There are no birds in last year's nest (Or, I can't tell you my wish)

(major banana points if you can attribute the title quote.)  Tomorrow morning I'll be in the first French class of my super senior year of college. I suppose that's something of a big deal. (Then again, perhaps as a super senior, my opportunity to be a big deal has passed me by and I've finally broken the first day of school spell. I doubt it, though. I've never met anyone with my level of enthusiasm for office supplies) 

And I, being the ritualistic individual I am, thought this time of new beginnings, regenerations, and comings and goings (bye bye, my Brookie and Courtney Bunnies) called for some fire in the sky.

We celebrated the past and future (and most especially the present) by climbing up as high as our little house would let us go, and lighting some magical wish lanterns.

Mckay and me giving birth to our wishes.

 Here's the thing about magic: sometimes you don't wish hard enough the first time, and your lantern nearly catches your sweet elderly neighbors' house on fire.
But I wished so so sooo hard the second time, and even though I can't tell you my wish, I can tell you that it flew so high it looked just like a star.

And that I'm pretty sure it was.

And that after a few false starts (aka new years, new people, running away to Europe, etc.) I finally feel like a new beginning is in the air for me.

Which feels an awful lot like a wish come true. 

Here's to new things.

Here's to goals.

Here's to the beautiful fact that I'm not afraid anymore and I think I'm ready to start living.

cool.

Love, lanterns, and lightning,

Banana

And then she's gone.

Sometimes your bestie walnut muffin/ artistic soulmate decides to move to London.

 Obviously you're sad.
So what do you do?

You play with an old Polaroid camera and send wish lanterns into the sky from the roof (and almost burn down the whole world) and watch the most incredible lightning storm and wait patiently for her to come back.

Come back, Brookie.
Come back, Bunny.
Come back, Summer.

...please?

love, Nan.
p.s. look at her beautiful art she's leaving to make even more beautiful: here

And then the Dot came back a bride-to-be

 

So, my favorite girl who lives in my room went on a little trip and decided she wants a new roommate. 
A boy one.

Forever. 
  Congratulations, Bekah Doty and Lane Hartman!

Who I prefer to call "The Hartmans."

I can't wait for your skinny, skinny babies. 

Sorry I keep screaming with excitement every time I think about it...

You are two of my favorite, best ones.

Love,

BANANA!!!!!!!!!!!! WAAAAAAHHHH!

Things I like

1. Sunday evening lawn-sitting with twice-baked potatoes, beans, and my favorite, most strikingly beautiful sister duo.

Mika and Elyse

Lambert the knee spot making a full summer appearance.

2. Monday afternoon Chattanooga Choo Choo dancing on the table with a giant bowl of cookie dough. 

3. How Brookie knows every word to the Chattanooga Choo Choo

(not to mention Empire State of Mind by Jay-Z).

4. Lovely, lovely school books that come every day in the mail.

They smell like learning and life. Today Chateaubriand and Milton surprised me in the mailbox. What's up, guys?

Things I don't like:

1. Bunn ran away. Have you seen an adorable rabbit with floppy ears? Probably faint with dehydration?

2. They razed the rose bushes. Plucked out the pear trees. And when we got Mika to ask them in Spanish, they said they hadn't even seen a bunny in the process.

No roses and no Bunn.

Is this an omen? 

Is this a breath of the end  of summer love?

Love, Ken Burns, and the end is near,

Banana 

Sunsets in cars.

And we: spectators, always, everywhere,

facing all this, never the beyond.

It overfills us. We arrange it. It falls apart.

We arrange it again, and fall apart ourselves.

Who has turned us around like this, so that

whatever we do, we find ourselves in the attitude

of someone going away?

Just as that person

on the last hill, which shows him his whole valley

one last time, turns, stops, lingers--,

so we live, forever taking our leave.

-Rilke

from The Eighth Elegy

 

love, late morning poetry, and last weeks of summer,

Banana

p.s. I am now a working woman. Feel free to praise me.

Why I'll never be a successful blogger

• I don't have a cute indie husband or any cute indie babies.
• I can never blog about my outfits. Never. Not that I don't consult, respect, and even envy my sisters of the blogosphere who make good money doing this every day. But I really would feel ridiculous. I already am pretty ridiculous, so I don't want to make it worse.
• My cupcakes are nothing special.
• I don't know anything about Lady Gaga and I'm still trying to figure out who Justin Bieber is.
• My paint creations look like this:

 

• I'm a nerd without a niche.
• My life lost all meaning after Harry Potter.

