Dramastic

I Got Pulled Over

2012-01-01T23:34:00.000-07:00

Even though I'd had less than four hours of sleep for the entire year, I felt alive enough as I went out to my car this frosty morning and got behind the wheel. I'd had a lot to drink the night before--an Orange Julius from the mall that my blind date, Sam, bought me; then a Jungle Juice at Sam's brother's girlfriend's home (which consisted of a non-alcoholic sparkling drink and a bunch of fruit you skewer out and chew as you sip), two glasses of water to wash down all the "hoity-toity" cheeses and snacks at said home; and finally the shot of Martinelli's sparkling cider to toast midnight. Seriously, Sam and I were drinked out (like drunk, except not).

*I was only driving 4.5 miles up to my mom's house and though my windshield was a bit frosted over, I could see well enough. It was the spotted kind of frost, spread over an otherwise clear windshield. Ignoring the interrupting ice crystals just so, I could put enough of the familiar picture together to transport myself from point A to point B without incident.

really, it was like this. Not that bad, if you asked the 7:40am me.

Hardly a car was in sight as I made my way North, but one distant pair of headlights came closer, turning the same way I had, pulling up close enough behind me that I could make out that blue and red lightbar of a Utah Highway Patrol car. I was going the speed limit, I didn't have any warrants or outstanding tickets, etc. and therefore felt no stress. I wasn't really doing anything wrong, nor do I tend to, so my conscience was void of panic-inducing guilt. I was safe.

Officer UHP got tired of trailing an innocent rear, so he pulled up beside me to see if he might find anything for which he could pull me over. It looked like he might go past me, but then he dropped back and pulled behind me. I knew why. Signaling politely with red and blue waves, the power of the UHP triggered my right blinker. I gave my windshield wipers a kick as I turned onto a side road. That frost wasn't in any hurry to be cleared.

As he approached I started going for my license and registration. I opened my door when he arrived.

"Can you roll down your window first, please?" he reasonably asked.

"It doesn't work," I worked in an apologetic laugh. He nodded with authoritative disappointment.

"Looks like you didn't take the time to clear your windshield this morning," he said.

"I figured I could see well enough," I pathetically protested.

"It looks more than 50% frosted over, you have to scrape it. And is that a crack there? Why haven't you fixed that?"

I shook my head, "No, it's also ice." I saw what he saw, though. A line of uniform crystals formed what looked like a precise crack.

"Oh, it's only ice, okay," he said. "Where are you headed?"

"Home," I say, without really thinking. I was collecting the necessary documents for the officer.

"Did you have anything to drink last night?"

A short laugh puffed from my nose as I said no while at the exact time a picture of Jesus peered from the collection of automotive documents in my hands. The irony in all the elements only hits me now: a good little Christian girl, pulled over on a Sunday for not scraping her windshield, who in fact did drink too much for her own liking the night before (though not in an alcoholic way), and an unblinking Jesus, half-smiling up at her from a sun-faded print of his kind face. He always has a way of involving himself in life's hard moments. And sometimes it's funny.

I have a friend who is an officer, who one time said for church members to never include their temple recommend with those requested documents because it only pisses the officer off. I would never think to actually do that--just because I feel I'm worthy enough to go to a temple doesn't mean I wasn't breaking a rule of the road--but because my officer friend even mentioned that people do do that, and because I like laughing, for half a moment I had the urge to include a brief flash of the Jesus picture in my hands as I organized documents for him. But instead I kept the joke to myself and just laughed when he asked me if I had been drinking. Jesus knew the answer was no. And He also knew I hadn't cleared my windshield for which I was rightfully pulled over. He wasn't about to bail me. I wasn't about to try...

Then I realized my response "home" probably didn't mean to him what it meant coming from my mind, because I had just come from my home and was headed to mom's, which is home in the permanent address sort of way, and was just a really easy one-word response to explain where I was heading. I clarified this so he wasn't under the impression I had been out all night and just now heading home, hung over and clueless . . . no, I was just freaking tired and clueless.

As I handed him my license and registration, I asked, "Is this all you need?" because I couldn't find an insurance card. He told me to keep looking for it as he went back to his patrol car. I sorted through everything but didn't find it. I am insured, but I had no proof of it in my car. This is where tears threatened, because I really didn't want to get in trouble for not having insurance. I hate it when I'm totally legal on something--I have the insurance--but totally unable to verify it because I'm unprepared, without proper proof. It kind of makes me mad at myself, which madness ofttimes pricks the tears.

He came back with my license and handed it to me with a printed warning.

"I'll let you go with a warning this time, but you need to take the time to clear your windshield."

"Okay," I nodded. The tears wouldn't allow my voice to give more. Let me now voice my gratitude through written word, though: UHP officer wherever you are, thank you for letting me go with a warning.

Before I put my license back in my wallet I quickly swiped it across the driver's side of my windshield, clearing the view. The view was remarkably better.

What a way to start the new year out right, right? The words he used, "you need to take the time to clear your windshield," stuck out to me at the time, but do even more so now. Consider the warning heeded! I will take the time, every day this year, to clean my window to the world before I go anywhere.

I don't care how fancy an alternative could be, I want a windshield. And in gratitude I'll take the time to clear it since it affords me necessary protection as I roll along the roads of life.

*Today I shared a summed version of this story as I was teaching a room full of beautiful Relief Society ladies. Our discussion was based on the conference talk Doing the Right Thing at the Right Time Without Delay by José L. Alonso, member of the quorum of the seventy in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. It's a simple, but touching discussion of following the example of our Savior, going, without delay, after those who may be lost in life and not even know it or know how to find help, to comfort and bless in any way we can.

I tied this morning's experience into my lesson, for how we need proper vision to proceed along a path that follows the Savior. I thought my vision was good enough. I didn't want to take the very brief moment to clear my protective windshield to go a short 4.5 miles. I didn't think it would be an issue. Short, quick trip; everyone else was asleep in bed where I wanted to be, not on the road with me, and officer UHP, who reminded me that the point is: obeying the law keeps me safe, even if no one else has anything to do with my obedience.

When we think we've got a plan--be it short or long term--and we think our vision is "good enough," I'm grateful for a God who pulls us over sometimes to remind us to get the bigger picture, to put ourselves in the best position before we head toward our destination. And usually I'm a stickler for clearing my windshield. It only takes a moment. I had felt justified that it wasn't that bad. God had lesson-enhancing plans. For all I'm learning, and for a good story, I'm glad I got pulled over. (Double glad I didn't get a ticket.)

How great is God to give us warnings? Nothing probably would have happened, I would have made it to my mom's without harm to anything around me. But I can't know that for sure. Any small reminder of his care and attention for me is a pleasant one, worth the possible delay, and so worth the new view it gives me, even if it requires me to change.

A windshield is there to protect me, not get me into more trouble. I don't often look at the windshield, I don't see it as I drive unless it's dirty or in need of repair. It's there, but I'm meant to see through it. Too often we take for granted things we see right through that provide daily protection. God, his commandments, his Spirit: these protect and shield me in this high-speed, dangerous world of spiritual confusion. I cannot let the cold and bitter influence of the world frost over my view of the way before me. I cannot afford to be blind in the slightest when I maneuver in this world. Accidents are too costly, they always cause delay, and sometimes pain, injury and death.

Sometimes we have a good enough view of where we think we want to go in life. But if we want to proceed with the confidence of full clarity, we need to take a moment, at the right time, and do the right thing: to pray to God, consult with Him, make ourselves clean, and He will map us the best route (which may still contain strategic delays, who knows) to get us to perhaps an even better destination than the one we set out for.

Involve God when you're steering between point A and B, and you will have His Spirit's clear vision to guide you, a clear sense of His love to comfort and encourage you, His protection and blessings--really a lot of good things. It's more than worth the mere seconds to clear your frosted vision to save you the unknowable delay of being held captive in front of those flashing reds and blues.

how silently, how silently the wondrous gift was given

2011-12-25T22:21:00.001-07:00

we didn't get any snow here in Utah for Christmas. that's fine by me. i don't care a whole lot for the way snow interferes on the roads. but i love the look of it.

my favorite is when an insulating cloud drags itself overhead, slowly grating along the frozen sky, shaking down frosted crystal shavings. it's the snow you can feel before you see it, because every sound has been muted, been absorbed into the floating flakes. when the snow finally touches, a faint echo of its vertical journey softly clicks on every surface: the trees' twiggy tongues, yellow grass eyelashes, rooftop nose ridges...

how silently, so silently love descends from pure heaven. today, no snow in the sky or on the ground, but piles and flurries of love in my heart this Christmas season. i'm not sure what did it. well, yes i am; Jesus did it, as he does with everything that involves love. i am just so filled with gratitude that my family is alive and well, that my friends are so many and so wonderful. i am surrounded by immovable snowpacks of miracles, unmeltable blessings.

as he came to earth, so he comes to hearts that invite him still to enter in. silently. you feel it before you see it. the noisy cares of the world and life are muted and absorbed in his endless love, which love will drift high in your heart; and instead of cover the roads, show the way; instead of chill the surface, ignite the core.

the greatest gift i could ever receive is a daily snow dusting of what the angels declared to simple shepherds tending their flocks that night: good tidings and great joy. I have a massive love for the gospel good tidings of Jesus Christ and am blessed with a testimony, gathered silently, experience by experience, that God did send that perfect child, who grew and lived as my model example; who atoned to take my scarlet sins and, through faith and repentance, renew my soul as though it were white as snow; and who died to bridge the way over death to life eternal.

by way of honest faith, i have had undeniable miracles in my life, simple and great, and i have come to know my Savior. he has granted my every, daily blessing.

and I am completely snowed in.

Nuclear Bombs and an English Major

2011-12-14T23:51:00.001-07:00

Ahh, finally I can breathe without breaths taking up energy needed for deadlines. Free breathing, it's nice.

Whenever I exit school I see this plume of white smoke some distance to the north. Often it makes me ponder what it must have been like waking up all dandy, breathing free on a pleasant morning in August, year 1945. Then suddenly a lightning geyser punching through the ground, rocking even the dust of the earth beneath my sandaled feet. Standing some distance to the south I wouldn't die, but every eyelid blink would try for days to scrape the inverse x-ray pillar scarred to my retinas.

From where I see the smoky finger poking at the sky, my guess is the town of Pleasant Grove would disappear, become a giant gravel pit, every slab of cement an unmarked headstone. I used to live in PG. I want to say I remember what that plume is from. I can't. And I guess I can't help that I wonder what an atomic bomb shock wave would feel like.

I picture the people in the surgical clinic upon which the "Little Boy" released his nuclear tantrum: one minute bowing to check on a patient; lifting the page of a patient's chart; the patient turning his sick face toward the window, his breathing subtle like the leaves nodding sleepily at the summer morning sun--

then in the profound silence of full volume noise, an instantaneous slurping of every atom of air, simultaneously resisted by a force that turns teeth to ash, snatched their bodies, etched for an instant in the transparent monolith of time, just long enough for the entire earth to pause, a pop of light surrounded each human statue, radiating skeletons framed in black silhouettes--

and after that moment, a melting hole, their stunned souls rising on a smoldering halo of smoke.

This video has bounteous dramatic effect...but it's rather close to what I imagine. No way so many humans (140,000) on earth could have woken that day with a feeling that it might be their last.

"The bomb was delivered by a US B29 bomber, nicknamed Enola Gay, from the Pacific island of Tinian. Dropped by parachute it exploded about 580 m. (1,885 ft.) above the ground, and at the point of detonation the temperature probably reached several million degrees centigrade. Almost immediately a fireball was created from which were emitted radiation and heat rays, and severe shock waves were created by the blast. A one-ton (900 kg.) conventional bomb would have destroyed all wooden structures within a radius of 40 m. (130 ft.). Little Boy destroyed them all within a radius of 2 km. (1.2 mi.) of the hypocentre (the point above which it exploded). The terrain was flat and congested with administrative and commercial buildings, and the radius of destruction for the many reinforced concrete structures was about 500 m. (1,625 ft.), though only the top stories of earthquake-resistant buildings were damage or destroyed. Altogether an area of 13 sq. Ikm. (5 sq. mi.) was reduced to ashes and of the 76,000 buildings in the city 62.9% were destroyed and only 8% escaped damage"

(from this photojournal website:

http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/g_l/levine/bombing.htm).

Several MILLION degrees? Holy crap. [moments and moments of silence]

It's so hard to segue from horror to anything else...

But anyway, I picture this walking out from school. Not sure why. I mean, I could think happy thoughts, right? Like "oh, i bet that's a magical candy factory sending sweet fumes of confectionary sugar into the air" (*note, powdered sugar/sugar dust is also highly explosive) but no, I think of my Japanese brothers and sisters on those fateful days in August 1945.

Why do I think I can even pretend to visualize such a horror? Mostly because of media and movies, is my guess. Maybe I was watching from heaven. I would be the kind of spirit to request to watch such a thing. Somehow to develop compassion for others, if that's how pre-mortal heaven works. Or perhaps I was there, if the pre-mortal or pre-this-life precinct is governed by reincarnation. And that's why I am drawn to think of such things, because my soul was once propelled into its next life from that nuclear force. I don't know. I tend to ponder on the more macabre. That also prompts a "why?" which also receives another "I don't know." More often than not life ends in death, so it's an inescapably intriguing part of existence. In my opinion.

