I’m kind of a dreamer. Very rarely am I actually in the moment, something has to be damn exciting for me to come down out of my head and be interested. Yesterday, I was on the phone with my best friend, and I spaced out for probably 5 minutes- not hearing a word she said. Sorry. I’m a bad friend.

But all that living in my head makes me 1. self involved 2. not very interesting and 3. tired.

One of the reasons I love traveling is that I get out of my head, and I look around. I experience, I don’t just dream about the fabulous life I’m going to have in New York city, which occupies about 90% of my head space.

Of all the things I learned about the world, and myself, on my trip- the biggest one is that life is beautiful. I know, it’s a little cliché, but clichés are clichés for a reason, right? There has to be a fundamental truth about them for them to have stuck around. And the fact is, life is beautiful. It’s graceful, and people- all people- have the same experiences. Everyone falls in love, everyone has drama, everyone deals with middle school girls. It’s a human thing. I feel more connected to the entire world than I did before I left. I feel less lonely, all the time, knowing that everyone on the planet has the same feelings. Human experience doesn’t just apply to westernized, developed, cultures. I think, on some level, I always knew that, but it was illustrated very clearly during my trip.

I think anytime you have a moment with someone where you realize, on a really true level, that you feel the same way as them, is a magical moment. That’s why we’re so drawn to falling in love, and laughing, and even crying with people. It’s in those moments when you don’t feel alone, when you know that you’re in a brotherhood (or sisterhood) with 6 Billion other people, that you are connected to something larger- and I think people crave that. We’re not meant to be alone, and in this world where everything we’ve created under the guise of being social actually makes us more alone, a moment of connection with someone is sacred.

The connections I made with people from all over the states, and all over the world, are my most treasured souvenirs from my trip. I really feel changed and enlightened by every person I met over there. So thank you, universe, for giving me this opportunity to realize that we really are all in this together.

It’s not my usual kind of wonder, but the feeling of infinity that you get when you go to the New Mexico desert is pretty cool.
I took this picture while we were wandering around some ruins.

How can you justify waking up at 6:15 every day? This sight on your way to school every day.
It’s the little things. Always the little things.

Winter, especially this winter, in Colorado can get pretty dreary. But it’s sights like this that keep me going.

There are flashes. There are moments. There are snippets. The moments of the days that were crushing remain imprinted on my brain. I do not like them, I do not like them one bit. They’re reminiscent of days when I got hurt, days when I wasn’t me, when I wasn’t fearless. I left one day, only ever to look back. It’s like a backwards Wizard of Oz. There’s a not-so-innocent ingénue, who leaves her black and white home to get to a city that was every bit as grey as she had hoped it would be. I’m warning you now, she does not end up clicking her heels three times, going home, or surrounded by kindly old men.

There are three reasons why I love Big City. One: unlike small towns, there are always more people than the people you know. There are always, always, people cooler than you; there are always crazy cat people. You are always, always simply average and indistinguishable. Two: unlike small towns, there is no need to sleep, ever. There is always a deli open or a coffee shop brewing a fresh pot. There are always people awake, always people having sex or doing dishes or any number of mundane things, but there are also always people making deals, meeting new people, laughing, crying, jumping, falling, flying. Three: The people you don’t know who are doing things you don’t know about are only three feet away from you. The simple proximity of the people makes Big City electric.
There is a way to be close to everyone and not connect with anyone.
This is appealing to me.
I walk through the grid that I can’t get lost in, but can still lose myself in, and my day begins with a rush of energy and adrenaline. Only Big City can offer me that. Here, there is only concrete and cars and lights and glass. There is nothing that isn’t hard. There is nothing that can break. The doors to my building are big and glass and they spin. I’m always afraid I’m going to get stuck going round and around forever. I never have. It’s an irrational fear. I keep walking. They keep spinning. My elevator is packed, but I am running late, so I squish in, making my first human body contact in two days. I don’t make eye contact, but I stare at my feet and mumble vague apologies. There is awkward shuffling and someone brushes my arm. I am 15; I am wearing jeans and a sweater that my mother gave me. It is blue. Someone runs into me and I am back in the present, unshaken, on the outside anyways. I step off my elevator.
“Good morning, Helen” These are the first words I speak in three days.
“Hello, Anne.” That is not my real name, but I have told everyone it is.
In my office there are stacks upon stacks of manuscripts. There are hundreds of stories. Other people’s stories, more importantly. I never read, before. I do now. I get lost in a world where pirates roam free, kidnapping women who will return home safe and sound. It’s predictable and boring. I have no issues tossing it away. In Big City, I don’t have issues discarding anything. Someone knocks on my door. I am 16, I am crying on my pink bed spread. Music is playing. I ignore it. Helen walks in and tells me I have an appointment with an author. A timid, mousy girl with glasses walks in.
“It’s so nice to meet you, I’m Nancy Wilson. I’m from Harwood, North Dakota. I wrote that book about the pirates.” She smiles and she’s warm and friendly. She’s so charmingly innocent that I can’t tell her that her book sucks, I tell her to make some revisions and get back to me. She gets up, smiles at me, and closes the door. I am 16. The sounds of doors closing are all around me. It’s inescapable. I can’t breathe, I can’t see, I can’t sleep, All I can do is cry.
I remember the first day; I remember the last day.
The middle is fuzzy, but those were the moments that didn’t mean anything. Only the fact that it started, and then ended, matter.