But I will keep calm and carry on in this vain crusade on a volunteer basis because I'm addicted to writing and I like posting pictures of myself .

Just kidding.

um.

Why Camelbak should pay me

Lane.

If you already thought I really needed a job or something

and my subject matter as of late has been a little pathetic

and I'm prone to obsessive behavior...

stop reading here.

or just don't judge.

Because I swear I'm making good use of my time.

For starters, I'm staying hydrated and getting great use out of my lovely Camelbak water bottle (of the tangerine variety).

And so are Bekah and Ally.

And what a great playmate it has turned up to be!
It's so well-traveled and culturally enlightened.

And I finally found a use for my mini Diana camera.

That Brooklynn bought thinking it was a real Diana camera.

And for which I paid twenty bucks.

Love, whiling away, and waiting for Camelbak's huge new campaign that will undoubtedly result from this,

 Banana

Too much of a good thing?

Remember all that free time I've been talking about? All this bounteous, lovely golden summer time with which to accomplish so much planning and so many projects and artistic endeavors and personal enrichment activities? To become a grown up with a job and a life and marketable skills and resources? Maybe even a boyfriend?

Yes, that time. Ahem.
I am using it to dress up my pet rabbit as a Cinderella mouse.

And in her flirty party dress.

But really...do I have any choice?

Love, lops, and Reese's for breakfast,
Banana

Don't mind me, I'm just a summer fairy

My Brookie in Christmas Meadows

In my current jobless, schooless state, my primary project is to fill in some of the pot holes of this, the pot hole summer. (On a good day I call it "The Summer Without Men," On a really good day I call it "Girl Power Summer," And in Paris I called it "Un été sans les hommes.")

That means

1. bunny.

her official names are: Noble Beast (Bea for short) and Tulip.
But mostly she is Little Bunny Naughty Bun.

 2. sunday croquet matches.

complete with puppy, kitten, and a lot of candy.

 3. crafts and arts and readings on the lawn.

Brookie and Bun.

 4. mountains, meadows, nature, best friends, skinny dipping, making music, and daisy chains.

Don't mind me, I'm just a summer fairy.

 Banana.

Drama Queen.

Strangling my dearest Tessabunny in "Joyful Noise" by Tim Slover (2008, BYU-Hawaii)

I've often wondered why I've  been so forcefully drawn to the performing arts since, probably, infancy.

I stomached the servitude inflicted on me by my cruel mother by pretending I was Cosette in "Les Miserables" whenever I was forced to do chores (which, due to my evasive nature and privileged position as baby of the family, wasn't often). 
Out of necessity,  I was once forced to steal my brother's GI Joe in order to cast him as the title role in "The Phantom of the Opera," co-starring Belle (in her Christmas dress, of course) as Christine, Aurora as Meg, and Jasmine as Madame Giry. 
Early childhood tantrums and tragic fits of melodramatic weeping led my family to affectionately sneer that I should be an actress some day.

...
So, does this little hobby/ addiction fill some sort of need for "drama" in my life? (In fact, if you know me at all, you know I don't really need anymore, thank you.) 
Is it merely an excuse to keep playing "dress up"?
Or a way to get back at my big sister for always making me be Mr. Collins or Kitty when she consistently got to be Elizabeth?
 Or, perhaps, a means of escaping my true self by constantly living as someone else?
...
I have no idea.
That's kind of a sad thought, though, isn't it?
And yet, I've always  identified so closely with a line from "Funny Girl" (A life-long beloved musical starring Babs Streisand):

"I'm a much better comic than mathematician

Cause I'm better on stage than at intermission."

Whatever the secret, or the mystical call that inevitably draws all true thespians to their place on stage- their natural habitat, that is- I love it and can't seem to give it up.

This point is illustrated by the fact that even though I try to act grown-up and professional, I get a little giggle in my throat every time I open the "Performer's Entrance" door on my way to rehearsal.  Even though I technically have no job nor school to attend to these days and am, for all intents and purposes, as useless as I've ever been,  I get a little spring in my step whenever I remember that I'm getting paid to flounce around the stage and pine after D'Artagnan and die a lovely little death by poison.

And the little drama queen in me really couldn't be happier. 

So whether I'm running away from something, or desperate for affirmation, or simply just a little girl with a big imagination...I'm doing what I want to do. Pot hole summer or not. And for now...that's a good thing.

Banana

P.S. Sorry about all the soap opera posts lately... I'm a little embarrassed about that.