I have just triumphantly returned from our 3rd annual Syncro Solstice down in Moab, UT. Like other years (which I would link to had I not bombed my old blog in a fiery inferno of past lives I hate) I returned with a brand new sense of what’s what. There’s something about being in the desert with fellow van people when you realize…hey! Life ain’t so bad after all!

Every year I meet people at the meetup that kind of shift my perspective in the most delightful of ways. The 1st year brought the Canadian brothers, the 2nd brought Mark and Dana, and this year brought Bethany and Karrie, both of which showed me that no matter your baggage, career, background, and preferences, there’s always room for genuine interest in other people’s lives. And when you share that with people, they’ll share it right back, and you’ll find the kumbaya harmony sung at summer camps past.

If I could really have my way, I’d live in my van. I’d pack up the cats, and Mitch and I would hit the road with reckless abandon and a vow to never look back–not even once! But, unfortunately, adulthood doesn’t cater to such whims due to the basic human needs of shelter, food, and security. Maybe one day I’ll be brave enough to redefine those needs in my life to better fit living in a van, but right now, I feel like Mitch needs to finish grad school and I probably need to squirrel away van money to get some solar panels.

Speaking of which, Mitchell put in a new fridge. So yes, the Westy now features cold beverages on demand as well as Ben and Jerry ice cream in the desert. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. You want a Westy now, don’t you?

Until the days when I can ride into the sunset in a 28 year old vanagon, I’ll be content planning weekend excursions. Because what is life outside of weekends and excursions? It’s sitting at my desk 8 hours a day planning the next trip. And that’s ok for now.

(all taken with fuji x-pro 1 and 14mm)

I’m back from Syncro Solstice 2013 (more on that to come) and feeling wildly disillusioned by reality. This is helping. I promise it’s 110% worth 9 minutes. Enjoy.

My favorite thing in the entire world—nay, the universe!—is making playlists. I’ve been making a playlist for our upcoming Westy meetup trip for a month now. I take this shit SERIOUSLY, guys. Playlists for a road trip are of utmost importance. If there was a full-time job of making playlists, I would make that job my bitch and become the highest-paid playlist creator of all time. ALL TIME. Kanye West style.

Remember yesterday’s silly anxiety post? This is how I deal. Most days I don’t really want to feel because I feel too much. And Fiona Apple told me this was a good thing because…it’s not that you’re crazy—you just feel EVERYTHING. Which is true life. So most of the time when I feel too much I just listen to some music, because I feel music more than anything else. Which cancels out the bullshit and puts things into perspective.

Music isn’t ever a casual occurrence in this brain. Most people listen to music as background noise to make the time pass and fill up the brain space. But I listen to music in the foreground. So when a really terrible Pandora station comes on at work, I have to say HEY GUYS. Check yourself before you wreck yourself. Jk. I don’t do that. But it’s terrible. It’s like in elementary school when you were trying to open your milk carton and instead of opening it just kind of sticks to each other and half opens. Ain’t nobody got time for that. Or when you rip the cereal box and Mitch gets REALLY bummed because then it isn’t as fresh as it had potential to be.

All I’m trying to say, guys, is that my music is my JAM. My Space Jam 1996 Michael Jordan and Looney Tunes jam. To the max. And when most things are too much to feel, music replaces the crazies with the poignant thoughts of everything is going to be totally fine.

This post actually took 2 hours to write because I was wildly composing this playlist whilst writing. You say you want a random mish mash sampler of what’s on this mix master? You know it.

I have an enormous almost uncontainable spot in my heart for Freddie Mercury. Those awkward middle school years of recluse living were so very much enriched by Freddie, and for that—I love him. My guitar teacher promises he’ll teach me this song soon. I will learn it and make a vine of me playing it and singing it to you, although I’m totally kidding right now. You will never hear me sing or play guitar. Suckers.

Roy Orbison will make you FEEL. Fo realz. This song is a fav of favs.

And if you don’t love this song, you can leave. P.Y.T. is like the power going out at school and getting to go home early or finding $10 in last year’s coat. Basically a total bonus that makes life totally worth living.

Then you take a radical swing to French groove with this one.

And remember your roots growing up in West Jordan with this one.