But I love the living part. Despite a somber regard for this historic event at this precise moment, I'm actually quite happy. Indeed, profoundly peacefully happy. I have high hopes for next semester, and small, productive goals to keep me busy until it comes, to keep my brain engaged. This semester really put me to work, and I don't want to lose that ethic or momentum.

one goal is to read the Chicago Manual of Style. It's a rule book about grammar. Thrilling, huh? The way I see it, it's the Louvre of Language. I'm that kind of person. Who really will read the dictionary sometimes. I know. I think I could have been a dictionary in another life. Or some human equivalent. Maybe a medieval scribe. I love writing. Even after hundreds of double-spaced typed papers this semester, I still love writing. I love it even more I think, because this semester made me better at it. I am so grateful for the opportunities proffered me at school. The first person I thank for my success is God (if I fail anything, it's my own fault; if I win, it's all on God. He's too good to me, frankly). The next first.one (1.1) person I thank is Grandma Bonnie. She funds tuition and books. Without her, I wouldn't be going to school right now, frankly. And then Aunt Jadine is 1.2 because she's the woman. She makes school costs reimbursement happen. I am blessed. Beyond.

Did you know next semester they're making me Editor-In-Chief for Touchstones magazine, UVU's literary journal? Oh dude, I'm nervous. But so excited. I really want to do this editing/publishing thing with my life, so more than it looking good on any resume, I really want to learn everything it can teach me! I still can't believe I'll be the kind of top leader person for the semester. This past semester I was a Poetry Editor. That was a fair amount of work. Now I'll have more to do, but I'll have amazing people around me. Spread the word if you know any students enrolled at UVU who write poetry, fiction, non-fiction, or drama, or do photography, sculpture or art, and tell them to SUBMIT their stuff, or if they want to be part of the staff, to send in an APPLICATION because it's going to be so much fuuuuun!!

Things are looking mighty fine in this current life of mine. Just got to keep seeking first the kingdom, then I'll be citizen of a first-rate nation that supplies every needful thing. No matter what happens, I'm good with God.

So...farewell Fall 2011.

Pencil Picture Poem

2011-12-06T19:50:00.001-07:00

twenty-six letters, in no particular order

2011-12-04T20:44:00.001-07:00

Just then, I opened a new post and completely expected to see something written already.

That's because all day I've been writing, just not in a readable way. Each experience I lived today somehow knew it was important and so it started doing this strange thing to me. Each experience pricked a tiny hole in wherever it is within me that gets that full feeling of satisfaction with life. And instead of being filled by the wonderful experiences of this day, I was emptied.

I was nestled in a seat at church, warming my heart by the heat of sweet declarations of faith by my peers and friends. Their personal testimonies witnessed of the masterpiece that is painted by every stroke of brilliant experience, designed by God, hung in the halls of our memories--indeed painted on the very walls immovably. My heart was open, yet unfilled.

An hour later I was in the Relief Society meeting, surrounded by angels with no two hairdos alike, no two outfits uniform; my heart opened wider, gladder to the spirit shared, but was not filled.

I stirred the coconut milk in with the squash and curry and chicken and onions, and my nose poured the soup's savory aroma into my lungs, yet my soul was not filled.

And when satisfied mouths partook I was happy; then a little prick, another leak began. I wondered. If the gospel would not fill my soul, if making and sharing food could not satisfy--indeed if these most favorite acts now sabotaged what usually they made whole--what could patch my draining soul?

When the boy (whose attention crushes my heart making my cheeks bruise rosy) talked to me and even complimented me and made me laugh and this did not reverse the emptying process I knew at last nothing would work and it must just be one of those days.

I don't mean to say that these good experiences didn't make me feel good, but I just didn't get why nothing was sticking. Plenty of feeling, just no filling.

The moments of my day had this plan: rid her of satisfaction and she will feel a need to be filled, she will write. Each letter will prick the tip of a finger, the leaking feelings bleeding through a corresponding shape, and when each letter has been typed tidily in place, she will discover that her soul is actually filled and overflowing, that words had just had no ability to define those excess feelings that can only be felt. She will write, and she will be filled. Then her filledness will be fully represented. in writing.

Well.

Writing thinks it does that. It thinks that since it holds all the letters, then it owns all the words. If it owns all the words, it can produce any and all meaning. All satisfaction will be filled if I write the feelings out, write 'em down. It thinks that since I can't think without words, I need writing to be ultimately fulfilled.

Well, more or less, the words are right. I need them to communicate feeling. A feeling comes, I sense a movement within me, I classify it best I can, I tag it to track its migratory patterns. That's what we do, we assume every feeling has a place, so we find or make a place for it.

Right now I'm writing because...

[minutes of wondering wandered through my brain just now]

I have no reason.

Right now I am content, but at a loss. A loss for what? Words? Never. There are always words, even if none of them describe the things I feel and think. A loss that feels like the overused "missing jigsaw piece" analogy. It's not a corner piece; my frame is complete. But there's one inside piece that I'm looking for, because this one section is almost complete, and I feel like I'll know it the second I see it.

All this fancy talk is bothering me. It's because it'll have an audience of who knows who. I could have written in my journal, privately, but when I write that way it's so blasé, it's as if I write the same page over and over again. I chose to write for an audience other than myself so that I would try harder.

It worked...but it's boring. It's all pretty and floofy, which isn't even a word, and my pretty words weren't even true. So here's the truth.

Right now I'm writing for attention. Right now my mind feels like it's trickling down my spine and down, through to the center of the earth because I took sleep-aid pills to induce an imitation slumber sensation.

Right now, if you were looking through your screen to me you would see this:

Which you probably weren't expecting. I mean, how could you have? It's not pretty. But, truth be told, I'm too vain to post a picture I don't think resembles prettiness in some measure. Right now my face is stiff with mud that hides my skin as it pretends to cleanse it. My words mask my feelings as they pretend to portray them. That's happening in my "right now," even though you're reading this during your "right now."

Right now I'm thinking about Mary, the mother of Jesus. She didn't ask for it, she wasn't walkin around thinking "I sure hope I'm the Mary, chosen and bound to get a lot of attention." I never would have been a good choice to fill the role of Mary, or Eve, etc; I'm too vain. Not humble enough. I try to be, honest I do; but, not so that I'll be chosen for it, because that's instantly contrary to the laws of humility. I would really like to be honestly humble, by very nature. But it takes a lot of effort on my part to be humble. So I keep trying.

Right now I'm thinking about that boy. Yes, I have a crush, as they say, on this boy. But he has a crush on himself, so he doesn't need mine. But still it's just fun to have a little crush. The reason (well actually there are many deserving reasons a crush would form) I've been attracted to him is because the first time I ever talked to him, I told him that I love to write and he responded exactly how I expected he wouldn't: he jubilantly expressed slight envy that I pursue writing, that I study it in school, because he too loves to write (and he does it well), but he is studying more practically lucrative things. So ever since I met him that pleasant night beside a dim fire, I knew I liked him. He unknowingly inspires me to create, to write, because I am privileged to pursue what I love. But that is all he will do for me, because I do not seek his attention. When I get it, I am pleased. But he gets enough attention from enough girls to fill an entire stadium, wherein they would gladly assemble to cheer for only him. He would act embarrassed, but that would be his mask to cover his smug elation. I do not imply that he is at all unpleasant, I'm just saying I will not participate in throwing myself at him. If he asked me out, I would absolutely say yes. He's the white knight; he makes the first move.

Right now I have to pee. Right now my nose is itching from the mud mask. Right now all the letters aren't touching each other on the keyboard, but 'w' typed after 'o', and 'o' typed right after 'n', creates the present. Those letters chain up these words, and these words make up my feelings, and my feelings fill my happy soul despite its holes and ignorance. Right now I think I've written all I came to write.

oops, I almost forgot the letter z.

Red, Magenta, and Black shatter Friday

2011-11-25T20:22:00.001-07:00

It was a Black and sunny Friday. Al, Moyra and I didn't go shopping. We got manicures and went to lunch at Zupas to spend some time (and a little money) making meaningful memories. Alex chose pink to go beneath a black shatter paint and topped it off with gold flowers and dots, Moyra chose a gold-shimmering red, and I got a magenta that perfectly matches the belt I'll wear this Sunday when I give my talk.

Last year Al and I did hair and makeup and went to a movie, sneaking ice cream in with us. I cherished the day, so we went out again! I'm glad Moyra came this time. It was her birthday four days ago, so in proper heed of the season, we celebrated a birth as we avoided celebrating consumerism.

My opening words in last year's post were "The world is probably my least favorite place the day after Thanksgiving." I think so even more this year. I don't mean to judge the people who participate, necessarily. Well, perhaps without people, Black Friday wouldn't exist as such, and so maybe I am judging the people, en masse.

It's simply a land of make believe, and I can't bring myself to pretend. A sale seems suddenly special. One perceives that money is being saved whereas money is actually flying out of plastic cards under pretense of currency, which only represent credit, debt. Knowing that their spenders are evolving--they can't even wait for Thanksgiving to fulfill its role before Santa stuffs the market--the Stores adapt: they open at midnight, a time that their wallet wielders would stay awake to anyway. The bell tolls, the money passes from one life to another, presents purchased are given to others in similitude of some reason foggy to the eyes which see twinkling red and green, ears that hear jingling bells, those who stuff their four-wheeled sleighs with packages and bags and boxes and pudding and roast beast...wait a minute, this sounds familiar. Ah yes, Dr Seuss wrote a book about a Grinch whose mind was stuck in a perception of Christmas consumerism, and whose aim was to steal things so he could ruin Christmas. Sure, the Grinch was more a vindictive guy who resented being excluded from all the festivities, but Black Friday reminds me of this part:

That look he gives at the end is the face I attribute to my mind when it thinks about the day after Thanksgiving. A day of gratitude for the plenty that the world shares with us, lasts not one second past midnight and then the noise begins. The rush n' crush, pleasure-treasure, deal stealing, reason for the season treason...take that, Dr S. (with this snippet of video i expect no monetary gain nor claim as belonging to anyone but the Doc...)

Don't get me wrong, presents are nice. We want people to remember us, know that we love them. The idea that presents reflect love has long been evolving, along with the shoppers.

Strictly speaking, if anyone should get presents for Christmas, it's Jesus. It's a celebration about Him. The wise men brought gifts for him and his mother. (Here is a link with thoughts on the meaning of the wise men's three gifts) But, since He doesn't have much need for earthly things anymore (what do you get a Guy that really does have it all?) we bring gift-giving down to our own level: presents are for the kids.

Why are there two different words, anyway? Present, gift. French helps me understand this. "Cadeau" (which is a word close to 'cadet' which means youngest sibling, and also to 'cadavre' which we all know means dead body) means present. "Don" means gift or talent. This makes me think that gifts are given as from God to his children (hence the birth of his Son), or as reward to hard work, or as from worshipper to king; whereas presents, we give to each other (which is in essence trading back and forth what God has gifted us).

I heard a radio commercial for a laser eye surgery establishment (weeks before Thanksgiving) that started out "We all know Christmas is about kids." And the commercial continued on about how if you bring a toy to make a kid's dreams come true, you'd get a discount on your eye's own dreams coming true. I've had this eye surgery. It sure is a dream, a miracle even. Hey, speaking of miracles, Jesus healed blind eyes! They should've used that approach in their advertising. "When Jesus was on Earth, He healed the eyes of the seeing impaired" (they'd want to be politically correct) "So since He's not here any more...bring in a toy for a kid and we'll discount the miracle of perfect vision as your present to yourself this holiday season"...

I return from tangent. Presents are for kids. I was just telling Al and Moyra today that it feels weird as an adult to ask for presents. When I was young I had interests, hobbies, really simple kinds that could be wrapped in boxes. Nowadays it's just not right to ask, "um, well I'd like a reliable car" or, "I could really use a box springs and frame under this mattress on the floor." I have a job and responsibility and so asking for presents comes with a taste of shame: I ask for things I need that I can't quite get for myself. Though my loved ones love to help me, I feel like I need to wait until I'm getting married (or have to give up on hope of marriage and find a 'place of my own') before I'll feel comfortable asking for the presents I need/want now.

Plus, I'm happy with what I have already. I have 99% of what I want and more than 100% of what I need. I am blessed, end of complaint.

Why did we learn and why do we teach kids that birthdays, holidays, celebrations are about presents and candy? Why do they get to roam around and collect free candy house to house? Why do they get an Easter basket filled with candy and presents? Actually, participation in these traditions don't bother me. Why so many children do not know what celebrations are truly for, that's what bothers me.

We know Santa isn't a real dude that never grows up at the Never-Never-North Pole, shaking fairy dust on a sleigh and reindeer so he can heigh-ho-ho-ho his happy thoughts into the air and drop presents on the good boys and girls, and coal on the bad. Around the world in one night.

Why do these things lose charm for us as adults? Because we don't believe the lie anymore, even if we try to keep living it. We participate in the consumer tradition without stopping to realize we're not saving the money we're spending. It's hard to feel cheerful living something you don't believe or know how to believe.

A possible majority of adults aren't sure they believe in Jesus, and so the holiday begins to look more and more holey, hollow. Why do I even celebrate this day? To perpetuate the lie, so the children will grin when their dreams are ripped open on Christmas morning--er, I mean, when their presents are ripped open to reveal their hopeful dreams on Christmas morning.

