#posttwo

Being 20 is fucking weird, I could’ve sworn I was 16 like 5 months ago or at least I feel like I am still 16. I wish I would’ve waited to go to the University of Oregon or well at least until I was financially stable. This is where shit gets rough, its like I am at the age where I should be building my finances but please note that I fucking ruined my credit and everything PRIOR to coming. I should’ve made sure that I fixed that shit before I jumped the bus to come here. But fuck me because my ass is already here. SO, what am I going to do to fix it? Well, I am going to try and do everything in my power to make sure that I can fix it. I want to be debt free and start to rebuild my credit by the end of 2017. Boring shit, I know but like I said being 20 is fucking weird because it is like I should but shouldn’t be worrying about this shit. So yeah, if there is anything I’ve learned it is that finances are fucking important.

Another thing I’ve learned is that I’m technically a grown up, kinda fucking sorta because I still want my parents to pay for everything and schedule my appointments. (lol I also call for permission sometimes but yeah fucking weird) My parents see it as I am 20 so I am more or less able to take care of myself?? Like hello guys, I AM A BROKE BITCH THAT STILL NEEDS YOU, DON’T CUT ME OFF PLS. I can barely make it to my 8 a.m’s on time and you expect me to be able to be a grown up? Psh, yeah right.

Also, I’ve learned that time does indeed fly by so I need to really cherish those around me. I am currently regretting every time I was 10 or 9 or whatever and would say “wow I can’t wait until I am 20″ because lord knows I would go back to being 10 or whatever and do so much differently. I think I am starting to realize that I shouldn’t dwell on the “what if’s” along with the “I would’ves” because that too holds me back from “living”.

This week I’ll put the spotlight on this beauty.. Tom Carnase’s cover design for the book, The Fascinating History of Beards Through the Ages, or rather, the spotlight on the typographical treatment he did on the term “BEARDS.”What Mr. Carnase did is an example of visual language (in the world of graphic design), “refers to the character and significance created by carefully selected typography.” C. Knight, J. Glaser When Typography Speaks Louder Than Words

   Some may view that making images out of type may appear childish, but Mr. Glaser puts it beautifully that, “Clever graphic designers love to use typography to explore the interactions between the look of type and what type actually says.” Which is what Mr. Carnase successfully executed with the word, “BEARDS.” I’m not certain if he used a pre-made display typeface or he generated one himself, but regardless, he used this display typeface to his advantage. Reason being is usually one equates beards to be full and curly-like, so he was wise in his typeface choice because this is bold (a lot of volume) and this typeface’s Finials are have a “swash” feel to them (curliness of beard). I’d also like to point out that Mr. Carnase had all the characters tightly kerned that the “e” is overlapping the “a,” but it is not a distraction because it helps to develop the visual language of making the word “beards” look like a curly, majestic beard. 

This is a picture of myself and someone who is now a stranger. I have not spoken the woman holding me in this photo since the day it was taken and, if we’re being honest, I was so young, I’m sure we hadn’t said much to one another that day either.

Both of my parents grew up in Southern New Jersey, close enough to the beach that throughout their summers, they would acquire jobs operating small rides and serving slices of pizza on the boardwalk. They had lived in the same neighborhoods for their whole lives. Gone to school with the same kids for their whole lives. And most of those they graduated with remained there, their whole lives.

My parents didn’t. When I was four, and my brother two, they decided it was time they pack up and move across the country to Arizona. This photo was taken our last day in the house with blue walls and green carpet. That is my only real memory of New Jersey – the clashing aesthetics of my early childhood home.

We didn’t have any family in Arizona. In fact, only my father had ever been as far west. My mother had ventured to California’s beaches or parks. Everything was brand new for them. The weather, the scorpions, the excessive dirt.

It was new to me in the way that everything is new to a four year old. I was hardly even aware of the fact that I had been on a plane, must less flown cross-country. Regardless of my oblivion, it was a significant moment in my family’s history.

I didn’t have a tragic childhood. I remained that smiling young girl in the photograph for a majority of my childhood. In this way, I believe the image “frames” me appropriately. In addition to this, however, I find that I have a look in the dark eyes of that photograph that shows that I knew I was loved. That felt loved.

Once we moved, my parents no longer had their network of friends that came over regularly. My mother had me a young age and much of my early rendering had involved multiple of her (and my father’s) friends. Losing that, we achieved a strange independence – where my mother stayed home while my father worked and we operated as an isolated unit. In a way where we didn’t know any of our neighbors and didn’t seek those relationships the way we had in Jersey.

While I was too young at the time to understand that kind of loneliness, I realize in hindsight that it affected our family dynamic. This strongly influenced my own construction of a functioning family dynamic. And this photo does a great job exemplifying that transition.

Upon moving to Chandler, Arizona, there are no photographs of me sitting on friends’ laps or celebrating holidays in a communal style. My birthday parties consisted of my friend’s from school and a few of my father’s friends from work – whom I had to introduce myself to each time. They never came around often enough to pay much attention to the children.

This transition was significant in a multitude of ways. While it changed the course for how I was raised, it also posed many challenges for my parents. We’ve adapted since then and I have two 11 year old siblings, who know nothing besides the hot deserts and six-person Christmas dinners. But now and again, when they begin to reminisce on our lives back in Jersey, there’s a hint of loneliness. A hint of regret, for leaving as much as we did behind.