And then you sandwich it all in a nice warm loaf of Rilo Kiley because you really learned to love music when Execution of All Things came around. And because Jenny Lewis is your spirit animal and because Rilo Kiley was my main reason for living circa 2003-06. I’ll always let Jenny back in. And Jenny, I’m really sorry I lost my skelly hoodie. I cherished it for 6 long years before losing it, and I really hope it made its way to someone deserving. I let you down.

So, the moral of the post is to listen to Michael Jackson’s P.Y.T. and then make a playlist. If you want to add a little TLC “Waterfalls” in there, it would really sweeten the ambience of the whole experience. And Whitney’s “How Will I Know” is a must, so don’t forget your 80s hits mmk?

Woooooooah, dudes. Just wanted to say—you know what’s sweet? When you leave and come back and people are awesome and it’s like you never left. THANK YOU for your goodness in the comments on yesterday’s post. Thank you thank you thank you. You are top notch ladies of which I am crazy honored and stoked and all that good jazz to speak with here in this online forum.

Today I had to get my prozac refilled for what was probably the, oh…I don’t know. 8 billionth time. Just kidding. That’s a total exaggeration. And if I had a little more patience and a lesser hatred for using calculators and math in general, I would figure out how many times I’ve filled that prescription over the last 11 years. I’ve found prozac to be generally awesome for my mental stability. I mean, it makes it so that things like going to Costco aren’t QUITE as nightmarish as they would be otherwise.

For most people, going to Costco is like…not a thing. As in, not a big deal kind of thing. As in, I’m going to own this Costco trip, pick up that $6 bag of Hi-Chew and the largest bag of chili rice chips possibly ever, and walk out and be STOKED about these purchases. But when I go to Costco, it’s a lot of things. It starts out with anxiety over crossing the traffic to get to the carts and then having to have a human interaction with the lady who checks my card. And from there, it’s me feeling like I have to speed walk because I’m in the way of the people behind me, and I can’t check out the samples because there are already at least two people near the table, and I might have to speak or move with another human.

And then by the time I make it out of the produce fridge with my jumbo tub of spinach, I’m starting to stress out because I need that 36 pack of diet coke, but that makes me REALLY crazy thinking about carrying that up the stairs to my condo, which isn’t so much anxiety as me being lazy. But it’s the principle of the matter…who stresses about putting that 36 pack of Diet Coke in their shopping cart? And yes, I will take that box, not because it makes these Costco purchases easier to carry inside, but because my cats will love it, and I have crazy anxiety about leaving them for our Westy trip this weekend. So…I better bring them a SWEET box so they’ll forgive me.

What I’m REALLY trying to say here is that if you get anxiety over Costco trips and phone calls and going to the store by yourself and large groups in any shape or form…you’re not alone. And if you, in all honesty, secretly recite “I feel good, I feel great, I feel wonderful” to yourself in these situations, then we are new best friends.

And more importantly, if you find yourself growing increasingly similar to Bob Wylie, that’s great. Let’s be bff. I actually used to call my therapist Dr. Leo Marvin because most of the time in rehab I felt like I was living a strange What About Bob reality.

Anyway, all I really meant to say today is that it’s totally ok to be afraid of people and social situations that might end in you making a fool out of yourself. I’m right there with you. And one of these days I’ll tell you the story about the day I went on 80mg of prozac. Or, as I fondly recall it–the day the earth sprinkled glitter into my misfiring synapses.

(PS…here are some photos I took with my STX-1 and color film.)

Mitch and his mom are cute.

Also, 99% of the time, nephews and iced coffee are the greatest natural prozac out there.

I don’t know if any of you are really reading this. I kind of disappeared off the face of the Earth, so I don’t expect you to be. It feels strange coming back to blogging after leaving like I did.

Some shit happened last summer that left me feeling pretty exhausted from this whole world. So I quit. But now I’m here because I missed the group of stellar ladies I met doing it. I met Maria, Lauren, Jes, Caroline, and so so so many others. And I feel pretty lame for letting all of that go because I went through a weird time.

So I don’t know if any of my old readers are reading this, but if you are, I just want to say hey. And I hope you’re still fighting the daily battle of complete and total self love. Because that’s really the only thing worth blogging about at this point.

In my hiatus, I couldn’t help but feel completely crippled by the endless barrage of bullshit the world throws at women day in and day out. I mindlessly perused an issue of Women’s Day at a family member’s house today out of boredom and was completely blown away at the weight loss ads in between recipes in between weight loss tips in between tampon ads in between more weight loss ads and tips and empty promises, all tinged with a nice dash of subliminal messaging to say, “hey, you’re really not that great. you could be better. and prettier. and thinner. and leaner. and here’s a bathing suit to make you feel not that shitty. and on and on and on and on and on.”