I know of two believing children, two very darling girls. Sure they ask for presents and play along with American traditions, but they have a gift of humility that was given them when their mother was taken from them by cancer about seven years ago. (Talk about a ripping of dreams.) They are so modest in their asking, receiving, and showing gratitude for things. I'm not saying they're perfect kids, but they rank up there on the nice list. Their dad is doing a fine job.

I guess because it was a present, I'm as guilty as the next presenter--but they didn't ask for it. I took these two girls to get their nails painted because I love them. I don't think spending time (and a little money) could ever spoil two such gifted kids.

You know, I'm convinced as children we knew exactly what Christmas was about before presents stole the scene. It's about a Man who lives somewhere Northeast of wherever you are in the world, who smiles down and gifts every good thing to those who humbly ask. We should let the simple, childlike belief in Jesus Christ be the miracle gift to our blind eyes this Christmas season. (I love this video)

i'm an almost really good writer

2011-11-15T02:16:00.001-07:00

Post 1, Post 2, Post 3

I had some of my writing peers look over a slightly modified version of my first post this month and their feedback to me was that they didn't quite understand what I was trying to get at. Fair enough. If even one person gives me that sort of feedback, it is a fair assessment that I need to write better.

In my opinion, certain blog writing should be raw; in a way unfinished so that the reader can cook it up just right. I want my blog to be an open reflection of what I'm thinking, not what I think you should think about what I've written. Sure, I want it to make sense, but what if I make you fill in some blanks? You aren't duty-free as a reader. I won't make you reel until your brain is upside-down from hoping to find some semblance of sense in abstract and disconnected rambling, not intentionally. But I don't want to carry you; I want to move you.

You've got a brain, an imagination. It needs exercise. It is always my intention for my sentences to offer breath to your expanding mind as your eyes jog along, each word a stride toward an energized view of language, life, yourself.

In my creative non-fiction class it's been a pretty consistent feedback on my writing that I should look more closely, take advantage of utilizing meditation in my stories, so they have an ability to reach to a reader and make a connection. While I personally felt that I got out what I wanted to say in my first post, I can always order it better, or be more clear, or something. Writing raw, the way I do on my blog, without peer review before publishing, may not produce perfectly sensical material. I'm a consistently almost really good writer. I'll keep practicing.

So, just to be clear:

My point in not wearing a bra for the month of November is to be veritably aware of breasts, particularly my own. I intentionally left out the word cancer. Not wearing a bra will not somehow make me aware of cancer, any more than seeing pink will make me aware of breast cancer. I'm not wearing a bra to remind me to research about cancer, so that I become aware of it.
----so far this has been interesting. liberating in some ways, inconsequential in others. Mostly I've been keeping a jacket on because going braless is always colder and so in winter even more so. I'm unaware of what other people have perceived, if even they've looked at my chest; only my roommates or the guy I'm not exclusively dating have really had anything to say, and usually only if I bring it up. Anyway, because I usually keep the jacket on, I don't think many people are aware, and that's okay because that wasn't the point; I need to be aware. I'm doing this part for me. No bra as an action to improve my own awareness.

My point in choosing November is because breast cancer doesn't end after halloween; it's not "pretend" or "dress up for fun and then go back to normal life." Traditionally, November is gratitude awareness month. I am grateful for thus-far healthy breasts. And bras. I think it will feel peculiar when I again wear a bra, but bras sure are useful for rounding things up, for grading on a curve...

My point when I made the comparison between breast cancer awareness propaganda and TV commercials featuring starving children, was to question why two such serious issues receive such different attention. World hunger, does it have an awareness month? Nationally, yes: June. I didn't know that. June has always been about me, since it boasts no national reason to celebrate except that I was born its eighth day. (Someday when my writing makes me famous, and then I die, June will finally have a holiday.)
----we always use something humorous or infantile or cartoon to represent our holidays. Santa, turkeys, Easter bunny (seriously, what a joke), etc., so that we can make an easy connection, feel like we're celebrating awareness---even if we don't think for one second of Jesus' birth, a peaceful harvest feast between foreign settlers and Native inhabitants, or Jesus' resurrection, etc.

Some look beyond the plush toy turkeys and use November as a time to gather in canned food and donate it to shelters and food banks. A true spirit beams behind the propaganda of every holiday that is reached by awareness. Once you step into the rays of awareness, your attitude changes and you let yourself be moved by that spirit, and that is when a difference can be made, when you can feel that satisfactory joy of the season.

My point is, you don't become truly aware of anything unless you do something proactive. Having a perception of some thing or situation or fact is nice and all, and weakly qualifies as awareness; gaining knowledge of any thing or situation or fact takes initiative on your part. No one else can think for you; not even my words will succeed in making you truly aware unless you personally desire to do something about things, situations or facts in your own way.

I don't care if you don't want to learn about breast cancer. Maybe that doesn't affect you very closely. Well, then what does? My words are etching a template for action.

My point is, pink means nothing to you if you don't know what it's signifying. What it's signifying doesn't mean anything to you unless you learn about it. If you're not concerned with eventual cancer, then maybe it's heart failure, Alzheimer's, any other mutated component of "normal" that may lurk in your own future. Your participation must be your own: you must become aware by knowing the risks, the preventative measures you can take, and when the time comes, when ultimately those precautions may have had no power to change your course, then you need to be aware of how you will care for yourself. What will you decide if your options are limited? Which treatment, any treatment, are there treatments?

If you have a question, seek its answer. Ask, and it shall be given you. Unless science doesn't have an explanation quite yet.

And that's why they're handing out bumper stickers that say "save the TaTas" or "save second base", or "I love boobies", etc.: to supply money for research. I haven't put energy into researching where exactly the funds and donations go, but so many good and concerned people donate money, goods and time to furthering the search for cures, for treatments, for machines that provide early detection. So I support the efforts, I am glad everything turns pink and people buy in to it. The money furthers research and treatment, I hope, more than less.

I went to the Huntsman Cancer Institute at the University of Utah on Friday. The building is absolutely beautiful. There are two sides to it: the patient and hospital side, and the research side. The hospital was so unrestricted, inviting---it didn't even feel like a hospital, actually. Every floor has an amazing view of Salt Lake valley. The sincere care and individual investment of doctors and nurses and volunteers and other workers was palpable, breathable: instead of a hospital smell, a hospitable feeling. That was the most impressive thing I take away from the hospital side. Cancer is taken seriously there, but the hopeful feeling is unmistakable. That's what I personally felt aware of.

The sixth floor is home to their research library. I want to go back and browse and ask questions before the month is through, but I'm not sure that I will get to it. But, so that you are aware, there are specialists there who offer answers, comfort, motivation and solutions if you or someone you know needs any info. It's a way to get tailored research tips from an actual, experienced human versus the impersonal Google database. Not saying Google isn't vast and helpful, but at the Institute these counselors can narrow down and point you in the precise direction you personally need to go.

My tour guide Judy pointed out several donated furnishings as we moved through the building. Every piece of art was donated. One painting right outside the research library was even raised into the building by crane before its outer walls were even constructed because the mural is so big; it wouldn't fit up any staircase or elevator. The top floor was literally built around that painting.

I took only one picture during the tour (okay two, counting the description) of another masterpiece:

My phone camera couldn't capture the whole puzzle, but only just barely. 24,00 pieces, one by one! There was another puzzle like this one on a different floor. It is truly an aesthetically comforting building.

Judy then took me over to the research side of the Institute. Actually that's where things started to appear more like the typical hospital: a running track of florescent lights above, squeaky tile floors below, echoey halls and very little art the closer we came to the labs.

Now, my friend Ryan (whose humor would produce medicine of the cure-cancer level, were laughter somehow transformed into something absorbable by blood) had prepped me for my tour. He works in a lab there at the Huntsman and he mentioned how every PI (Principal Investigator, essentially a specialized research doctor) has a lab and research workers or interns such as himself, and the room of individual labs just went on and on.

When Judy opened the door to the labs, at first we entered a small entry room with enclosed, refrigerated shelves, like the kinds in movies that hold vials of world-ending viruses. Then we passed through an open doorway and I beheld something I've been trying for two days to find words to describe. I should have taken a picture, but even its thousand words wouldn't adequately represent the feeling of what my eyes were gulping down. I couldn't see if the room ended, but certainly it must, since the building has outer walls.

Little machines whirred and swayed and spun and yet a controlled silence prevailed. The unending sight of lab cubicles offered to stretch my brain more than I could allow in one day, so I focused on the lab immediately before me. Clean, orderly, but how do they keep track! So impressive. I think most of all I sensed a profound respect for the efforts being made to find better treatments, to discover more about the body and its mysteries. The measly word I vocally managed to employ was "wow."

What would be most valuable to you, if it interests you, is go tour the Institute yourself. It was totally simple to call and set an appointment (To schedule a tour, contact Roni [said like Ronnie] Whittle at 801-587-9315), the tour is free and less than an hour, and Judy was super nice, and everyone else I saw had an appearance of niceness, and it's good to see things you don't live very far from---to become aware of what's right under your nose.

If you don't want to tour the Huntsman center (or don't live in Utah at all, say), go tour something that interests or puzzles you: 24,000 bits of question can be pieced together, no joke. You just need to do a little research to cure curiosity. Arrange a visit to a bank, a library, a historical site, a government building. I imagine pretty much every place is open to sincere inquisitors. If people have taken the time and made the effort to build a whole building around one painting, one idea, one cause, they obviously want people to know about it. Seriously, arrange a visit. You'll be thrilled with what you dig up in your own back yard.

In the very least, go take a can of tuna to your nearest food bank. Happy Thanksgiving.

Next up, the story of my mock mammogram experience. This post is long enough.

a post not exactly about breasts

2011-11-14T00:01:00.001-07:00

My tire went almost-flat and I switched it out with my donut. I wore a pink and white striped knee-length skirt (and of course no bra) while I did this. Then I went inside and made pumpkin chocolate chip cookies that are fantastic. I mostly followed this recipe but instead of eggs and seasonings I used up the rest of the pumpkin pie filling (that already had eggs and seasonings in it) that I'd made a few weeks back...luckily it was still good because I wanted these cookies. I ate four, he left with 8 or 9. There are at least 35 left. Yeah, lots of cookies.

He and I, to use familiar vernacular, "updated our relationship status." We'll date, but not exclusively. That's fine. I feel quite fine about it. I'm updated, up to date, down to date him and whomever. That's la vie.

I told him he needed to date so he could be sure he'll find whom he needs. He asked me 'what do you need?' I spoke for a moment about how I need a man who loves God and honors the Priesthood power He accords him, but who can still relate with the world. Not partake of it, say, but just know how to maneuver through it without letting it get him haughty or naughty. heh. I just made that up. And then I mentioned how I hope I will marry a man who is patient and kind. Not because I'm necessarily obnoxious and mean, for to need a balance, but just that, like some humans, I can have moments where I'm self-absorbed and not exactly aware of others' needs. I try, but I do notice that I can just totally miss opportunities to praise and recognize what wonderful things they do and how wonderful they are. In general I try to recognize this; however, I am not perfect.

I told him I used to be more thoughtful and considerate. Then there were certain boys who came along and sort of broke me down, and now I don't care as much. It was a good thing at first. I cared more than those boys wanted me to, so, to rid myself of the ridiculous stress of imbalanced romantical reciprocation, I learned myself how to turn off caring. I had to turn off the caring because I unwisely decided that it was somehow preferable to remain in contact with a soul-sucking person who didn't care and match myself with their level of not-caring than to move on and find someone who deserved my caring. Instead of ridding myself of the boy, I rid myself of the caring.

Let this single-line paragraph emphasize to you that this practice is lame: lame because it cripples.

My eyes drew distant memories on the wall and I stared blankly at them as I spoke to answer his question. Then my eyes decided they were done drawing and wanted to play cowboy. Wrangling alongside some galloping emotions, my eyes lassoed in a few tears.

He stated that I was crying and wiped away a tear. This was funny to me. Guys are rarely comfortable with the release of woman tears. I bet they wish there was some way of capturing these mysterious microorganisms and dissecting them, to understand what they're made of, how they really form. He informed me that I was crying, not because I didn't know that I was crying, but because he didn't know what to say, but that probably something should be said. He asked if he made me cry. I assured him no. He asked me why, then. My right shoulder shrugged toward my chin and I said, 'sometimes my emotions come out my eyes.'

Guys, there come times when a woman cries. It is safe to assume it could be because of you, because that can make you tender, make you stop and think and ask and comfort; but, you know, sometimes the emotions truly do just get pent up a bit too long and they flutter free from those glassy windows that open to her soul. Sometimes the words that are trying so hard to escape through the lips can't find a way, so their only route to expression is to dissolve out through the eyes.

Other times she thinks of a sad story and makes herself a character in it. Sometimes that sad story is her own past and the pale humor of irony mixes with tears, watercolors of reality to fill in the permanent outline of that past, for her to paint a new understanding of it.

That's basically what I was doing. We all have a sad story, at least one. Momentarily I remembered the character I played in that story and I wept for her. Just a few tears.

He told me I'm beautiful. I wasn't seeking any compliment; my tears just came. But it was nice to hear anyway. So what if the tears are what brought the words from him. It's nice to hear.

I still care. But after all that pageantry I made myself go through in the past, icing on the fake smile so that my heart might believe that I didn't truly care, eventually she believed that she didn't truly care. Now it's hard to turn on again.

Sometimes I think of the opening line in that groovy song Black Horse and a Cherry Tree by KT Tunstall. "Well my heart knows me better than I know myself, so I'm gonna let it do all the talking."

