What are Your True Colors?

DEAR
     Curious:
             Have you ever been surprised at how others describe your personality? I know I have, especially when people say that I am graceful. Since when did dropping things left and right connotate being graceful?

             In any case, it's fascinating to take a personality test to see your basic traits, so I've got a simple one here for you today! It's quick, easy, and you learn quite a bit about yourself! Take a look, and discover your true colors:

             To start, grab a pen and paper, then compare all four boxes in the row. Once you have a sense of the basic idea that each box represents, score each one from 1 to 4 depending on how well it describes you. 4: very well, 3: pretty well, 2: somewhat, 1: only slightly. Do this for all five rows, writing everything down so you can keep track!

Row One

Row Two

Row Three

Row Four

Row Five

             After you've written down the numbers for each row, look back at the colors of each box, and tally up the numbers you've paired with them: all orange boxes, all gold boxes, all green, and all blue. I ended with this: Blue: 18, Green: 12, Orange: 12, and Gold: 8. 

           After you have your tally, you can read these color guides to see your personality results! Everyone is a mixture of all colors, but we will all have a certain color that defines our personality more than the others. For me, it's blue! 

    

               So what color are you? Was it what you expected? 

With A Colourful Flourish,

Joélle.

The Mysterious Tumblr Dress

DEAR
     Netizens:
            A lot of people are on the internet for wayyyyy to long. This is not good for your eyes. It might take a minute to adjust your eyesight to anything else if you've been staring at a screen for a long time. But this mystical color-shifting dress that Tumblr user swiked uploaded not very long ago has everyone's knickers in a twist, and it has nothing to do with the brightness of a screen. The big question everyone's asking is, "Is it blue and black? Or white and gold?" Just take a look at the viral photo here:

            So, what do you see? Blue and black, white and gold, or periwinkle and brown? I just showed this to my parents. While I saw it as blue and black, my dad saw it in white and gold, and my mom saw the same as me. I closed my eyes for about 30 seconds, looked back at the screen, and while my mom's perception hadn't changed, I then saw what my dad was seeing. I just scrolled up while typing this, and the dress changed color again. After doing a lot of research and seeing this darn dress over and over again, I have now seen it in all three aforementioned color combinations. It's incredible!

             Of course, as I, a self-proclaimed nerd, enjoy doing research, I have discovered this tasty tidbit: apparently, there is some blue-tinted lighting in the photograph, and probably in the store, which most likely spurred on the argument in the first place. Different people have differently wired brains, which adjust to lighting and coloring at different speeds. This dress is just the right colors to flip that switch. 

           You know how you can look at a negative for a while, then look at a white space, and the negative is mentally projected in color? This is a similar principle. Depending on if your brain thinks what it's currently looking at is colored negatively or positively, the dress will appear in two different color sets: white and gold, or blue and black. Your mind is, in a nutshell, acting as a biological version of film tape, and your eyes, the camera, are seeing your head's confusion. 

           After looking through dozens of comments on Buzzfeed, Facebook, and Tumblr, it also appears that the majority of those who see blue and black first are female, and those who see white and gold are male. Females also tend to be able to notice the colors switch more often than males. And some people just can't tell how anyone would see it differently than they do! Interesting, huh? 

         This dress actually can be found on Amazon, and the description says it all: "dress, royal blue". But, you've got to admit, no matter the true color, the reviews and comments are way better! Read them all here!

          UPDATE: I have found an excellent article on wired.com that scientifically debunks the mystery! Read it here.

             So, my dear reader, what do you see when you look at the Mysterious Tumblr Dress?

With Crossed Eyes,

Joélle.

The Poor College Student's Gourmet Meal

DEAR
     Poor college students:
         How are ya! I'll just dive into the point, here: you know when you are a "poor [insert noun here-- student, artist, musician, etc.]" and it's hard to make good meals on a really malnourished budget? Well, fear no more, for I, good reader, have the power of.... not-so-unhealthy-ramen.

          That's right! Step one: feeling hungry? Only have ramen packets in your pantry? Never fear! Simply stick that bad boy in a bowl, add 2 cups of water, and microwave for 2 minutes.

