Why I Make

I've been writing poetry seriously for about three years now. God, that phrasing is so lame. Let's start over. I've been writing poetry for years and years and years but only started gaining confidence in my potential to create weird, beautiful things in the past few years. Ah, that feels better. The idea of "writing poetry seriously" just sounds morose and ungainly, like I sit in my pipe organ chamber by candlelight furiously quilling away for days at a time until an inky masterpiece has formed. Actually, that doesn't sound too bad. But anyway, though my love of poetry never seems to wan, my confidence in my ability to "do it" (not "do it" do it, I meant do poetry) is always in flux. Now that I'm senior in college and everyone is all "thou must havest thou's shit together," their response when I tell them that my passion (maybe, probably, I think) is in poetry is "what do you plan to do with that?"

I've said before to friends as we commiserate over the "what do I want to be when I grow up question" that seems to be inching closer and closer, that sometimes I wish I had been born with an innate desire to become a doctor, or a lawyer, or a scientist of some sort. I mean, I don't really wish that, though those are all cool jobs. It's just the idea of being interested in something with a bit of a clearer path that's appealing. But I'm interested in poems, and how they work, and how they feel, and the noises they make when you stroke the hair from their foreheads. Last time I checked idealist (yesterday), that's not really in many job descriptions. So, cue my unfortunate poetry spiral.

I've been in the down section of my poetry flux lately, questioning my ability to create much of anything, let alone anything people want to read, SUPER let alone anything someone eventually may want to publish. You know, to make money. My poetry tends to be focussed inward, about myself, not trying to relate to anyone else in a very selfish way. Because, I suppose, I write for myself. The more poetry I read, the more published poetry I read, feels like it's got more of a universal appeal. Well, maybe not universal, but at least it feels more like, "Well this could be about me, or the author, or some young adult Canadian somewhere." This made my writing stagnate even more. Being unable to write but trying frantically to do so, then being unable to write but trying frantically to do so to try and please other people, leads to one big headache, and one frustrated Nicole, and two entirely devoured pumpkin pies but let's not even go there.

I started drawing when I couldn't write. This happens when my poetry sectors are down. I feel an itch to create, but if it can't be writing it still must absolutely be something. So I drew. I've been doodling. I'm no expert doodle magician, no sir, but I do it because I like it. It's been freeing, and calming, and has allowed me to express myself when I feel quite bottled up. And I think it's been so easy and relieving because I'm doing it for myself. These drawings aren't going anywhere. I'm not going to sell them. I'm not going to try to get anyone to want them. They're just something I've been making for the sake of making. I'm a maker. I bake, I write, I draw, I sew, I think, I brooch, I dabble. It's a big part of who I am. I make because I feel the drive to make. Poetry is the medium that feels simultaneously the coziest and the most challenging to me, and that's how I know, or at least think I know, that it's something I can never give up on. However, I have to get back to making poetry because I want to, not because I have to, or because I need to make money, or because I need to "get my name out there," or whatever that means. I have to write poetry to remember people and moments by, I have to write poetry because a spider made a web across my notebook while I was sitting in class and it was a caricature of my life, I have to write poetry to commemorate the color of your hair and the way your t shirt smells. I have to make because I want to, and I have to make what I want to make, and those are the most important things.

Dress: Madewell, Jean Jacket, Shoes: Thrift










Until tomorrow,
Nicole

Apple Picking

Autumn is absolutely, decisively my favorite season. For a while, I was between autumn and spring, but last year autumn so totally won. You've got sweaters of every color and cozyness, you've got pumpkins, you've got pumpkin flavored delights, you've got ruddy golds and oranges and glowy browns taking over the trees, you've got my birthday, you've got thanksgiving, you've got hot chocolate and blankets and cuddling with yo' bad self or someone else's bad self, you've got apple picking, and a ton of other awesome things I'm missing because my brain just can't handle all this fall splendor, holy cow. However, I'm super busy this autumn and my weekends have been spent mostly reading about the Russian revolution while pulling my hair out. That's when I was all, Hey, I need to be doing more fall things, or fall's going to be over and I'll have nothing fall-y to show for it, and will then be depressed. So, last weekend I baked pumpkin muffins, and this weekend, I got more ambitious and ventured out to Barton Farms for some quality autumn adventures! We did a whole lot of apple picking, and strolling through what felt like endless rows of apples and apples and apples. I ran around a pumpkin patch because, holy cow, I love pumpkins (and I found a favorite to take home!). We ate apple cider donuts, and apple dumplings, and I ate an apple right from the tree because why the hell not. I really just love autumn, okay guys. Please enjoy these photos of me nerding out. AUTUMN.







