of SOME. He asked the man if he was ok, and he nodded slowly. The man threw up again, stood after a few minutes, and Gabe guided his stumbling body to the exit. I stood by idly and powerless.

These two negative experiences have the potential to overshadow the kindness I saw in many people. Don’t let that happen.

The following two days were spent at the Jordan and Mary Claire houses. SOME uses Jordan House to allow for short term crisis stabilization, where patients with mental illness or psychological issues are referred to live there for a period of time to find a job and recover from trauma. Mary Claire House is yet to receive funding, but is meant to allow for longer term stabilization.

Marco, director of the house, and the coolest guy everrr, delegated and joined in on our tasks. The Best Cleaning Crew on Earth consisted of Gabe, Sarah, Tiffany & I. Day One: we cleaned the largest bedroom for three from top to bottom. It was gross. Especially after Marco reminded us that something like 90% of dust is skin. Thanks for that, Marco. We scooted down hallways, stairwells and across room cleaning every inch of the wood baseboard in the Jordan House. Day Two: we deep-cleaned two kitchens in the Mary Claire house. Each day we worked for 7 hours.

The outdoor crew built a path in the beginnings of a Japanese Zen garden. While they worked outside in the cool, fresh air, the cleaning crew got high off oven cleaner and Fantabuloso (purple foreign cleaning product?). Not that either job was more fun 🙂

Things that happen when you’re high on cleaning fumes:

-people remark that they’ve never heard so much laughter from people cleaning a kitchen

-you discover no foods start with the letter U (revision: a week later Gabe came up with “upside-down cake”…)

-do you ever just think about space?

-strange men with recent traumatic relationship problems write down your full name and the state you live in (Sarah Thomas – Michigan)

-you realize how dirty your own apartment must be

-you realize you don’t really care how dirty you own apartment must be

-you find out you have a lot in common with strangers

-you say Tiff-ah-knee a lot

-24 spiders watch you in the closet

During the week we visited all the monuments (twice), and went to the Holocaust Museum, The Museum of Natural History, and the International Spy Museum. We  ate at Matchbox, went to a couple bars,  heard some live music, and got lost going to the White House (arguably the most famous address in the US). I found out Gabe and I are a comedic team with potential to go on tour when I read the notes everyone wrote to each other at the end of the week.

Thursday afternoon, Markia, Tiff, Gabe, Sarah, Dan, Kelly & I were allowed into the men’s ward at CCNV, which we discovered was across the hall from our room. Mark, who runs CCNV, told us that every employee at the shelter was once living in the shelter, including him. The guard announced our entrance over the loudspeaker, and we were escorted through the sleeping quarters, where over 300 men sleep every night. In the living area about 20 men were magnetized to a tiny TV playing an old movie about slavery. Fifteen others were eating or animatedly playing dominos. One 20-something man yelled, “Where you guys from?” I pointed to my shirt that read Michigan State University, and he waved us off and turned back to the TV. So, obviously, I obnoxiously sat down next to him and started talking.

After a minute of introduction he uncrossed his arms and we told me about his college days and asked a lot of questions about me. Midway through he quizzed me on his name (which was ATN), and apologized for his initial rudeness. He said I should get to know some of the people in here. Honestly, I was afraid of the people in there, but I wanted to get out of my comfort zone.

I sat with Gabe and Dan, who were talking to a man who hitchhiked from Florida to DC to protest Bush’s presidency. As soon as I sat down he serenaded me with a song and kissed my hand, which was creepy. He told us about his ex-wife, his dead girlfriend, compared every social issue to the Biblical Solomon, talked about his blog, how he had found his siblings on facebook, and showed us the editorial he had written for a small newspaper about how the government should solve the problem of homelessness. The article was well written, and while it was not without grammatical error, I was impressed. One man excused himself for a work meeting, which bewildered some of us, including me. Another worked at the McDonald’s down the street. Many of these people had jobs. Some were clearly mentally ill. These people cannot afford the cost of living.

After Tiffany and I watched a dominos game, they insisted we learn how to play. Eric, Mario, and Dave treated us like anyone else, taught us the game, and proceeded to loose the next three games to Tiffany. They told us we were hilarious. Gabe wanted to learn, and that took a little more effort on their part. Guys were standing behind Gabe yelling, “Play the 3/2, no, play the 3/6!” A little old man named Charles timed Gabe’s slow decisions on his wristwatch. “That took two minutes!” he would yell when she decided on a play. Gabe won that game to Tiffany’s and the guys’ dismay.

We lost track of time and missed our group’s dinner. I quickly stopped myself from complaining of hunger pains. We excused ourselves to leave, and they insisted we come back later. One man wanted to make me a present… which was weird. Unfortunately we could never go back in because we always got back too late. I will not forget the people I met.

ASB in DC taught me so much, and is the most recent reminder of how absolutely lucky I am. Homelessness and hunger are issues that needs to be addressed. I dealt with it on a small scale, but hopefully my time benefited someone, even for just a day. I used every resource I have to serve others for a week. Walking to the car with my jacket in hand, a man cried out to ask if I’m passing out coats… my heart broke. Can I make an impact? It’s hard to feel like one person can make a difference – maybe I did not – but the things I saw I will pass on to others. Maybe that will lead to change. Maybe you can help.

Hello, nice to meet you.

 

My name is Laura.

I’m a sophomore undergrad at Michigan State University. I’m studying Journalism and specializing in design.

By no means am I any sort of design expert– but I thrive on beauty and my hunger to see it in everything. I believe art is completely subjective. I will share anything I find design & typography related… & probably some other fun things I like.  


Enjoy!

 

“Typolution”–

 

a typographic look at one of my favorite movies, V for Vendetta–