          Step two: while you're waiting the eternity that is two minutes, chop up anything resembling veggies from the dusty corners of your fridge: I managed to find a red pepper, green onion, and carrots.

          Step three: check the darkness at the back of your fridge-- do you see anything resembling protein? Grab that sucker and chop it up: leftover chicken your mom gave you and you forgot about, fish... anything.

          Step four: dump all the chopped food into your bowl of ramen and microwave for another minute. When it comes out, it should need just a dash of pepper, and there you go! Yum! 

With A Grain Of Salt,

Joélle.

It's a Beautiful Life

DEAR
     Wonderers:
            When you think of beautiful, what immediately comes to mind? If you just thought of pretty girls, you have got to get a life. Seriously. When I imagine beauty in its purest form, my mind fills with sunlight and moonlight. These natural forms of light make anything they wash over look so different: bright, beautiful, and oftentimes unearthly.

         In photography, there are two main rules, in just two words- light and composition. You can take a photograph of a simple piece of grass, and there's nothing special about it; you're thinking of deleting it. But if you take a picture of that same piece of grass with dramatic lighting, the entire composition looks totally different. That scraggly little bit of grass is suddenly beautiful, smooth, and glowing- and why? Because you waited until the sun was hitting it just right. Here's an example from a few photos I took:

            This makes me think of life in general. If we took things that seem drab, boring, and even sad or hopeless, couldn't we just shed a little light on them? Finding even the tiniest bit of something to be optimistic about makes life a whole lot brighter. Just wait until you see the light.  And If you can't, maybe it just need time to move in after the shadows. :D

With Leaves In My Hair,

Joélle.

Aliens?! or Ghosts?

DEAR
      Mystery lovers:
           Hiya, folks. I wrote a lyrical short story a while ago. Short, confusing, supernatural, and mysterious. You can read it on Wattpad as well, if you'd like, but here it is for your (hopefully) (possible) (maybe) enjoyment: Lights.

Lights.

            It had been twenty-four hours since he could think. Rotting trash molded beneath a pile of leaves was the last thing he remembered. The torpid scent of rot mingled with morning light tickled his eyelashes; he groaned and opened his eyes. The sky was bright, but cloudy. There was no trace of what had happened the night before but for the wavering colors still painted on the back of his eyelids.

               He slowly pushed himself to his feet and staggered through the rusting leaves, trying to find the road. A blue glint beckoned him through the trees– his ancient Jalopy, caressed by a muddy ditch. He looked up and down the road, hoping to see a sign of civilization, though he’d searched last night in vain; but just past the bend there sat a shiny new diner.

            The bell squeaked in time with the swinging of the door; he shoved his way through the rush of new smells toward a stool. There was no one else there but him, and he closed his eyes for a moment. “You all right, hon? Look like you’ve seen an alien.”

             He looked up abruptly; a slim waitress stared back him, unashamed curiosity on her face. He frowned. “Why not a ghost?”

              She shrugged and slapped a menu onto the counter. “We don’t get many of them around here.” She disappeared into the sizzling kitchen, leaving him alone for a moment. A high whistle pierced through the kitchen door, an odd tune that frightened him. He closed his eyes again to calm the storm within his head, trying to remember what had happened last night. He’d been driving, and… that tune… it was familiar…

              The clatter of plastic against counter forced him from his reverie; the waitress was back. “So…” she looked at him appraisingly, “…watcha here for?”

              His brow furrowed darkly as he observed the glass of water and small slice of pie she had placed in front of him. “Dunno. Needed to get away.”

               “From what?” She snapped her gum; he jumped.

              “The sameness of it all.” He stared at his fork, as if wondering what it was for. “Too much sameness. No change. Stuck in a loop.”

               She stared at the fork, too, their reflections distorted in the bright tines. “Gotta job?”

              “Computers.” He stopped; he hadn’t gone on a long drive to mull over what he had wanted to take a break from.

              “What about computers?”

              “Anything.”

              “Tell me about it,” she said.

              So he did. He told her what he loved about computers; what he hated. He told her that computers were sometimes better than any person; they listened to everything he said; they never talked back, they never gave advice. He told her what he wanted to do, which was a lot; he told her what he had done, which was little. He told her how everything was the same, every day, every night, every week. And then he looked up again; she was listening with rapt attention. “You listened.”