I am 15, I smile and giggle, I bat my eyelashes. My eyes, they shine and sparkle, people tell me that I have a “je ne sais quoi”. I act humble, but my heart soars every time I receive a compliment. There is no reason I should have a tough heart or a discerning mind. There are bad people in the world, but not mine. My world was made with open doors.

My days pass and blend into one and other seamlessly. It’s a sea of concrete, asphalt, glass, marble carpet. Reverse. Repeat. There is no beginning; there is no end.
My nights go differently. I have lived in Big City for 4 years. I have never been to the same place twice. I am 17. My existence is limited to 4 places. I am starved. After work, I throw a dart at my map of Big City. I go where the dart lands, and I pick the place within one block that stays open the latest. Tonight, it’s the corner of Main and 87th.

Tonight’s venue is a diner. It’s been open since 1987, so says the proud “ thanks for 20 years” sign out front. I think they should take it down. I almost don’t go in. I don’t like things that have lasted very long. I am 17. There is a glittering piece of jewelry in a little box. I am terrified.
“Honey, if you don’t order something I’m going to kick you out.”
“Coffee, please. Regular.”
There are five other people in the diner. There’s a couple who are speaking easily, making fun of each other, their silences aren’t awkward, but they aren’t filled with things unsaid either. They have been dating 3 months. I am 15. I am sitting in a car for the first time. I have my foot on the pedal. I taste freedom. I am an addict. The waitress hands me my coffee.
“Anything else?” She’s in her mid 50’s, and surly.
“Not quite yet. Soon.” I’m preoccupied with the old men sitting in the booth in front of me.
“Angelo, you are full of crap. The year we went to California was ’63. Remember? You didn’t wanna leave Angie here, but I made you, told you we’d bring her out as soon as our vineyard was set up.”
“Robert, you are wrong. We never went to California. We went to South Carolina and tried to open a bar. And Angie came with us!” Angelo slammed his hand on the table. His silverware clattered. They continued the argument they’d been having since 1995.
There is one more man sitting on a stool. He is… uninteresting. For now. Maybe when, if, someone comes to meet him, they will interest me. But for now, he is too much like me to be interesting. I am boring, I am unhappy. Unhappy people are only that, unhappy. Happy people have lives, have joys, have relationships, have futures. I am 17. It is incredibly dark on the road. My lights are on bright, but I can’t see further than 20 feet. My addiction is satiated. The man is never joined. He leaves 20 minutes later.

The road eastward, I told you it was backwards, will continue to Big City. I am 17 and alone. The concrete awes me. I have a high school degree. I start working as a waitress. I put myself through college. I become entranced in the lives of other people. I am a history major.

The diner starts closing down. I am tired, vaguely, and I am full. I have had two cups of coffee and a piece of pie. I leave a larger tip than I should. Money is replaceable. I walk down the dark Big City streets. I am thinking. This is dangerous, I think to myself.

I was 17. There was a ring. I said yes. Three months later, I am wearing a white dress. My mother is beaming. She is my warden, and I am in a tulle prison of white. The white surrounds me, I can’t breathe, I can’t see, I can’t smile. The bells are in my ears and they are deafening. There are bells and doors closing and I can’t see and I can’t breathe and the white is closing around me.
That night, in the black of night, the blackest night of the month, the blackest moment of that black night, I put my foot to the pedal. I am gone. They will never find me.

The concrete is grey. The sky is grey. The buildings are taupe. The Windows are mirrored. The streets are grey and their skin crawls with parasites. Even the parks aren’t as green as they are other places. Everything is muted, everything is clear. Straight lines and clean edges. Nothing is fuzzy, nothing is unclear.

I end up in coffee shops, alone, in Big City, because I threw a dart at a board. It’s chance. Everything is chance. Chalk everything up to fate. If I was supposed to turn around, If I was supposed to still be home, I would be. If that sea of white was the right place for me to be, it wouldn’t have been soul-crushing, right? Right? Right.

I look back every step of the way.
I know this is right. I know I am right. I know I am supposed to be alive. This sea of white is killing me.
I have the urge to turn back. Again and again, I almost retrace my steps.
Again and again, I move forward.
I stopped in Big City because after that, there is sea.
I went to Big City to breathe, but instead, ended up suffocating.