And that was just the span of 10 minutes at a Mother’s Day party. And for the last 6 months of my hiatus, I’ve been floundering and feeling the weight of these messages that find their way into every TINY aspect of our lives. It’s in the office lunchroom, it’s in the stores, it’s in the family parties and the girl nights and walking down the street and seeing something triggering. It’s completely inescapable. And I kind of crumbled.

Which was the main reason for me letting the tumbleweeds fill this space. All the sudden I couldn’t find my self love. I spent 6ish years out of rehab fighting fighting fighting FIGHTING ALL DAY LONG to get where I was. And then I found myself sliding. And I couldn’t blog because I had lost my voice. And with that I lost my struggle and will to fight it.

Mostly I just want to know why women can’t help other women out. We’re all fighting this constant struggle every day, so why are we tearing each other down? And why are we letting this happen? Why do we join in on the body shaming and the name calling and the endless self torment? We act like it’s normal and that’s just how we as women are doomed to feel. But…it’s not. And I guess I’m left feeling so entirely baffled that I have to fight this hard just to feel ok. Why do we all perpetuate this myth that women have to be whatever message the corporation flavor of the day is selling? We do it to ourselves by mindlessly allowing it to happen.

Basically, I just REALLY want to know why it should be THIS hard to feel good about yourself. If we all just helped each other out and stopped ourselves from complaining about our thighs or listing every minute morsel of food in our stomach from the day or bitched about another woman because she intimidated us somehow…maybe if we just calmed the hell down and realized that we DON’T have to act like the women society has portrayed us to be…maybe we’d all be ok.

You don’t have to hate yourself. We as women are not doomed to a fate of self hatred and weight loss. We don’t have to buy those magazines and buy into whatever schemes corporate America has planned for you next. Let’s just all calm down, step outside of ourselves, and make someone feel GOOD about themselves. Because I’m willing to bet most women feel pretty terrible about themselves on a daily basis. So what if we just for ONCE in our lives, said something positive and NOT body/food/diet related to each other?

Women are much more than what they eat or what they do in their workout or how great they look in their jeans. We are human beings with brilliant minds. Let’s talk about anything other than hating on other women and ourselves. Just once. JUST ONCE! Just try it. You might like not feeling like shit about yourself for once in your life.

aaaaand…end rant.

I just want to feel ok about myself for once. And I want you to feel that, too. And I just want women to wake up and realize they don’t have to perpetuate this myth. Go read The Beauty Myth. Go liberate yourselves. And for once let’s not tear other women down. We’re all in it together. And we’re all fighting the beauty myth together.

I can’t fight this fight anymore when women everywhere refuse to fight with me. And I know any person worth a damn would tell me that’s not a good way to feel because I need to radically accept that I can never change the world and all I can change is myself. But guess what? It’s REALLY hard to handle the daily barbs from left and right on my self-esteem. And sometimes you just want to give up, you know?

If you made it to the end of this post, I commend you. And I hope you’ll leave a little comment just to let me know you’re here and that I’m not speaking to space. And if I am, that’s cool, too. Just be good to yourself and other women. Myself included.

Until next time…

I have a huge respect for florists. Especially Ashley Beyer of Tinge. Talk about a girl with wicked talent. She made me two ridiculously gorgeous arrangements for my moms. I ordered them knowing they’d be fantastic, but when I showed up to her adorable studio, she kinda really blew my mind. And not even kinda. I even accidentally swore when she showed them to me because they are so absurdly perfect. They are hands down the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen. If you don’t know Ashley, you do now. Follow that girl.

Hey, Maria. Hey, Lauren. I miss you.

I really love my job for the sole fact that it’s helping me learn photography. The exposure triangle no longer gives me fits, and I’m comfortable shooting in manual. Kind of. But mostly. I owe 95% of that to Riley and his patient teaching and the rest to writing about it all day long. It’s absolutely the most fun I’ve ever had with a hobby.

As previously mentioned, my X-Pro 1 is my baby. I named her Tamikotan after  James Franco’s anime sex pillow on 30 Rock. There is no reason to this other than it came to me, and I ran with it.