This wasn't even posed















Until tomorrow,
Nicole

Navy Gray-vy

Hoo-whee, am I tired. So tired that I started this post with the phrase "hoo-whee." I give you permission to judge me. Tonight has been exciting, because I got to see a performance of a play I wrote. It was weird, really weird. Not the play, I mean, (though it was about pickles), but the seeing of it. I hardly ever share my poetry, even with my closest friends. I don't much go to open mics, or poetry readings - situations where I would read my own work. So, to see people acting out a play that I wrote. WOAH, SO WEIRD. To hear my words being spoken(super, super skillfully) from the mouths of two dudes, and to hear people laughing at weird pickle-related jokes I wrote. Weird. If I wasn't so tired I'd do a weird count right now, but my math is bad to begin with, so I'm just going to guess we're at 47 "weirds."

I just remembered that my side-bar self-description over to the left there talks about how I'm not very good with putting myself outside of my comfort zone. For the record, that phrase makes me think of me, in a little circle of light, and then stepping out being surrounded by shadow phantasms with wriggly fingers. Anyway, that is a true statement. So, whenever I do step out into shadow phantasm land, for no matter how long, it gives me this glowy sense of accomplishment, and my little light zone expands with that accomplishment. Sometimes I feel silly, you know. People write plays all the time, read their work aloud all the time, uh, interact with their peers all the time. But really, we all function at our own rate, have our own fears, and feel good about different things. So if I do something I haven't done before, and I feel accomplished from it, that's a good thing. LET US ALL REJOICE AND EAT SOME PICKLES.

Dress: Forever 21, Shirt: Gap, Shoes: Vintage











So excited!




Until tomorrow,
Nicole

Rising Like the Sun

I woke myself up stupidly early today, earlier than I have to wake up at any point during the week when I have actual commitments. As I sit on the porch wrapped in a blanket, chew (read: scarf down) this warm pumpkin muffin, and sip (read: gulp down) coffee from my "bearly awake" mug, and listen to slow Avett Brothers jams, it feels pretty worth it. The thing is, I haven't really had a moment like this since school started, where I didn't feel guilty for relaxing, where I felt actually, really, calm. I know that everyone gets overwhelmed when school starts up again, or a vacation ends and routine returns, so I'm going to do something really original and say, Phew, I have been overwhelmed. See, I didn't actually do something original there, but it was kind of a surprise because I lied to you. Right? Right. I was going to list all of my current commitments, but then I was like, you guys do not want to read that, and I don't really want to see all of that in list form because it would probably make me hide completely under this blanket. Though, that does sound pretty cozy. I will say though, that I've been pushing myself to try a few new things lately (teaching, play writing) and that it's been a weird sort of rewarding, being catapulted into things I can't possibly be wonderful at on the first go. I'm insecure, but trying to channel that nauseous nagging gut-feeling into doing better, and being excited that a year ago, I would not, not ever, be trying these things out, or trusting myself as much as I currently am. Can we raise our bear mugs to trying new things and trusting ourselves? Clink. (That was the clink of our bear mugs, for the record).

Dress/skirt: Pretty Penny Vintage, Sweater: TJ MAXX, Tights: Target, Shoes: Vintage






Until tomorrow,
Nicole

Stubborn Love

I do this thing, well really, it feels less like something I do than something that's just a gross part of me, like a hairy, insecure mole or something. Now that I've given you that image, I'll try to get at just what that growth is exactly. For some reason, I still haven't figured out why, I have a very hard time with feeling like I deserve much of anything. Namely, passion. Let's take a purely hypothetical, never ever happened, example. Let's say, I like some one. A cute boy, probably. Now, if I like you, I will dive head first without even looking. Within days there will be at least fragments of poems written about you. Little sonnets about how we are both too anxious to make wishes because maybe there are wish loopholes that will distort the wish into something we don't really want. Or not, you know. Or maybe if you're really lucky, I'll write you a horrible corny song at 2 am when I can't sleep, just because I was thinking about you and how cool you are. And then maybe I'll practice singing it in the car while driving to work and get really emotional. Or not, you know. You will probably get a mix CD, and maybe a hip greeting card with a very long message about "how I feel lucky just to know you." I'll want to talk to you, and will probably tell you that. I may also tell you that I had a lovely time hanging out with you, if we've gotten to that point.

The problem is, though, that I don't feel like I should expect these things in return. Honestly, I can't even imagine a guy being so into me that he goes this batshit sentimental, just because he likes me. Me! Lately, I've been thinking about this pattern, and how I'm really not a fan. I'm not happy in that role of chaser, of "the sentimental one." Maybe I'm not the most crazy amazing super hero of a girl, but is it so weird to think that if I can get passionate about a nice guy, a nice guy could be passionate about me? Is that so foreign a thought? I get passionate about things all the time! Ice cream! Pasta! Mountains! Lumberjacks! So why do I think I don't deserve the passion of another person? Or, rather, why do I feel like I can't ignite that passion? Or that I won't find it? That I should just be content with someone who likes me, but doesn't show it, who isn't up in the middle of the night crooning a love ballad because he thinks I'm that alright? If I can be that crazy, can't someone else? Maybe this doesn't make sense. Maybe I'm asking too much. See, this whole post was about feeling like I don't deserve a mutual, excitable spirit, and here I am, talking about the fact that I'm asking too much. I suppose I'm just so tired of walking down a one way street, hand excitedly extended for a high five, and making excuses for the lame people who ignore it. So, I guess it's time to start remembering that I deserve that high five, and that people who think I'm silly for putting myself out there, are not worth my time. Or hand. Or mix CDs.