If instead I had let my heart speak, and then listened to her, I would have dropped the boys that she knew were no good for her. Instead my emotions absorbed my attention and I "stopped [her] dead for a beat or two" so I could do things my own way, and she hasn't forgiven me yet. I thought she didn't know what she wanted, I wasn't sure how to trust her. Now I recognize that she has had a very keen intuition all along, and, now she doesn't trust me with it. I kept thinking I need a change of heart, that she needs to be healed because she's broken, or has been broken. But I think maybe she's fine.

I need a change of impression.

And that reminds me. I'm going to experience the pressure of a mammogram this week, in the spirit of breast awareness. Hot dog, is that ever going to make me aware of my breasts. Just because I haven't reliably posted about my experiment this week doesn't mean I haven't been being aware; it's just that you're not aware that I'm aware. But I am. Stay tuned.

No-bra-vember...

2011-11-06T23:21:00.000-07:00

Read Post 1 'Something You Don't Know'
Read Post 2 'Breast under(a)wear(ness)'

This weekend I've been enthusiastically :-[ aware of the pink of peptobismol. . .and it got me thinking about side effects of cancer treatments. I went to breastcancer.org and found the Treatment Side Effects page. There are over a hundred treatment side effects listed in alphabetical order. Death is not listed.

Today, during the social hours of church meetings and activities, I became annoyed by the persistent shifting of my selected outfit and realized how capably a bra holds everything in place: boobs, clothes, attention. . .? As I tugged discretely, trying to shift back into comfort, I inwardly huffed a little, longing for that old familiar cradle.

I quickly reminded myself that some women don't even get to wear their own breasts under their outfits any more, and humbly quieted my heedless qualm.

There has been history of breast cancer and other cancers in my family, actually. I had a young cousin die of cancer; I think he was almost seven. I remember my younger sister and I were on the trampoline when we got the news of his passing. We both plopped down and started crying. Whenever I picture him I see a glowing, bluish light behind a halo of wispy almost-gone hair, a smile powered by courage, and eyes that saw beyond: windows to the assurance and hope of the loving embrace of God. His youngest brother, when still a toddler, fought and beat cancer. He's now in high school and about as strong and as tall as a horse.

My grandmother survived a breast cancer battle. I don't remember anything about her being down n' out. If ever she was, as I imagine she must have been, she seamlessly resumed grandmotherhood and shows so few signs of the interruption. Maybe I'll build up the nerve to ask her about it; maybe she'll tell me what it was like. Not exactly a hoppin' topic.

So anyway, unhappily aware am I that my chances of becoming a pink and hairless heir of cancer might be pretty good.

I haven't read up on many stories of suffering yet. A lot of survivor stories are so packed with positivity, the suffering doesn't get much mention. Who likes to dwell on the pain? I'm in awe at their triumph over extreme difficulty, the likes of which I'm sure I can't even imagine.

This lady's story was remarkably good-humored. I recommend it.
http://community.breastcancer.org/blog/cancer-baby-children-and-the-body-after-cancer/

It takes ponderous effort to be grateful for something I've always had. Well, I guess I've really only had breasts since what, twelve, thirteen? Maybe it was even later before I actually had anything that remotely filled a bra. Late bloomer. But they've just been there, more or less, for a good fifteen years and I haven't given them a whole lot of thought. Well, okay, sure I have, but what I mean is, I haven't worried about losing them or waking up and them not being in place. . . .

I'm grateful for thus-far healthy breasts. Ladies, may you ever so remain---to entertain a happy husband (can I type that? J) and nourish several babes.

Breast under(a)wear(ness)

2011-11-05T19:09:00.000-06:00

Read Post 1 'Something You Don't Know'

I'm hoping to come up with some clever title for the overall product of my experiment this month. Clearly the title of this individual post proves that I'm still hoping.

So the first six days of my experiment have somewhat proven my point better than I expected. Even three days in to not wearing a bra, I was already mostly forgetting that my ladies were loose. I quickly became used to it, not seeming as aware of it as I'd thought I would, as on the first day. So even the lack of this useful piece of underwear didn't long keep me aware of anything. How quickly we adapt and forget, sometimes.

A whole month of not wearing a bra will be about as effective in making me aware of cancer as a whole month of wearing and seeing pink will. I need to do more.

I have been doing research. I'm surprised with some of the things I learn, but then again, not very surprised. My nation has been struggling with its overall health for some time. The other day I wrote up these couple paragraphs:

The organizations researching cancer cures are fighting alosing battle. Even though their efforts have produced many treatments, theywill forever have to research new ones if human behavior doesn’t change. Cancer is sometimes in our genes (hereditary), and some cancer cases are brought on by outsideinfluences, but most by behavioral unassertiveness (both considered 'environmental' factors). The 2010 Cancer Facts andFigures states:

Environmental (as opposed tohereditary) factors account for an estimated 75%-80% of cancer cases and deathsin the US. Exposure to carcinogenic agents in occupational, community, andother settings is thought to account for a relatively small percentage ofcancer deaths, about 4% from occupational exposures and 2% from environmentalpollutants (man-made and naturally occurring). …The estimated percentage of cancersrelated to occupational and environmental carcinogens is small compared to thecancer burden from tobacco smoking (30%) and the combination of nutrition,physical activity, and obesity (35%). (Facts 50)

Thesepercentages are based on figures that would make even the 'small', combined percentage of 6% (for occupational and environmental pollutants) calculate to representing 34,000 yearly deaths from cancer. This would correlate thatthe cancer cases caused by ‘the combination of [improper] nutrition, physical[in]activity, and obesity’ approximate 198,000 preventable deaths.

This surprised me. I thought the majority of cancer cases were hereditary. I'm not sure why I thought that. But MOST CANCER IS PREVENTABLE.

powerful image 'no smoking'
http://www.flickr.com/photos/myfotopage/2424624202/

This is why I feel it seems like a losing battle they're fighting. They can't very well find a cure for laziness and addiction. Indeed, those already have cures: hard work, exercise, preparedness, asking for help, will power. Pills and invasive treatments aren't usually needed there. (There are many interferences in life that make it hard to be happy and healthy. I will address this in another post soon. I'm just saying there's a lot to be said about taking as much control as you can about your health.)

The Facts and Figures also says:

The goals of the American Cancer Society’s research program are to determine the causes of cancer and to support efforts to prevent, detect, and cure the disease (56).

This is logical. From their studies they discover, for one, that nutrition, physical activity and obesity are contributive factors to the chances of getting cancer and they can recommend that we do something about it. In my opinion it seems largely preferable to avoid cancer treatment by not getting cancer, as much as I can help myself.

'Facts' goes on to say that only the federal government receives and spends more money as an organization in the US. At least, that's what I think I understand when I read: "The [American Cancer] Society is the largest source of private, nonprofit cancer research funds in the US, second only to the federal government in total dollars spent" (56). Or maybe they're saying that the government spends just a bit more than they do in researching cancer? Actually, that makes more sense. It's hard to believe that the American Cancer Society is spending trillions...

Anyway, the ACS is working hard, researching hard. I'm curious to know more about what, exactly. This is where I'm hoping to do more to heighten my awareness.

I have two friends that have connections with a cancer research facility here in Utah. One friend has given me the contact information that I need to set up a tour of the facility. I didn't even know I could do that; I have no idea what I'm in for, but I'm excited to find out. My strategy is to first speak to my friend who is an intern doing cancer research, ask him questions and see what questions our conversation makes me formulate for my tour of the research facility.

If you had this opportunity, what questions would you ask? I'm only one person and my mind is narrow in its wondering. I ask for your participation, please! Do you have anything on your mind about cancer? What would you like to be more aware about? Anything at all, let me hear your questions. If you do not want your questions to show publicly, send me a message through facebook (and if you're not my 'friend' find this-- http://www.facebook.com/mlefairchild --and message me that way). Thank you in advance for your contributions to my quest!

*picture of blue (not pink) bra found from http://myzerowaste.com/2011/09/its-recycle-your-bra-month/ another small way of making a difference in the world!

Something You Don't Know

2011-11-01T23:38:00.000-06:00

It's the first of November. Usually my joke is: "I haven't showered all month." My family expects it by now. And while that statement is currently truthful -- I am yet unshowered -- today I won't say it. Today I'm doing something else. Well, I suppose I'm not doing something; in the same way that not showering is, in effect, me doing something, I'm not doing in order to do something new.

Confused yet?

Okay I'll just tell you. Today I'm not wearing a bra. I didn't just forget to put one on in a rush to get to school. No, I had plenty of time as I ponderously decided that today would be the first day of a strange experiment, one I'm rather afraid of committing myself to. Not afraid like I'm afraid of getting a disease, say, but unsure how I will handle the daily results and consequences to come -- as if there were anything I could do to prepare for the unexpected anyway.

October is a month attributed with an awareness of breast cancer. Everything becomes pink and boobs receive varied and often humorous attention. There's something about humor that encourages widespread participation. If everything were serious serious serious, people might feel uncomfortable, kind of like the way we feel sad and helpless when pictures of malnourished children appear on the television screen: how can I help them? Moreover, how can I trust that my contributions will actually go toward efforts to nourish those skeletons held together by paper-thin skin? I don't think making light of their starvation would necessarily encourage my participation in the cause of eliminating global hunger. So why does making light of breast cancer produce T-shirts and stickers and slogans, etc., things which clearly don't make much of a difference, yet offer people a noncommittal way to participate or contribute to something they truly don't know how to involve themselves in.

Does awareness come from a color? A bag of chips printed in pink for one month? Are you involved when you buy a clever t-shirt or facebook post? Does awareness come when you find out that someone you know has silently battled and survived breast cancer? Does it come when you feel that lump in your own breast? When treatments erase everything inside you so that your hair has nothing to hold on to? Were you unaware that October became the poster month for breasts because in fact you're daily aware of the toll of breast cancer as each day turns into another without your loved one there to share it with you?

Most likely, my odd decision (odd to me) to not wear a bra for the month of November won't have far-reaching effects. It will most likely frequently present me with uncomfortable situations, considering the ensuing chilly weather. It will likely continue bringing me the feeling I've had all day at school: smug awareness. When I see someone, I look at them, not with different eyes than I've had for twenty-seven years, but with a smirk of secret knowledge: 'I know something you don't know. I'm not wearing a bra.' Everyone -- the guy behind the information desk at the library, my English professor, dudes and dames at the gym, young and old passers by alike -- has been an unknown recipient of this silent comment from my mind. It's a simple change, missing a traditionally familiar piece of underwear. And yet it's positively thrilling, this heightened awareness that I know something everyone else doesn't know.

Certainly we all know things that no one else discerns by glancing at us. And we all keep secrets from those who think they know us. We know what we know personally, through personal experience, and these are things no one else will know in precisely the same way. We all have a profoundly different view of the exact same world. That's life. But the awareness of it! We do not always sense it; we rarely purchase awareness with the currency of thoughtful contemplation on the uniqueness of everyday life. It's a shame. You and I should be aware that, even though the experts and the geniuses know a thing or two that we don't know yet, still they don't know what I know, what you know. They can't. I have perceived the world from my eyes. No one else has.

Then, sometimes we share things with others that they regularly would rather not know. For example, perhaps, you reading this blog post. Now that you are aware of what I know, perhaps it un-comforts you. It never was my intent to have offered you comfort by the end of this post, neither was it to make you aware of my breasts in particular. But maybe I have intrigued you. Maybe inspired you to try an experiment yourself, to put yourself in a position to see the world in a way you haven't yet.

It starts with a decision to do something. Or not do something. Do it. Be aware of what happens.

This eleventh month I will be aware of breasts, particularly my own unsupported pair, but also of breast cancer and the foundations and causes surrounding it. It's no longer October, but awareness is no less important. From time to time I will include what I become aware of, so that we can all have a real measure of awareness together. This should be a very stimulating experiment indeed.

Something you may not have known
The 2010 cancer.org Cancer Facts and Figures report estimated that about 569,490 Americans were expected to die of cancer that year -- more than 1,500 people a day.

That's a lot of pink bags of chips.

photo: alaskan state flower, forget me not

Grade Me

2011-10-24T23:05:00.001-06:00

Name
Professor
Assignment
Date

Title: Very Much Alluding to the Essence

Whenever I read a thing I think things about it. Then I write things. Some things are thoughtful and other things are filling space. Lots of space is filled. A thesis takes control and is the clever backbone that allows the rest of the piece to move.

I transition. So and so says, and I quote, "something" (page) that is really quite pertinent and I expound. I must expound or else what so and so said will not be pertinent. Fortunately it is quite pertinent. And not only does so and so prove that my thesis is indeed a clever way of tying thing one to thing two, I impress you with a nuanced shadow of meaning in my way of relating things.

Segue. The whole body of the paper extends from the backbone, coming alive: spurting nerve endings, flexing extremities, wiggling its eyebrows for how distinguished the words are making it appear. Another so and so argues that his own words disagree, "for how else would the paper be interesting if it did not stir up a conversation?" (page) and I take a stance. I will side with my thesis because the author of the original thing says "that to think . . . and respond [to a text] will always be a conversation within a conversation and there is no end, or origin, to the conversing" (page).

In other words, what I am saying is hardly original even if it is the first time I personally have ever thought it, but I must regurgitate the language of my breed. All that has been spoken before me is attached to my use of the words by imperceptible webs of meaning receding toward the genesis of time. And here I take five pages to wrap a buzzing idea, caught in this web, with words all my own. And methodically suck the life out of it.