With a full-fledge Fuji penchant on my hands, I couldn’t handle myself when I found a Fujica STX-1 at Savers. I saw the Fujinon lens peeking out from the brown bag and pooped my proverbial pants a little bit. It came with a Fujinon-Z f3.5-4.5 43-75mm lens, a silly flash, an unbelievably baller camera strap, and a brown bag. $20. Sold. It’s circa the late 70s, and it couldn’t be sexier.

I’ve never really shot film seriously–the Diana really isn’t all that great, which I learned the hard way. That thing is hard to get right. So taking a roll of B&W Ilford HP5 400 film was a leap of faith in my fledgling manual skills. The STX-1 offers no help to the taker other than a wobbly light meter powered by two watch batteries, so I was on my own ready to make Riley and my work proud.

I have a lot to learn, but I’m feeling thrilled about my STX-1 find. Fuji pride 4 life.

This one above is probably my favorite one of the whole roll. It has such an air of childhood goodness. Love it. And this below is Rita, the chocolate labradoodle that is absolutely the most brilliant dog I’ve ever met. I love her so much. She’s my sister’s, but I kind of feel like her godmother.

That one was an accidental double exposure. I was trying to figure out how to do them and…I accidentally did. Kind of bummed about the one I lost of Henry, but now I know. #filmlife

Oh, just Willie Nelson blowing a dandelion. Ain’t no thang. #hobolife

I now understand people’s boners for film. I always knew it was great and pure and all that, but…I never understood it until now. It has a bizarre intangible quality about it. I can’t articulate what that is, but it’s leaps and bounds different than digital. I get it, guys. Film is sweet. And it’s not dead. I’m on the bandwagon. And I’m ready for my next roll.

Mondays are hard. And so is the D9 chord. If I could give one piece of advice to the young hoodlums of America, it would be to a.) wear sunscreen like the Baz Luhrman 90s song told you to do, and b.) don’t ever quit playing your instruments. When you do that, you waste three solid years of guitar lessons and find yourself 10 years older struggling to play the D9 chord because your pinkie finger is a complete wuss. Just don’t quit. You’ll think it’s the right thing to do because you’re too busy or too cool, but you’re wrong. Don’t Quit.

Also,

That right there is Jimmy telling you to give peace a chance. Most days, while I browse Twitter in bed in my undies, Jimmy feels bummed at the lack of love in the world. He always tells me to give peace a chance, and I agree. So this is coming to a t-shirt near you sometime in the never. It WOULD make a great t-shirt, though. We’ll see.

Mondays are rough. I hope you made it through yours.

I miss LCD Soundsystem most of the time. And most of the time, I also wish I could move. I mean, it’s not that I CAN’T move. It’s just that I’m too chicken. Everything I’ve ever known is here. And I’m that strange strain of homo sapien that can’t handle change or scary things. It’s hard to put big girl pants on when you’re me and you have no confidence. It’s extra hard when you’re a perma ball of anxiety and not even prozac does the trick anymore.

So yeah, I’d love to move. I’d love to move to Portland or Seattle. Shit, I’d even move to Canada. But first I need a little convincing that I’m capable of making such a huge change. As much as I’d love to be a vagabond at heart, I’m secretly a bonafide hermit to the core. To the max power, guys. Hermit champion. I win the blue ribbon for World’s Most Epic Recluse.

But the older I get, the more I pontificate on subjects such as this, and I get to thinking. What if being a champion hermit isn’t such a bad thing? Yes, the anti-social tend to get a bad rap, but what if that’s only because the man wants you to go on, get out there, buy their fancy clothes, drink their expensive drinks, and consume! Just kidding. I’m only semi-serious with that conspiracy theory.

Is there really something inherently wrong with not dreaming big? Maybe the thing that makes a life worth living is learning to just be. Whether that’s kicking it in a huge city with all the eclectic people ever written as a character in a book, or chilling at home in SLC with your cats. I don’t really know. I don’t really know what life’s all about, and I don’t know what makes a life successful. But I’m just saying…what if it’s not so bad to not “live life” to the fullest in the way that the world thinks you should?

Deep thoughts. I’ve been watching Carl Sagan’s Cosmos, so this tends to happen. If you haven’t watched Cosmos yet in your life, I highly suggest you stop depriving yourself and TREAT yoself. Donna Meagle style.

(all pics taken with x-pro and the 14mm. my new fav)