            She nodded, snapping her gum; he didn’t jump this time. “Waitresses listen, hon. Part of the job description.”

               “Do you want to know a secret?” She blinked curiously; the gum snapped.

             “I think I saw a ghost last night.” He studied the fork, wondering why he couldn’t stop talking. “There was a lot of rain. I ran into a ditch. Then there was lightning, but it wasn’t lightning; it was all these round, fuzzy, colored lights, bouncing around in the rain.”

             “A natural phenomenon.” She walked to the coffee machine and poured a mug, then came back.

            He shook his head. “No. Unnatural. Definitely.” He watched the steam curl upward from her coffee, spinning itself into a weave above the mug. “There was music. Whistling– the lights were whistling. Some creepy, wandering melody.”

               “Like this?” She puckered her lips. He jumped, knocking the fork and the crust of his pie to the shiny floor, and she stopped whistling to laugh.

               “Like that,” he said.

              She smiled strangely. “Ghosts. They like to sing.” Then she nodded toward the window; there was a blue flash in the corner of the glass. “Need a tow truck?”

           He shook his head; she winked at him. “Seems like you do know what you came here for.” At his curious look, she went on: “Something to break the sameness. Like ghosts.”

           He blinked slowly and took another sip of water before standing to leave. “I suppose it was ghosts, then.”

               “Or aliens,” she said.

               He smiled, pausing mid-step. “Or aliens.”

             He pushed open the door, the bell squeaking, and walked to his old blue Jalopy. He stared at it for a moment, then opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat. The engine started after three tries, spitting out a rusty cough. It took three more tries to drive out of the ditch and onto the road; the old automobile shuddered as it climbed onto the weathered asphalt.

             He took a deep breath, waiting for a moment, then drove on in the direction of town, past the spot where the diner sat.

              The diner wasn’t there.

With A Knowing Smile,

Joélle.

Why do Humans Exist?

DEAR
     Existentialists:
            Once again, I've been overthinking.

         I just watched Lucy; a film in which a woman dragged into a drug ring gone wrong is suddenly able to use the entire capacity of her brain. Last night, I watched a film called The Giver, about a seemingly utopian society in which emotion, color, difference, and anything that can set anyone apart from anyone else is nonexistent. After watching these, it made me think.

        We, as humans, take things for granted. We make poor choices. We create incredible things. We engineer horrible things. The human race as a whole is incredible, in good ways as well as bad. I could write a dissertation on this subject alone, but I'm going to try to concentrate on one: how we think.

           In Lucy, the title character slowly immerses herself in everything around her, until she no longer exists as a person. One of the first things to go are her emotions, after the offending drug bag is removed from her body. She uses logic, but feelings, care of consequences, and pain slowly fade away. She kills without blinking an eyelash. Her existence suddenly loses meaning to her, and she cares for only one thing: saving her knowledge. Imagine if everyone in the world were like that. I shiver just thinking about it.

            In The Giver, everyone in the society is given injections that remove the ability to feel emotion. Everyone is supposed to be the same as everyone else, so everything listed next has been removed from their world: emotion, free choice, skin color, nationality, talent, free thought, free expression, ownership of anything of any kind. That means no music, no dancing, no colors, no books, no learning, no expressing your opinion. No expansion of knowledge. No change. If twins are born, one is immediately killed.

             When someone speaks out, messes up, or gets too old, they are killed. Babies are reassigned to "family units" so that there is no personal attachment. Imagine if we lived in a world where we couldn't feel. There would be no love, no happiness, no sadness. No determination, no invention, no change. No creativity, which is the thing in all creation that I appreciate most. And the worst part about it all? No one would know any different. That would be the human existence. This creeps me out way more than Lucy, but tell me; what are your thoughts?

          Here is a short but not sweet description of how afraid I am of my own thoughts:

Neverever

The darkness blows across the water 

like a soulful wind:

waterfalls all around the ground.

Dream sweat– white imagination,

the feeling of lost 

While collecting bits and torn scraps of forgotten afternoons.

How can something so black, painful, be 

as elegant as this?