Carefully I avoid the exact phrasing of any so-and-so-whosaidit who has ever written so that I don't flunk for plagiarism. I regift you words, sounds that will ever echo a thing you can never possess, but that reflect recursive images in your mind. You think something entirely unique to your mind, likely those things which are more, less or something other than (Derrida 157) what I have actually typed.

And then I conclude, having triggered a temporary trap of your attention, fusing thing one to thing two, which both reach back and grip the backbone tightly at its center. What would be lost if I did not perform on this occasion to speak? You neither leave richer with any thing, nor have I had to part with any thing to purchase this argument. Here it lies.

I cite their works

And So, So. The Something of Things. Of This World: Published, 1989 pages and pages. written.
So, So and. Who Disagrees. Of The Past: Published, 1686. pages and pages. written.

Derrida, Jacques. '"The Exorbitant. Question of Method." On Grammatology. 1967. Trans. Gayatri Spivak. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins UP, 1976. 157-164.

Landward

2011-10-22T13:37:00.001-06:00

Where your treasure is my heart

is also; you have the map

and wind in your sails.

Ignore the sun and stars

whose lights last half a day

and trust the tug that tightens

time: the only whole distance uncharted.

Search the horizon future,

imagine the harbor love,

anchored ashore a life time,

oh sailor, at ease

at home. . .

we'll sway cradled in a bed of rope

salvaged from those years at sea

our arms and fingers tethered together

moored tightly to eternity.

Face west and I'll scratch your back,

due east and I'll kiss your bronzed brow.

Hear the whistling inlet whisper

as I lie behind you resting

my cheek on a soft blade of shoulder.

Our breathing will softly ebb and flow,

the waves of our heart sculpting land.

Wrap me in your weathered wings.

Bury me alive in your heart.

Early morning you will wake to watch

the makeup sunrise on my face;

always already ready

you will wait beside me,

ocean eyes navigating

the north and south

of my frame. . .

my love is whole, wide

world curls its star, so,

sailor still sailing

don't worry or wander

wonder or weary;

our courses will cross

on land.

(picture: sun rising on the mediterranean)

Sing, sing a song

2011-10-21T14:53:00.000-06:00

Okay, finally uploading a video of the song I wrote. . . I could never get the quality to be much better than this, sorry about that. But, maybe not. Because then it's harder to hear how bad I sound. :) I like the words. Go prepositions! It was fun to write an original. I hope you enjoy it at least a little.

Take Me
Floating, flying
high as a bird in the breeze in the clouds in the sky.
Slowly, take me
carefully, carefully, carefully, carefully.

Softly, sing me
the words of the song of the heart in the tune of goodbye

I won't cry, I won't
I'll watch you go with clear eyes
I'll wait for the sunset to turn into sunrise
and bring you home
to me

Picture the moment
Soon as the sound of my voice in your ears fills your eyes.
Slowly, take me
All the way, all the way, all the way, all the way
Home

Sin-for-a-min Rolls

2011-10-21T02:42:00.001-06:00

Once upon a time my beautiful friend Jena made a rather delicious puffy pastry with brie cheese, nuts, craisins and puff.

then one day yours truly made a pizza version

and not only was it glorious to behold, but the taste thereof was the greatest ever. then tonight, inspired and accompanied by my friend Nate, the cinnamon (sin-for-a-min) roll version was born: delicious babes made of dough, butter, brown sugar, brie, mozzarella, pecans and craisins

you know how they say something about buying shoes in every color if you love them? well I say

"if the recipe rocks, make it in every pan"

or something. but it's not polite to talk with my mouth full. . . nom nom . . sinfully goooood (except sin isn't good, so don't sin. but if you do, repent, and eat these, and your world will be perfect. the end)

riddance

2011-09-01T14:19:00.001-06:00

if i had to get rid of everything in my life that reminded me of him i would
have to
discard about half of my wardrobe
move away from Provo
delete some pictures and throw away a bunch of trinkets
stop listening to certain songs and music
avoid restaurants and certain foods...lots of foods
become blind to tall muscular men
and never smell sunscreen again.

or maybe i could get a specialized lobotomy.

i would rid my life of these things,
but the things is
they are things now
piled and rusting

one thing i will not have to do is remove my heart.
she doesn't remind me of him any more
she doesn't remind me about him
she doesn't bring him up.
she beat him out
not up
and now, even though my mind resembles
a junkyard without a fence,
my heart is across the street
that beautiful home up for rent/sale.

Sense of Sound

2011-08-21T23:30:00.003-06:00

Walking up and down the stairs
I knew it was Dad
or if it was Mom
entering the front door
I could tell

Tires rolling in to park
driver door opening closing
the periwinkle van
was home

A cleared throat or a sneeze
is distinctly individual
as is each voice
one curt beat on the drum

But I can hear the difference
between his and hers
his feet and hers
his sniff and hers neeze

So wondrous is a sound
its clime in memory
heard once and remembered
before and for eternity

magical thoughts

2011-08-14T21:52:00.005-06:00

What if yawns were actually little invisible fluttering beasts? once you inhale one, it would use your lungs to reproduce in an instant. upon exhalation, half a dozen or more yawnerflies skitter about, contagiously seeking new lungs to infest. even using your own again if you remain lethargic in your place. the deeper you breathe and stretch, the more they reproduce. pretty soon you're surrounded by hungry swarms of yawns and they smother you to sleep.

what if you could write on toilet paper and send fax messages as it swirled away, down, down the plumbing maze? the coordinates you gave the message would print out on a corresponding roll of toilet paper -- in your friend's house, at your place of work. like a mix between fax and pay phones. except on toilet paper.

what if you had a magic garbage can and kitchen cupboards? all you'd have to do is dump your dishes in the can and, presto changeo, your dishes would pile up in their appropriate spots around the kitchen. sparkly clean.

what if you flash froze AND shrunk every food you'd ever need and placed it in your magical pantry-freezer? then instead of selecting 'crushed ice' or 'cubed' you would choose 'spaghetti and meat balls with garlic bread and steamed broccoli' and all the necessary ingredients would line up front and center. you would still need to cook because you don't have a magic microwave oven or a robot who does all the cooking for you. plus, cooking is delightful, and magic pantry-freezers save you time so that you can cook.

what if every time you blew out a birthday candle's flame the rising smoke rose and rose to the stars? and the stars filled up with more and more wishful smoke until they sneezed and sparks go flying through the sky, granting every goodly wish for those pensive beings who pause to say 'bless you' to the heavens.

what if using your imagination daily made you younger? healthier, happier, calmer? live more in a day: imagine. it's like magic

Fine

2011-07-27T03:30:00.002-06:00

i'm awake. this is only undesirable because i should be asleep... there's no reason i can't sleep. no worry, nothing exciting tomorrow, no impending doom, no trouble on my mind, no boy causing this damsel any distress, no pain or discomfort. so what the heck, you know? it's not even the fact that i can hear my roommate snoring though my ears are plugged with mysterious green expanding foam sound deadening devices. i'm just not tired. i will not fall asleep.

i've been pretty freakin hilarious lately. i don't know what it is. i'm just really funny. i think the most random things and i just kill myself every day with how clever i am. there truly are moments in life worthy to be recorded in sitcom or movie. but mostly life is a blend of common flavors with occasional bites of pure pepper biting brilliance. i like those moments.

i'm writing...i haven't written more than a witty facebook status update for the whole summer. i don't give myself time to be inspired. i miss poetry.

ooh i watched the last harry potter film. i cracked up to see the '19 years later' part. can it really be over? i mean, has it really been like seven or eight years since those books and movies started, ya know? dang. life goes by quick, huh. leave it to a fictional life passing by to remind you how fast your own goes right along with. just so you know, i'm not a freak fan of harry potter. but seriously, that whole story, start to finish, plot and world building: genius. absolutely just brilliant. i appreciate it. i have a little bit of story envy, yeah. but i appreciate its coolness. and j.k. rowling is a fab lady. i watched a video of her giving a speech at like harvard or something, and it was way cool. it was about how hardship will help us succeed. it was awesome. she really went to the bottom before making her way to the top. that's a good story that produced a good story. goooood!

ok so my roommate got up. went to the bathroom cuz that's really the only place to go. you know. my typing prolly woke her. now i have to leave and fake sleep. no doubt she'll be snoring in no time. lucky...

bye.

compassion

2011-06-29T12:47:00.006-06:00

june 23 2011. today a mother and father lost their son. did you feel it?

bodies lose souls, souls depart bodies every day. i guess we won't know until we die ourselves what that can feel like, but i'm convinced we can still feel the loss, the departure...we have a sense. part of us was designed to bond. we connect to each other. we lose each other.

or perhaps more appropriately we misplace each other. living separated by tinted glass. only with the right lighting will we see beyond.

because the shift of life from one place to another is happening constantly, maybe we don't always recognize each loss each moment. until it happens closer. until our connection is directly tied.

i believe my favorite human capacity is compassion. when one human’s heart can ache in sync with another’s, when one can provide skeletal support for another whose skin is the only thing keeping their insides in. insides dissolving in grief, pressing into tears, quaking from a shattered core, echoed in hollow sobs.

the man i saw who held his collapsing wife was father. his courage…to be strong enough for mother to mourn; one strong so two wouldn’t crumble. the woman who held her face in trembling hands was mother. Her sobs…her soul was torn and life bled from her heart. her youngest son. his body still; hers curling around her wounds, seeking safety, as an embryo.

her youngest son.

had time off from work and went out on the river with some buddies. they went out after and had a few drinks. when they got home he laid down, slept. friends went to work. came home, tried waking him up. he was gone. there, but gone. he was twenty-eight years. son, brother, uncle.

i have no sons but i have a 30 year old brother and a 30 year old uncle. i have a close connection to the situation through my love for these two men who could represent an equivalent loss in my life. i love my mother and father and would feel pain to see them mourn as this couple for their son. same if it were my grandparents mourning for my uncle. compassion struck me through imagining their reality as my own. my heart dropped to the bottom of my lungs and for a moment both forgot what they were any good for.

Truth is, reality is, even when a child escapes the womb and grows for 28 years, the mother keeps an embryonic connection to the precious human, in her heart, a love always developing and moving inside her. It is a love she hopes to die with, never to survive its early disconnection…of course the love remains and is not lessened, but its earthly connection, manifestation, mind and body pair, physical interaction cease. it's loss of life. a mother's life is her children. she loses life when a child is lost. two lives lost though only one heart stops...

a healthy heart experiences new births daily, new persons arrive to be loved, new ideas to cradle, new feelings and thoughts to nurture, new sights and sounds to be gathered and held dear. a normal heart experiences frequent deaths. the familiar flow of life, of things, is interrupted. we bleed.

all the bumps and scratches and bruises and cuts get bandaged and kissed better. eventually. we have to allow the compassion of others to carry us when we cannot continue.

blood carries life. mother carries child. life carries problems. love carries solutions. love carries life.

when your love is bleeding, accept transfusions of compassion. love is a universal donor. the heart is a universal recipient. open it. sure, blood and life are designed to replenish themselves, but it can take a while after major loss.

carry love in your heart always. be a love donor.

love does not end in death. no, death isn't even really an end because of love.

what i felt in one moment, a frame of vision, proves to me there is enough love in this universe to fill every person.

compassion. compass. passion.

the possible range of all emotion: suffering, mourning, grief; of love, kindness, mercy, joy; the north and south of mortality, this was encompassed in the passion of Jesus Christ. His life, his blood, given in sacrifice for the healing of all mortal frailties, provides transfusion for compassion. for life when it is lost. no life is lost because of Him. because He carries life. because of love.

compassion is nobility in humanity.

Life in a Day

2011-06-20T20:46:00.006-06:00

Enough amusing things happened in my day today that a chord within me has been strummed to a blog-inspiring tune. the morning started out really chill. I got to sleep in (until the morning sun started burning me through my window. i need to move my bed) and take a nice long shower (hey, my water bill is like 'everyone pays for everyone'...it's equalized somehow for the whole building or apt complex. it's the screwiest thing i've ever heard. but i may as well use my share of water if i'm going to pay for it. shoot.) but then i took too much sweet time and had to hurry flurry pack up and run downstairs for my ride to work. God bless everyone who gives rides to people. hey that includes me. sweet.

it was a warm morning. i rolled my back seat window down. stopped at a red light, my ride was right next to a bus stop. one fellow had the stage, telling his two seated friends a story.

"So i had four hundred dollars and my ex was all yelling at me cuz she thought i would blow it all in one day. here it is four days later and i still have eighty-two cents!"

"Hey, so you're doin pretty good"

green light go.

at work i got a hug from my favorite driver whom i call sweetheart. then i got another ride from there to the airport. okay all this is boring. skip to the part where there's a YogurtLand in the airport. yay! so i got coconut, devil's food cake, a lil mango and a lil strawberry flavors, topped it with almonds, strawberries and choc chips and savored it before going through security. a father and his two girls sat across from Ed and me as we spooned frozen goodness into ourselves. i couldn't help but overhear

"Dad, i think i have a stupid question, but why when a balloon has a string does it float, but when it doesn't have a string it doesn't float?"

"it's not the string, it's what's in the balloon. A floating balloon is filled with helium and one that doesn't float is filled with air."

"ahhh. but, why doesn't it float with air?"