Oh right, and this outfit. Let's just say I put the "um" in peplum.

Skirt: From Sydney! Blouse: Target, Shoes: Dolce Vita via Marshall's, Pin: Vintage, Bag: Elanor!





my peplum got a little too excited








Until tomorrow,
Nicole

One Line Wonder

The phrase "What have you got to lose?" is one of my least favorite things that people tell me. This is not because it's a bad concept. It is an excellent concept, but one that I am terrible implementing. So, when someone says to me "Well, what have you got to lose?" my general response is "I DON'T KNOW. EVERYTHING. GO AWAY." and then I proceed to eat a piece of/ an entire carrot cake in bed (if you follow me on anything, there is photographic proof that I actually do this, btw). While feeling as busy as ever, with school starting and work continuing, I've been spending an awful lot of time thinking about all of the things I don't do. Over the summer, in a moment of uncharacteristic brazenness, I (sort of) gave a boy my number, and it panned out in a wonderful way. What did I have to lose? True as ever, except I actually acted on that logic instead of running away from it. Now, I sit in my classes, thoughtful but equally bashful, too timid to share my opinion because I'm afraid people will judge me and think I'm stupid. "What have you got to lose, though?" I run into a guy on campus that's got good hair and a smile that implies that he's not condescending, but I'm too shy to even smirk at him. "But what have you got to lose?"

The thing about "what have you got to lose?" situations is that almost always you can only gain something. But it's that hurdle, that fear of "but maybe I can lose something" that keeps me back. I feel a bit like I'm living less of a life than I want to. Sure, I've been mucking around in daydreams about "the future" and living somewhere new and getting a new job and meeting a lovely guy. These are all things that I can't simply make happen right now, but there also not what I'm talking about when I say I don't feel like I'm completely living in my own life. I hold myself back a lot. I label myself "the shy girl" and hope people will catch on and leave me be. But lately, I'm growing frustrated. It's a weird thing, by the way, to just be frustrated with yourself. It barely makes sense. I want to speak up once in a while in class, and share the tiniest smile, and stand up for myself, and feel like I deserve to completely participate in the world. It's not going to be easy for me, which is probably why I'm still in this place, but more than ever, I'm feeling like this step, while nauseating and gross, is more necessary than it's ever been for me to just take.

Oh, right, and what I'm wearing. I really want to wear more loose, classic, easy outfits this fall, so I suppose that's what I'm trying to do here. My hair is wrapped in a floral band because it is oh man, so greasy.

top: gap, skirt: urban outfitters (old), sandals: wanted, bag: elanor!












Until tomorrow,
Nicole

You Swept Me Away

Man, I was doing so well with blogging frequently. What happened, huh? Well, I could tell you what happened I suppose. This week was spent running around campus, speaking with teachers, filling out forms, waiting in lines, losing my pen, and subsequent fantastic email exchanges with professors about said pen. My head has just been swirling all week, sometimes murkily, like a swamp, and sometimes deliciously, like a big crockpot of chili. My senior year is just beginning, and I'm fighting the itch to already be finished. I keep fluctuating between sheer terror and extreme eagerness to look for a job, an apartment, a new home town. It looks like I'll be challenging myself a lot this semester, both personally and academically, which is good, but I can feel those undeniable thoughts of being overwhelmed and wanting to roll around on the floor weeping while listening to slow Avett Brothers jams. I may have actually done that several times this week. Maybe. I can't confirm or deny anything. I did though. My feelings about boys and work and senior year and writing and my social life have been a little (very) crazy and frustrating and "what even" lately, which I'm sure you can tell by how incoherent the text in this post is. I've been drinking a lot of coffee. In fact all I want right now is a pumpkin spice latte. And maybe some rain. But definitely not cuddling, no way. Maybe.

I wore this outfit last night for Fashion's Night Out. I wish I could tell you I had a hyper-glamorous night full of eager street style photographers, but honestly, my sister and I just walked around for three hours brooding behind people in high shoes and weeping over beautiful expensive clothes. Just another Thursday, amiright.

Dress: Modcloth, Boots: Vintage, Brooch: DIY











"Look ma, no hands!"






Until tomorrow,
Nicole