PUNKIA

These are two separate collections, but this post will act as a sort of catch-all since I have been slacking in my posting duties.
Quick and dirty:

Got a kitten.
Got a typewriter.
Visited my niece.
Etc. etc.

More later (promise), but photos for now.

Also--my brother got me spy glasses for my birthday. They look like sunglasses, but record video. Expect these to be incorporated soon.

These are the photos that were intentionally double-exposed. Call it cliche art school bullshit, but I still like them.

These are the last batch from the apartment. Note the nice shot of one of the photo walls near its final stage.

The last photos were taken by B.

A desperate attempt to find Bill Callahan (or: how to facebook stalk, or: mexican music playing when all you can think about is 7:00am)

As most of you (whoever that entails) know, we've moved to Austin. The home of obnoxious hippies, passive aggressive homeless, live music, and way too many UT students. Reason: I was accepted into an Occupational Therapy Assistant program. That is beside the point. The point is that Austin and Sherman are two very different places, though it doesn't take a rocket surgeon to figure that out.

First, ever Monday night at Ruta Maya (a chill coffee/beer joint just south of downtown), there is live Russian music by The Flying Balalaika brothers. From there you can hop around to seeing Breathless at the Paramount, or eating authentic French cuisine at Justine's Brassiere. Basically, there's always something to do. We live in Northwest Austin, which is perfect because it gets rid of the student-overloaded, drunken 6th Street, life-sacrificing hippies of downtown, but there's a Super Target five minutes away and a Planet K down the road for cheap Kamel Reds. So far it's alright.

I live on the second floor of a three-story apartment building. My upstairs neighbors have a habit of playing their mexican folk tunes on a high bass level, and sitting on the porch drinking Bud Light while rambling loudly in Spanish. (How I know what they drink: when a storm comes through, the wind blows the empty cans onto my porch.) Normally it's easy to ignore by putting Animal Collective on the record player and turning it up. However, when you have to wake up at 7:00 in the morning because you'll have to sit through an annoying amount of traffic to make it on-time to class at 8:30, these loud revolution sessions tend to be a hindrance to sleep. Melatonin, do your thing.

Currently, I work at a Starbucks on the weekends. I have learned very quickly that everyone, including certain managers, are potheads. Although I normally have a very stereotypical hatred of potheads, I am finding that most Austinites function very well, if not better, when they're high. In all honesty, I couldn't care less if they're on acid or weed. As long as they can shut down a bar and wipe down a counter, the smell of freshly burnt swag is no issue.

This ends the update on our lives. I'll let Isaac speak for himself later. I'm sure his opinions may include more cynicism, hatred, and better wording than my little informative monologue.

-Kristen

On the Tarantulas

For some reason, Summer '10 turned out to be the summer of tarantulas. Seriously, I killed like 4 of the fuckers. Don't get weepy on me--they are nasty bastards who shouldn't have evolved the ability to scare the shit out of everyone I live with.

So, anyway, left on my own, I sprayed one with Raid and decided to photo it's death spasms, kicked little leg dancing which resembled an epileptic fit. The next day, I whipped out the macro lens and got up close and filmed it.

Two things should go without needing to be said, but I will still say them: 1.) Kristen was out of town when I did this, 2.) If you are phobic of spiders, you may want to not look at this post.

For some reason, the whole affair reminded me of an Ingmar Bergman film, which you should watch, where a schizophrenic woman imagines God as a giant spider that lives in the wall of her house.

"I love weed" and wooden bridges

Herman Baker Park is one of the few nice, blog-worthy places found in Sherman. On a good day, it is quiet and filled with armadillos rooting around in the trees, while children (and 20-somethings) sled down the hill on cardboard. However, on a bad day (which I usually miss), the rebellious teenagers run rampant through the trails, proclaiming their love for weed in the form of sidewalk chalk, and taking turns on the ever-treacherous tree swing (that has since been cut down, and resides in the lake).

I hadn't made the full 1.5 mile trip around the Pickens Lake until a recent trip with Isaac. To my excitement, we discovered a wooden bridge near the end of the trail. I have an odd affinity to wooden bridges. (And to parentheses, apparently.) Also, the name of the lake reminds me of the Sufjan Stevens song title: Oh God, where are you now? (In Pickeral Lake? Pigeon? Marquette? Mackinaw?)

All in all, a memorable day, and a little piece of Sherman that I might miss. Emphasis on 'might'.