"the balloon is heavier than the air."

younger girl: "unless you make a balloon out of air."
older one: "oh, and how would you do that"
younger: "you just gather up some air and quick squeeze some more air into it and wrap the air around it..."
older: "that wouldn't work"
younger: "it's called make believe"...

the passenger they were waiting for arrived and they left. i love me a good teaching/learning moment. pretty valid observation about the balloon string if ya ask me.

getting through security was the normal un/repack un/redress game, i passed, blah blah, we board, we sit. there we are, four coworkers and myself, all in aisle seats in five different rows. the plane was full, the air not circulating more than from every individual's lung power, getting stuffy and hot very quickly. the tour director, Jack, whom i will have for my tour starting here in fairbanks tomorrow, sat next to a minor flying solo. what a kick in the pants...he was probably seven or eight and freely chatting up Jack like he fully trusted anyone who was fortunate enough to sit next to him. he, Austin i think it was, explained to Jack all the super powers of Mario. finally the air started and electronic devices had to be put away for the safety demonstration by our flight attendants.

we were on a disney plane! and i like the clouds and the luggage caterpillar truck tutting along like its own disney ride. luggage handling, wheee.

as we taxied out from the gate, we stopped. our captain informed us we'd be going back to the gate to get a blacked out monitor fixed. this did two things. it took about 15 minutes of my life, and apparently it reset the flight attendants. they did their safety demonstration again -- wait, they didn't even get to how to use a seat belt before there was a long pause in the mindless speech (can we get a ukulele up in here!?) and then the speaking attendant's voice came back on, literally smiling, her voice was smiling, informing us that we would need to wait ten more minutes to put fuel in the aircraft.

this is when i leaned across the aisle to Ed, stuck my thumb out, down at the emergency light strips on the floor directing me to the nearest exit (possibly behind me) in case of emergency, and said, "airplane pre-trip fail".

Austin kept saying something like "i see the look on yo face" for most of this time. none of us knew why.

the Man put a quarter in the safety demonstration machine again and it started up from the beginning again. i mean, did we change planes when we changed that screen? and then again when we refueled? we all ignored the speech for the third time. though i often get a kick out of mainly the clothing of persons depicted in the pictures, still I disobeyed and didn't touch the safety card in the pocket in the upright seat back under the tray table in the locked position in front of me...

you know how sometimes the pilot says 'attendants secure for take off' or at least anything before take off? well, after the third safety speech we were suddenly surging down the runway, no warning. in the air.

i always find it interesting that I can see 'up' the plane during the ascent. we're all obviously still in the same straight line of seats, but the people in row 7 are higher than the people like me in row 22. we're level...but we're not. i like mildly trippy things like that.

and i love mount McKinley aka Denali

at some point the man in front of me (who, while boarding, had given me a 'look' that belongs in a bar i would never patronize even if i did drink) raised his right arm to stretch. as if the air circulation wasn't already stagnant, precisely then it was sapped entirely from existence. i gagged and somehow breathed out more than i breathed in while i snuck my camera behind his back...

our magical flight caught some awesome yogurt-blending stomach-bending turbulence while we arced toward fairbanks. our safety performers hardly had a chance to deliver water, snack and napkin before we were ready to land again. in fbanks it was warm and windy so when our lurching Disney ride came in for a landing I was a wincy bit anxious for it to come to a complete stop. As it did, the brakes made a spectacular groaning sound, the one you don't want to hear when you have limited air strip before you and five hundred miles an hour behind you...

anyway, i'm alive and unscathed. later i took a taxi to a restaurant with two other drivers, Ed and Kevin. i was craving some chips n salsa so we went mexican. i ordered the regular burrito. kevin went for the challenge.

mine

mine compared to the challenger. i didn't even finish mine. shoot. what a wimp. oh, well i did have my chips n salsa to start.

then we walked to Fred Meyer grocer. as Kevin shopped Ed and i made our way toward the restrooms. as i approached the women's restroom a man exited. a young man in a reflective neon vest. my narrowed eyes followed him through an employees only door. got it. walking into the restroom a loaded cleaning cart blocked the way. there was another guy in there. i asked if i should wait a minute. he said no go ahead. he stood behind his cart near the door. i chuckled as i realized he wouldn't be exiting the restroom. not gonna lie my bladder was shy at first. his buddy had rejoined him moments after my entry so i got to listen over the sound of my own pee how they mumbled in their nervous adolescent mutters just two stalls and a wall away. yeesh. i could see them behind me, reflected in the mirror as i washed my hands. wow. as i exited i remarked, 'this is your favorite job, huh.' the one made a noise as he awkwardly shifted, the other said, 'it puts gas in the tank.' yah. later boys.

well that's about it. silly insignificant moments to make a muser's day amusingly memorable.

M.I.AK

2011-06-07T00:43:00.006-06:00

I haven't had internet very often since I've been in AK, but now I do. But I've been doing so many other webby things that now I don't really have time to say anything. But here are some pics, proof that I'm not truly missing, just having a blast!

(went on a quick free flight with coworkers. beautiful day!)

(9:20pm sun still way up)

(Denali/Mt. McKinley

(Halibut!)

(moose!)

Easter

2011-04-25T18:22:00.012-06:00

Easter nowadays is eggstra commercialized. It kinda bothers me how the most special calendar days set for remembering Jesus Christ are so highly driven by consumerism that the true reason is forgotten. But, since I don't limit my celebration of Christ to a couple days a year -- I go to church every week, pray and read scripture every day, strive to be Christlike in happy moments and wearisome -- I feel okay indulging a little in tradition. But really only because I have nephews. And whenever I have kids of my own I will, too. Because I'll teach them to live the gospel with their hearts daily and then to have holiday fun for a day.

For Easter dinner my brother-in-law's mother invited us over to her house. We had her over for Thanksgiving last year and she had us over Sunday. It was great.

Scalloped potatoes, corn, salad, rolls, roast, ham, green beans (southern style--boiled w/ham); and for dessert cupcakes, lemon bars and strawberry...fluffy stuff. My mom mixed coolwhip, cream cheese, strawberry yogurt and a little strawberry jello and put it in edible chocolate cups. didn't get pics of those, but they didn't last long. yum!

We filled ourselves as well as one should fill themselves spiritually every day :)

The little kids started the event with an egg hunt in the back yard. My camera luckily captured some sweet pics!

"poorpuh" he does really well recognizing purple :)

Cameron saw Caleb racing around

So Cameron 'branched' out...bahaha...ok not funny. I liked the blossoms though and am glad the picture took before his face was fully behind that blossom clump.

Caleb got a lotta loot

And he made a Zelda treasure noise with his victory basket

So handsome

They each scored with a golden egg. All the eggs were plastic with candy and marshmallows inside.

I have no doubt that they don't get it. I don't think anyone gets it, most of all myself. Probably there were a couple of struggling farmers back at the dawn of commercialized Easter enjoying some unchristlike beverage at a local...spirits establishment.

"I always got too many pigs and rabbits come Spring."

"Heck, I got so many chickens you'd think they were rabbits!"

"Chickens as rabbits! Merl, you better put that drink down."

"Well, think about it, Chester, if we make up some...some ridiculous Easter Bunny magical creature, you can sell your rabbits and I can sell my chicks, and all those dozens and dozens of eggs. We'll be so rich we'll be seein' pale, pastel colors!"

"Merl, what the heck are you talkin' about? But hey, my ten kids are suckers for stuff like that, let's sell it to 'em. They'll tell all their friends a'school and their parents will come beggin' for our critters."

And with such an inception, the Easter traditions began to reproduce to what we have hoppening today.

I always knew my parents hid the eggs. I always knew they hid a basket of treats. I was truly amazed when I first heard of people reminiscing about believing in the Easter Bunny when they were little. Seriously? A rabbit that lays eggs, both plastic kinds filled with candy or colorful hard boiled? Yyyyeah. Can't April fool's this kid.

And now, for my favorite part of the season:

An Easter Declaration video with a scripture time line of Christ's last days on Earth.

I believe in the living Christ, with all my beating heart.

In the Unlikely Event

2011-04-14T12:06:00.003-06:00

Were today to be my last of nearly twenty seven rich years of days on Earth, you should know that if you know me, I love you. I love everyone, which doesn't devalue the love I give, because love isn't that way. There is always and always more to give, it's a miraculous force. Like the heart. It is simply one size particular to each body, but it can always and ever fit more people inside it.

So I love you. True, I might love some more deeply than others, but that's human I guess. I always want what's best for you, even if that includes a hard day, but I'll root for you just as I would if I had stayed.

Today I'm wearing comfortable jeans, pearls adorn my neck and ears. Today is here, or more appropriately, I am here today and it's an occasion worthy of wearing the grinding hassle of oysters.

For all the struggles you and I have won, I wear these pearls for us. A beautiful day for a struggle, for a neighbor, for love.

Blossom Blizzard

2011-04-03T14:00:00.008-06:00

Here in Utah, it's Tradition: just when the blossoms start popping, dump a million tons of snow!

I went back up on the roof again (first time was to clean snow out of the satellite dish) this time to capture the perfect beauty of this view

Dr Seuss couldn't have done better

And I built a snowman on the roof. I just couldn't help myself.

Now, before you go judging me for building it on the Sabbath, let me point out that it's specifically a snowman angel

I think my sculpture teacher should give me extra credit. wait, nevermind. then it would be like doing homework on sunday.... :)

And it can be seen from inside our home. Our guardian snow angel.

Boo winter

Lessons Learning

2011-04-02T22:41:00.003-06:00

Down to my final $200 last week, I made the necessary goal to not buy any fast food or quick bites to nourish myself during the week. I succeeded easily and it was Friday where I learned a simple, great lesson that I can see as being applicable to all goals or efforts to resist temptation. :)

I need to eat. In truth, I could eat breakfast, go the whole day and not eat until dinner again (kinda like on my mission. Don't recall anymore how I pulled that off..cuz I'm such a hunger wimp these days!) but, well, as I just said parenthetically, I'm a hunger wimp these days. So, my goal presented a possible problem: starvation.

I bought a few sandwich items at the beginning of the week and took a little time before work or school to pack myself a little lunch: sandwich, granola bar, chips (Food Should Taste Good Sweet Potato chips y.u.m.) and some whatever else inhabits my mothers fridge. My preparation met my goal and solved my problem. Wait, let me line break for emphasis.

My preparation met my goal and solved my problem. It solved two or three problems really. 1) I saved moolah (and fortunately have since had a pay day and a tax return, huzzah). 2) I ate healthier. 3) I didn't starve!

I realized that this small effort of preparation allowed for dodging the later temptation of buying insta-food to satisfy my mortal hunger. I'll always get hungry. I'll need food to cure it.

You and I may always have certain trials or temptations in mortality. They may never be removed because there will always be an element of teaching in them for our own good. If such is suspected to be our personal case, we can prepare to have a 'home lunch' already packed for when the yearnings or pains come, begging for satisfaction. If we are disciplined beforehand we can become healthier and wealthier and maybe stealthier, just because that's a fun word...

But, today, an experience very telling of my character, I promptly disregarded this "learned" lesson. The lesson has another application, in the story of The Cut Finger.

I am working on becoming inspired for my final sculpture project, and yesterday I stopped by a Thrift Store going out of business (think D.I. + yard sale + Wizard of Oz II), browsing for things until something spoke to me. There was a bucket of tiny, dark-glass, wide neck jars sitting with all its might, contents sparkling in the cherished Spring sunlight. I saw them and, like Dorothy, knew there was more therein than met my eye. We chose each other in that moment; we were both sold. The bucket for $2 and I for the creative potential energy...

The bucket, true to function, had stored up about a gallon of rain water as it waited patiently for me to come. Judging by the slight algae smell and coloration of the bucket, that could have been some time. Many of the small jars were broken and all were dirty so I set out to separating the useful from the deadly and broken. Did I know there was broken glass in the bucket? To say anything but yes would be depressing, so yes, of course. Did I prepare for the inevitable bite of busted blade? Nope.

The jars on top, mostly whole and dry, I could clearly see. With bare and conscious hands I slowly and carefully plucked the fragments from the whole, clearing toward the murky water below. Like the zebra at the disgusting croc-filled watering hole, desperate for life sustaining fluid yet wary of death inflicting jaws of..death, my hand dipped gently into the filth. And like the croc, the glass attacked without warning (excepting the five minutes previous to this moment...)

Unlike the Zebra usually gets to, I instantly whipped my finger free, plunged it under fresh water, applied soap and a Bandaid to the seeping red sliver, and prayed I wasn't now host to some horrific disease.

Why do I let myself get hurt before I remember to supply the protection? I put my hand into one of those rubber gloves (in which I always imagine a spider or earwig has found a cheery home) and continued the task without fear.

I was sticking my hand into a bucket of broken glass! One wears at least one glove. Before. Hand.

But that is, unfortunately, so "me." La di da di da, I'm going to see how close I can get to this cliff before I consider my safety. Stupid. I've fallen off many an obvious cliff because I regarded it as a test of my character instead of a temptation from which to run. Quickly.

The best test or proof of your character often is how fast you can run from temptation. Prepare to run. Prepare to eat. Put a glove on before you reach into a bucket of glass shards. Pretty basic advice.

And now, Gabriella.

This darling angel has been my buddy every now and again recently. She is a third child, like myself. Her mother says she is a very good baby, sleeps well, doesn't fuss much, just loves to live. My mom said the same about me. So she and I are natural friends.