A flurry of thoughts, sediments

at the bottom of night’s ink; seething, sobbing.

What’s coming leaves me far behind;

I keep on walking through ghosts–

I am afraid of the landscape of my mind.

With Her Head Between Her Knees, Rocking Back And Forth In A Corner,

Joélle.

Loo Thoughts

DEAR
      Bathroom Thinkers:
           It is so freaking hard to play the guitar. Everyone lied when they said it was easy. I have been practicing like crazy! In the Christmas spirit, here's a pretty guitar version of O Holy Night. I feel like classical guitar is underrated. It's harder, but it's so beautiful.

           Poemmas now continues! Here is a very strange free-write I did in the women's restroom in university. Everyone else chose places to write that were more outside the box. I thought inside the box for once-- or rather, the cubicle, as it were. And yes, you read me right, the restroom. Washroom. Loo. Bathroom. Toilet. Yup. Enjoy:

Loo Thoughts

       Muttering to oneself, rifling through bags, dropping with a clatter. Voices ricocheting off the walls, keys dangling with a clash-- so many sounds. Chance meetings when the door is touched from both sides at once, running water dancing over all other noise. Whispered phone conversations held in the far corner, foolishly assuming tiled privacy. Chapstick running away, red-yellow-red, chased by only visible fingers, hoping it won’t go too far. Rushing feet in colorful straps shuffling, hurrying, waiting, trapping, snapping at the door.

       Then silence. But the silence isn’t really; air swirls in from high above, circular muttering. Claps and voices seep under the door, from so far away; removed. Sound reigns in this room of squares, the only place where sight is second. Monotony is torn by new arrivals, slowing down as though this is a restful place. Noses rubbed raw sniffle with abandon, feeling free to be loud among the tiles. Sweeping screechily lightly spreads, echoes spiraling through. Rips and rustles, bangs and splashes, sighs as mirrors catch someone in passing.

       Why do we feel different here? Really, we are less exposed in our carpeted halls, where footsteps make much less sound. 

With Clean Hands,

Joélle

Six Word Memoirs

DEAR
     Short attention spans:
            Hullo, folks, how are you doing? It's the fourth day of Poemmas! Does anyone actually read these posts? If you do, comment down below! Today's another quickie, I'm pretty busy. :) Ever tried writing in short sentences? Six words each, to be exact. It's harder than you would think. For instance, check out this poem:

Six Word Memoirs

I could take you somewhere fantastic!

Emotion was never so damn thick.

I tried to be somebody else...

Commas were never used so often:

Paints with words to make pictures.

Thinking about writing is not writing.

             I don't suppose anyone noticed yet... Every sentence in this post but this one is made of only six words, just like the list above. I certainly do try, don't I? Hope you enjoyed this quick post! Write you later, my two readers! I really do need more readers. Would you mind sharing this blog? Thank you so much, happy December!


With A Nod And A "Mhmm",

Joélle.

Ranaway

DEAR
     Lovers of the dark:
       On the third day of Poemmas, my blogger gave to me: a really dark stream of imagery. This poem was written about how confusing the depths of an insomniac mind can be, and how reality and dreams mangle together during the night. I hope you enjoy it.

Ranaway

Stumbling away from the haters of joy,

sobbing, spurning– into

darkness hope flailed. Reason, lost, turned to crash

into the inky trees, its headlights smashed.

Limping, blaming, unforgiveness

was bloody, hate spurting; it shook blindly, accusing

the sliver moon as it innocently looked on,

shining sadly, dripping silver night.

Coughing, grabbing, fear

tripped through the underbrush, following

the abandoned wails of unforgiveness. Hidden

behind the forest’s shadow, shivers

caressed hope’s spine, despair freezing her heart.

Losing light, failing, hope peered up

as the silver moon innocently looked on,

shining sadly, dripping bright slivers of night.

Depression’s soiled tendrils, calling, pulled hope

away, as she lay on the shriveled hands of trees,

rotting on the cold earth, gasping, curling into dark.

Dreamy terror slowly emerged; fear

and unforgiveness found hope’s fragile form, aged by

misery. Her shivers ceased, eyes stared;

hope died all alone.

With A Slight Shiver,

Joélle.