It has been… an insane 3 months. A really crazy, exciting, inspiring, freeing time.

But not really. I’ve been doing nothing but working my ass off in high school since I last posted in September.

(not sure where I found this, if it’s yours, let me know and I’ve give you credit.)

In October, I visited New York City. If you haven’t heard me rant about my love affair with the big apple, you haven’t been within 10 feet of me for any amount of time since I was 6. Literally. I’ve wanted to live there since before I could:
Ride a bike
Read Harry Potter
Liked Britney Spears
Watch TV that wasn’t animated
See over the counter at Chipotle
Long story short, I’ve wanted to live there for 10 years.
Along with this love affair came my dream of attending NYU.
So we visited. And it was like meeting your childhood hero and deciding you were going to be best friends for life. It was amazing, and I’m in love.
So that’s where I’ve been: studying, working, writing papers, all that jazz.

Good news is, I’m going to try to keep up with this blog again! Starting… NOW!

Why yes, those are whoopie cushions as art. The contraptions they’re in push them in and out when you walk around the room so they make the “flarp” noise they’re supposed to. I have nothing further to say.

An incredibly cool and modern building in Denver. It looks like concrete and oxidized copper.

I love the image here of the old warehouse and then the modern apartments behind it. I think it really illustrates Denver. There’s an emerging cool/hipster part, but it’s got a ways to come in my personal opinion.

The Rooftop garden at the MCA Denver, which is these concrete boxes at varying levels and angles filled with seemingly native plants to the Denver area. There was the sweetest elderly lady up there reading, and Lexy, Kelly and I decided that we’d spend all our time up there if we lived closer.

The topics for the mixed taste discussions were graffiti art and harajuku street fashion. Basically the premise of these nights is that they take two completely different topics and speak about each for a half an hour, and then the audience is supposed to draw conclusions. (One time this summer, they did Jewish Mysticism and Salsa. conclusions, anyone? Bueller? Bueller? Me neither… and I’ve been thinking about it more than I probably should be. )

Denver Skyline from the Roof of the MCA.

The Sculpture out front of the museum. It’s a heart with a dagger through it that lights up. What it means, I have no idea. As with most modern art, I’m still thinking about it now, which I think is the point, and why I’m addicted to and obsessed with modern art.

In one of the cupcake books I recently bought, they had this crazy idea of melting storebought frosting and then dipping your cupcake in it to get a shiny, smooth finish. Ours… didn’t turn out shiny, smooth, or finished looking. A few of the dipped ones looked ok, but the ones we frosted normally ended up much better.

As I’m writing this in my school computer lab, I’m starting to get the feeling that these cupcake posts sound a little bit like science lab discussions (any reminder of chemistry is kind of scary to me). If any of you get bored with me and my deconstruction of cupcakes, please tell me, and I’ll shut up about the process and just post the pictures. Here they are:

Under this yellow and blue striped tent is the most amazing, mind blowing, beautiful display of the human body, mind, and the limits to which they can stretch. Cirque du Soleil (French for Circus of the Sun), was started 25 years ago in Quebec, and has moved from a small operation to a worldwide phenomenon. They have performers from 40 countries, and 15 shows worldwide. A few years ago, there was a show on bravo called “The Fire Within” that explored the creative process of the show Varekai. My mom and I watched it religiously, and now we have the dream of visiting the costume warehouse in Quebec.

Unfortunately, you can’t take pictures from inside the tent, but you can see a few pictures on their website here. Click on view trailer to watch a tempting glimpse. But really, the only way to experience a cirque show is to go see one. here’s a list of them .

My wonderful mother bought us special tickets that granted us entrance into the Tapis Rouge lounge area before the show and during intermission.

On the supporting pieces they show various clips from the show and past shows, and it gives you the feeling of building excitement and a little bit of sinister energy, which there’s always plenty of in Cirque shows.

It showcases some costumes and masks from the show as well.

This mask was rhinestone encrusted and used in the number called “the skeleton dance”.

This cool lady was like an undead vegas show girl. They were stunning. Aside from the gravity and ligament defying stunts performed in the show, the entire cast dance numbers are stunning. My uncoordinated self always marvels at other’s abilities to do the exact same thing as 15 people at the same time and have it be graceful and beautiful.

This guy, I’m pretty sure, was a concept outfit for the main “bad guy”, named the Trickster, who actually ended up wearing a cool an immaculately tailored orange and blue pinstriped suit.

The whole evening out is definitely worth it, even though the tickets can be pretty pricey. There are permanent shows in Las Vegas, Quebec, Disneyworld, and Tokyo. You need to go see one as soon as you can, they’re among the most interesting things you can see out there right now.

More cupcake posts coming soon.