She wears cute clothes. Including these. I may or may not have squealed.

I love babies. Even when they turn into kids. And then attend junior high. And make it through high school. I'm getting old enough now where I can call high school kids kids...And probably old enough to have some of my own. Please.

And this was the thoughtful 1st of April prank (if you could even call it that, though you'd more likely call it an April Fool's joke..) from some girlfriend to hopefully-still-her-somewhat-amused-but-patiently-suffering boyfriend.

And the end. I so hope I don't have a disease...

I moved. What Else is New.

2011-03-23T10:25:00.010-06:00

So, I sat down and thought. Often, sitting is the best position for thinking. Think about it. Haven't you done some of your best thinking on the toilet? Don't you do most of or much of your homework or work or busyness or creating while sitting? And do you not drive in a sitting position and enjoy wonderful dexterity of mind? Indeed, and in thought. So, thus sitting, I realized that in the past three years I have resided in...Provo (mom's house and Alta apartments) Pleasant Grove, Provo, Canada, Provo, Alaska, West Jordan and just the other day (March 19 to be exact) I defaulted back to Provo yet again. Before I go to Alaska yet again.

The moving party consisted of three manly volunteers, two from my West Jordan ward and another who used to be my home teacher in the Alta ward (he shall be named O'Neil). They packed approximately twenty apple boxes, four pillows and one alligator into two cars, mine and O'Neil's, and I returned and packed my own car once more with all the things I would be needing until and in Alaska. Much appreciation, men.

O'Neil is a fantastic specimen of men. Here, let us dissect him. When he enters a place, immediately the positive energy of said place increases a hundred fold. One can't help but be delighted by his presence and drawn into pleasant and easy conversation with him. Even the shy children instantly take to him, which is a great quality. He is hilarious. Basically he could kill me every day with laughter wounds inflicted by his sharp wit... He could be scary, what with his six-five/six height and great big hands, but he's just too darn cheery to even hint toward intimidation. He was a stellar home teacher and I can only imagine is still quite consistent in his church service because it just shows; he happily served a mission, happily goes to school, happily fills his shifts at a hospital as a chaplain (i know, random, right?), volunteers for many things, happily, and just lives in a contagiously happy way. He's a fabulous sort.

My mom cleared a tunnel in her sewing room for me to burrow into until I mine my way North to the Last Frontier. It's cramped, dusty, haunted by costumes of halloween past and the makings of every possible costume of halloween future...but the stiff mattress is softer than the concrete under the carpet AND it's actually long enough for my slumbering bod. Countin' my blessings. My fabric cave is in the basement, so it's nice and dark...which means the sun never wakes me and I occasionally dismiss my alarm and thus miss my 8am class, like today.

My 8am class is beginning sculpture. I like it. Right now we're sculpting eyes, ears, mouths and noses (replicas of Michaelangelo's David) using oil-based clay. Here's a picture of the nose I did:

Recently I've been sick and all the while that I was molding this nose I was sniffling with my own. And I found it strange picking the nostrils to clear them out. And by the end it was looking so much like the actual nose of a person, I nearly felt nosy all up in his or her stolen facial component. okay okay, enough with the nose jokes. they stink.

And here's a snake (abstraction) I carved out of plaster!

Tried to make him look coiled in his own special way...

I went for a sort of 'jester' pattern for the scaly effect

And for an 'under belly' lined texture here

My dad helped me (in other words completely did it for me) put the step pattern in the base. No one else really did their base different. Bonus genious-points for me.

Isn't it so cool? Well, I think it. Still haven't decided what to name him. My lil sis said "Jerry", with a French accent. I thought "Señor" since he looks all Aztecy. Your submissions will be considered.

Well, now there's really nothing more to say except that it is extremely windy outside and I jumped on the trampoline. I've mentioned this before here and here so I obviously have a true and abiding love for this activity...even if it mostly just proves how out of shape my aging body is. two and a half months until I'm 27. hm.

tick tock

2011-03-13T00:49:00.003-07:00

I'm like, really clever right now. One of those moods, you know? Where everything clicks and fantastic puns are born, witty jokes drip down like a refreshing rain, etc. But I'm sick and tired. Physically. So I'm going to bed. It's a real shame to waste this magical moment of humorous charm when so generously bestowed.

In an hour it will be two hours from now. Shifty.

Serendipitous Day

2011-02-14T12:18:00.005-07:00

I'm most excited that my rose pink shirt and this pink rose that some random guy in the hall gave me are the exact same color.

(And thank goodness the Orem LDS institute committee knows proper grammar. I appreciate.)

Day by Day

2011-02-11T19:02:00.009-07:00

From time to time

You and I

Cannot see

Eye to Eye

We swing and go

Head to head

And stubborn

Back to back

But step by step

Turn about

Lay open

Heart to heart

Then hip to hip

Arm in arm

Hand in hand

Cheek to cheek

We go forward

Side by side

Still when gone

Nine to five

You always come

Home sweet home

And greet me

Face to face

And mouth to mouth

Lip to lip

Round and round

We go

Sun up sun down

Day by day

Dressing love

Head to toe

Happy Vday. Here is a version of the story of Cupid and Psyche (the figures in the pic I took at the louvre museum) for a little fun reading.

"Love took her by the hand, and they were never parted any more"

five minus one is four

2011-02-01T09:16:00.005-07:00

The other day (yep, that's how it's gonna start) a lady came to speak in my english class. After she had already been speaking a few minutes, my eyes were bothered by a nudge from my brain to pay closer attention to her hands: brainy was detecting something unusual and wanted confirmation. Nothing else to do, I indulged [transitively].

Next time her hands came into view my eyes immediately recognized what brainy had sensed: she had a missing finger, the right ring finger. My brain pumped its victory fists and started thinking of four-fingered characters, namely the ninja turtles. As to an irreverent child in a long church meeting I sent it a silencing look, but it was near impossible to reroute its focus of curiosity from the speaker's hands.

Issuing mental demerits, I required the brain to list other qualities about the woman that were just as, if not more, obvious: beautiful hair, eyes and smile; great and personable speaking skills; lovely skin; contagious enthusiasm and a delightful sense of humor.

But obviously the missing finger did stand out. Well, it's unusual.

But (again), the only reason I'm writing about this is because the next day, sitting in the mighty driver's seat (is it the driver or the seat that's mighty...?) in a mighty yellow bus at a red light, I looked to my right at the "don't walk" hand. It was missing the same finger!

I thought quickly: is the "don't walk" hand a left hand or a right hand? Always on the side of poetic coincidence my brain immediately voted for right. But I took a moment, visualized my own hand up in the "stop/don't walk" position and realized any person to see this gesture would be viewing my palm. therefore, the "don't walk" hand truly is a right hand.

My brain contentedly snuggled into the happy coincidence, musing about future blog post ideas. And here you see I indulged once again...(but at least I censured the idea of omitting every letter typed with the right ring finger).

(*not actual "don't walk" hand from street crossing spoken of; wrong finger. and wrong trees.)

Walking, Bleeding

2011-01-20T00:52:00.006-07:00

I began this day with a determined prayer and thoughtful scripture reading. I gave it first priority..okay second. Toilet was first. But anyway, today produced randomly wondrous, albeit simple events that I feel I should document, and I don’t seem capable of doing anything productive until I release these anxious ideas into the world of written word.

Seriously, for two hours now I’ve been trying to convince myself to do homework, not feeling justified to just sit and write, but instead, I avoid both with Netflix (I’m addicted to Bones; I think I need help…) So I’ll get all this off my mind and maybe concentrate on homework. Or at least go to sleep without feeling completely useless.

After my sculpture class I have a break, from 10-11am. Usually I just use this time to slowly finish up whatever artsy thing I’m working on and mosey on down to my American Lit class sometime before it starts. Well, true to form, over the long weekend I didn’t do all the homework I should have and so I decided I would leave Sculpture and go find a place to quickly catch up on the reading for Lit.

Walking toward the construction detour I noticed three red helium-filled balloons taped to the floor. I had a very sudden urge to go over and whack them. I did not, and a little farther along I saw another red and white cluster, this time closer to my path, so I poked a couple with a finger as I walked by. Again, another pair of red balloons reached innocently to the sky and I gave one a good flick. This seemed to be the happiest walk down Campus Lane (or whatever) that I could recall.

Before reaching the exit, the true purpose of the red and white helium balloons was revealed to me: blood drive. I was drawn to donate, transfixed on transfusion, oozing with enthooziasm to get rid of some blood. I drive lots of things, why not blood, too?!

They had just started so there weren’t many people so they took me as appointmentless as I came. I told them I had an 11am class and asked if I would make it. They said I should. They were incorrect. But that’s okay. It worked out that since I had less blood, somehow I had less desire to participate in the thirty minutes left of class discussion (that is never really that stimulating anyway) about readings that I only caught a couple pages of while my life juice leaked from my veins.

The donation was successful and I walked speedily toward Lit. After that dull half hour of my life (I didn’t regret having been late for the cause of saving lives) I walked to Biology. I ate an apple as I walked, eyes ever scanning the cluttered halls for a devilishly handsome man, approximately 6’5”, green eyes…perfect in every way. Because I don’t want to see him, I look for him twice as hard. That way, if I do spot him I can make sure I’m not mid-apple-bite or looking helpless or hapless if he spots me back.

It’s ridiculous, I know. I told myself to relax, from day one, but I can’t help it. I don’t look for potential mates like most females would do, especially one with my height advantage above the crowd. No, I’m looking out for the prior mate. After two weeks I was beginning to feel comfortable that he might not have class on M, W, F. Phew.

At the beginning of each Biology class the professor asks if there are any questions. I had two: why do bubbles form on the inside of a glass half full of water left out all night? And, what happens to the DNA of a donor when transfused into the recipient? I asked neither because someone wanted to complain about how the online quiz system was set up. I ignored this and stared at a DNA strand model on the desk, wondering, with my left arm limp at my side.

Biology expired and I pushed through the clotted classroom door with the rest of the fleeing life forms. Mother Nature guided me toward the restroom; those post-donation liquids were doin their job. The glance in the mirror as I dried my clean hands showed me that I looked kinda cute. Then there was the inevitable “did you play basketball?” conversation at the bathroom sink with the well-meaning though complete stranger lady washing her hands.

That held me a few seconds longer in the restroom than I had anticipated. Normally from Biology I will just beat the crowds and walk outside on level two toward my next class. And even though it was a perfectly lovely day outside, the crowds had cleared a bit so I figured I’d just walk inside.

Walking past the food court I noticed how unsatisfying the Band-Aid on my pricked finger had become (the pricked finger is always the most painful, isn’t it), no longer sticking after the restroom hand washing. So I veered toward a trash can. A mere half-second delay.

As I merged into the flow of traffic again, my annoying hall-scanning eyes refocused on the oncoming pedestrians. It’s funny how much can happen in about two seconds. Really, any combination of infinite possibilities can be sparked in two seconds or less: the game-winning three-pointer; the bullet released from the barrel; the recognition of green eyes, sculpted body, height, hair, face...

Two seconds earlier and I would have gone down the hall to the right none the wiser.

Now, I’ll never be able to say for certain why, whether for 450mL of blood loss or not, but my heart burned. As soon as he recognized me too, I waved my unpricked hand and smiled. He smiled, in a way that seemed entirely pleasant to me. We kept walking away.

The first thought that was recognizable enough to be processed was: I’m glad the mirror said I looked cute. I walked two halls and four flights of stairs, mindlessly sliding one hand over the other before I acknowledged any other organ function. Heart kept burning, throat gears started cranking in tight, eyes fought back a siege of tears. No, no more tears for this one.

The two-second frame replayed over and over in my mind and I realized something. I actually wasn’t trying to analyze what his look could have meant or if I might have done anything different. I wouldn’t have. I just didn’t want the image to fade. At first I thought that was a healthy sign. But it’s so pathetic because that directly reflects the stubborn heart inside me that tries not to let him fade with each beat…

I’ve tried two strategies to beat him out. I’ve tried to love again, to love more even. Henry David Thoreau gave me this idea when he said, “There is no remedy for love but to love more.” Well that hasn’t happened, and so it’s like the deepest part of me that has known love still only knows him.

Then I’ve tried to reason to myself that I’ll find someone better for me; someone that is like him but that I can actually marry. But that always makes me think of the characteristics of eternity and I realize that there is no person in this world like him. I didn’t just love things about him, I loved him: his soul, his skeleton, his existence, his DNA, his stubbornness right along with his unbelievable patience and incredible heart. I held his hand as though there was nowhere else in the world to go.

Which is understandable, even expected, if you know him. He’s an amazing guy. But it wasn’t smart on my part…it was just setting myself up for hurt. But I don’t care anymore that I ever felt pain, I so regret how much I ever hurt him. If he’s like me (and we sure had a lot in common) then he doesn’t remember many unpleasant things from the past. I mostly remember good times and a cool relationship. But the more I think about it, the more and more and more I begin to discover how selfish I was.

We do this thing, women, humans in general probably. We want to be so accommodating to a partner whom we’re crazy about that we nearly lose our individual identity to the building of the relationship. As I did that with this man, and he never seemed to resist my attentions, it’s almost like I turned the relationship into a tool capable of bringing me whatever I wanted. To me, he appeared to be accepting and enjoying my willingness to be available whenever, to make time for him/us whenever, never a conflict when it came to being together.

But then, because I thought my actions were desired, I figured he wanted the relationship to go the same way I wanted it to, and so I pushed it along my way. I knew what was best, because I knew what I ('we') wanted… Is this even making sense? I bet it would to him. I think I drove him crazy. Either he is inhumanly patient or he just didn’t realize at the time exactly why I was driving him crazy so he couldn’t put it into words: but I just didn’t know I was being so selfish. I thought we wanted the same things. Now I realize with dread as I look back that I’m not sure if I ever truly listened to what he wanted between us. I just figured we had that in common, too.

Now, I’m not presuming I would deserve it, but if I had the chance to love him again, I wouldn’t ‘again’ anything. I'm not sure I would even know what to do, really. I would need to get to know him better. Fully. I would want to just sit and listen to him, maybe never say a word; just be still and listen, even if he didn’t say much. Obviously I wouldn’t want to try again if we still couldn’t proceed to marriage, and so why do I even conjecture about hopeful impossibilities.

Maybe it’s been easy for him to remove me from his heart and he hasn’t thought about me since I last spoke with him some time last year. But me, I have thought about him every day since I’ve known him. I think more recently I can’t escape the regret of how selfish I was. This regret keeps the blood from clotting and the heart from stopping. I really need to kill this old heart because she’s not going to get another chance. And she’s not on speaking terms with him so the ongoing sculpture of apology and regret, being painfully detailed over time, will never be seen by its sponsor…He unwittingly reminds me every day how useless it is to be selfish. I'm trying to change.

See, this is why I was on the lookout. So as to make sure we didn’t make eye contact, to make sure I passed by no livelier than a shadow. But the man saw me. And smiled.

I did some more walking and this walking led me to my last class and after that to a classmate’s car, wherein we drove to IHOP and conversed pleasantly over consumable provender. Basically I went on a lunch date. It was fun.

It’s always when I get my priorities kinda lined up and get out of my own way that curiously cool things happen, without me really even trying.

So, I walked into some great things today. I’m optimistic. I consider every experience a positive one, because I always make its end positive. It’s in my blood. (O+)

Thought Snack-MLK Jr

2011-01-16T09:22:00.004-07:00

Everything that we see is a shadow cast by that which we do not see.

Random Nose Memory

2011-01-09T22:26:00.004-07:00

As I was blowing my nose today, politely removed into the bathroom away from the general population, I experienced a moment of rememory. That is to say I remembered a memory...

In high school I had a geography class that was rather enjoyable. A fellow student (whose name was probably not Stanley, though it persistently comes to mind) would more-often-than-seemed-healthy slink to the front of the class and retrieve a stiff tissue from the provided box. Sometimes he would return to his seat and blow his nose, other times he would stay at the front, facing away from the rest of us. But always he chose to relieve his sinus chambers at a time when all was quiet and at full-human volume. It wasn't outrageously loud, his way of nose blowing, but there was, in my opinion, no effort to disguise his process of snot elimination.

I always appreciated that. Why should blowing one's nose be awkward or embarrassing? It's normal, we all do it (or we should, considering the alternative) and we all sound different when we do. It's only when another might witness extending strings or loose drips of snot that it might make him or her uncomfortable, but that's his or her problem. He or she does not have to look, no matter how alarming the noise.

Though I seem to believe a restroom is a fantastic escape for nasal vacation, complete with hand-sanitizing capabilities, yet I would never deny a person the right to blow their nose how-, where- or whatever decibel intensity they might desire. Just so long as they catch it all in the tissue...

Anyway, I always respected not-Stanley for his bold disregard for the rest of us. I'm pretty sure no one else except him ever blew their nose, but, it sort of gave me the courage to blow my nose more often, wherever I felt like it--though still discreetly. What can I say, I've got a shy nose. I guess.

I recall that I never really watched, only heard and inwardly applauded. I didn't personally know not-Stanley beyond the geography of the classroom, so I didn't want to know if he looked... You know what I mean. We all look. In case anything important came out. Like brain or something. That wouldn't be so much gross as it would be worrisome. I wouldn't want anyone to see if I blew my brains out, so that's probably why I usually blow my nose in private. But I'll always remember not-Stanley's defiance of social norms and how it nearly inspired me.

That's possibly all I remember from the class. Oh, and that it was really fun to color in all the map worksheets.

Black Friday

2010-11-27T00:24:00.003-07:00

The world is probably one of my least favorite places the day after Thanksgiving. Perhaps there were some great deals that I missed, but I'm going on a mediterranean cruise in a few weeks. I don't need to spend money on anything else.

Instead of venturing into the Blackness of the day, I played mommy-daughter-day with Alexandra, a lovely, young neighbor friend. At my mom's house in Provo we had a bundle of neighbor kids stay the night. Alex woke me up because I told her to, before she'd have to go home so I could see her. She's a delightful twenty-year-old trapped in a ten-year-old's body. :) We quasi-snuggled for a few minutes as I fully awoke, then went upstairs to eat some breakfast.

At a point where I'd sat down to dink at the piano she came up to me with a suggestion. "You may not like this idea, but here's what it is: can I do your hair, and you can do mine?" Something like that. We set out to do our hair (and of course i knew she wanted to do make up, too, by the way she watched me put it on the day before) and it was the most simple and inexpensive and charming fun two girls can have. Make up went over pretty well. We only had to wipe away a little renegade mascara with a q-tip. Here's how stunningly we turned out:

After being beautified we went upstairs again and I made lunch for all the kiddos (fresh Mac & Cheese and Thanksgiving left overs. Glorious, I know). I asked Alex if she wanted to go see Tangled, the movie, and she said yes. We looked online for times but when we got to the theater seats were sold out. So we went to another theater, Movies 8, and looked for other movies and times. She wanted to see Easy A. I couldn't remember really what it was about, but she said she and her sister had wanted to go see it and I asked if she was sure her dad would let her (PG-13) and she said yes. Of course they always say yes.

The movie didn't start for another hour and twenty, so we had to find things to do. We got the tickets and drove over to the car wash, got the express spritz and rinse/no dry service to clean off the salt and what-looked-like-poo off my car...and then I dragged her (of course willingly she came) to KOHL's and we tried on cute clothes/business suit options for my limo driving job. I hate how hardly anything every fits my body quite right.... Anyway, we killed some time like a ma and daughter would at a store, then we steered ourselves over to Cold Stone for a sweet, melty treat to sneak into the movie with us. (Cold Stone has a dark chocolate peppermint flava...delish with almonds and coconut.)

The movie Easy A....yeah..not exactly what I hope to take ten-year-old ears and eyes to...But still, it was actually enjoyable. I'm glad the ultimate message could be summed up: avoid messing up your life with premarital/extramarital sex and telling lies...but the presentation was unsurprisingly irreverent. I talked to Alex afterward, expressing my feelings about the movie, these same ones I'm saying here, and she was mature about it, but also still so innocent, ya know. 10 years...she's learned a lot, but we only come to find that the more we live, the more there is to learn, right? Well, I felt kind of bad having taken her. I was sure to mention what I disapproved of and how the consequences of the portrayed actions were rather true to life, etc. She listened and agreed.

I thought how I wished my own little sister (17) would have come, as well as Alexandra's big sister (16); they hadn't been invited but, even if they had, and had come, interactions with them would have been so different during the day's activities. The life-growth in a day, let alone six or seven years, is immeasurable, really. And maybe what happens is that people they admire, like big sisters, expose them to sleazy stuff little by little over the years and they begin to think they know what they think and understand what they feel. They're discovering their place in the world, defining themselves, either by the world's standard or some other standard, but by mid-teen years, we've pretty much got it all figured out, right? Or at least we definitely know we don't need anyone's help to figure it out.

Sweet, tender Alex was happy to have spent the time with me. She expressed gratitude for the things I spent money on, but there was unmistakable, unexpressed gratitude that I could read on her face that she was so glad to have been "mothered" for a day. Alex lost her own mother nearly seven years ago, an uninvited illness placing a permanent resident of unknowable grief in the hearts of four young children and a brave, unshrinking father. I have no power to replace, but I can love. And I do.

Money can buy and time can spend, but one free afternoon sponsored the priceless building of memory. Eight hours of my twenty-six years given to do whatever I wanted, and I can't think of a single thing I could have wanted more. If I were her mother I would be so grateful....That sounds bizarrely egotistical in a way. I didn't know her mother at all, but if I left four children in mortality I would be eternally grateful for every kindness bestowed on my children. It was my humbling and cherished honor to play mommy today.

I feel I got the best Black Friday deal of the day.

Presumptuous

2010-11-23T17:47:00.003-07:00

There is a sideways stream of snow flowing through the air outside . . . actually, it's more like unto a flash flood gushing between homes and down the streets. I am so glad to be inside my nice, warm home that is surrounded by small, immature and leafless trees, with no need to go anywhere (me nor the trees). It only took a minute for my car to frost over and blend into the white frenzy. He (my car) and I are expected in Salt Lake tomorrow morning. We'll see.

I want to write a few words on the subject of wedding receptions. Trampled topic? Uninteresting? Your chance to stop reading is now.

But if you continue (yay!):

To stand in line for at least half an hour. . . .

Why would I, a tender-footed and tired bride, subject myself to a receiving line for a few solid hours when what I truly desire is to take my husband home and . . . help him loosen his tie a little?

Well, call me selfish (as I'm already being presumptuous), but I propose that a wedding day should be organized to include exactly everything you would want for one day. You know, within reason.

I love people and will want to receive as many as possible at the time of my wedding, but I refuse to submit to the receiving line. I am stubbornly creating quite a dilemma for myself, but I'm going to try to make it happen.

How? Yes, I don't know quite yet. Somehow.

When you travel, it's impossible to see everything and to meet everyone; there's just not enough time. But as you've traveled through life, you've met thousands of people, hundreds of which will be considered important enough to invite to your wedding reception. And how can it be satisfactory to shake a hand, share a laugh and send away with a hug; so little for all these lovely people?

It's like Santa. How does he manage to touch every unnaughty life in so little time? (spoiler alert) Oh, right, he's not real. But if he were, what if he decided to invite all his favorites to the North Pole for Christmas instead, certainly he would dread the line that would form as everyone waited to sit on his lap. . . .

What if I reached out to "mes invités" (that's French for 'my guests'), with an interactive website of sorts, before they even came to the reception? That would be cool. They would then arrive at the reception, already informed about the party they formerly knew nothing about, they wouldn't have to meet parents unless they truly wanted to, and by then they'd know what everyone looked like, sounded like, etc. They would just need to come for the food, and to deliver a present if they so wished me well.

I'm just making this up. Seat of my pants.

But, that could be cool. Don't send a million fancypants invitations; instead send a shot of my smiling face next to his* on a card with a Web address and a reception date (you know, in case some are interwebbedly challenged so they can still know when to show up).

(*there currently is no 'his')

Then, on the day of the festivities, I would be in a nice dress with a fantastic apron, doting on my guests with delicious sweets and eats as they mingled. They could arrive, and first thing find a table, or purposefully be seated, much like at a restaurant, and my groom and I could visit each table, handing out favors and goodies, deciding for ourselves if we would like to linger at their table, or not.

Or,

There could be a blasted line, BUT I will not be standing. In the very least i will have a tall stool propped beneath me which would allow for graceful transition from sitting to standing, and back, with little notice of the shift of weight from my feet to my bottom. In my wildest dreams it would be a hammock behind me, high and taut, allowing for the same ease of movement, but adding to it a nice dangling sway for fun.

Along the receiving line there would be food samples. People come for the food and to wait in line; why not combine the two at once? So they'd sign their name, drop their gift, start snacking on various cheeses and popcorns and olives and smoothie shots and whatever else I'll be in the mood to have served. That way, by the time they get to me, they'd be happily surprised that they hadn't just been waiting awkward and anxiously, having involuntarily memorized the balding pattern on the head of the man in front of them.

And we all hate that moment where we've pulled up to the groom's ma and old man and mutter how we know the bride while baldy take two minutes-feels-like-hours with the best dressed couple, and we're stuck: no retreating, no way to avoid filling that empty, in-law gap until the couple is free. . . .

Then, all those who didn't see the website would have the opportunity to do so at the "movie corner" where the couple's history and cutesy kissy faces would stream, continuing all night on repeat. Even better, the images and sounds on repeat could be the wrap up to something "to be continued" from the website. Hook them, bring them in, make them want to pay attention to something more than food and couple. This also doubles as a great little kid amusement area.

And you're guaranfrickenteed there will be popcorn at my wedding, a perfect addition to a movie corner. Doing this.

And Bean bags. More hammocks. Hey, it's (it'll be) my reception.

Then there's all this traditional stuff, like cutting a cake and nibbling a bite from each other's fingers; throwing a bouquet at the next single lady to presumptuously post on her blog; slipping a garter from bride's leg and flicking it to the next single male to hang it from his rearview mirror. . . . I would go along with these traditions, for fun. For pictures and smiles.

Anything that brings smiles should greatly be considered.

But, I'm not much of a dancer. I would be okay to do the parent dance thing and the couple's first dance thing, but I hereby promise the songs will be very short, no more than two minutes. Two minute and eight second max. (because THIS, I'm pretty sure, will be my wedding dance song. Just imagine it's a girl singing to a boy and not a pig. This is another song that may show up somewhere that day.)

But, if my hubaroo wants to dance till his pants catch fire, he can do what he wants. It's his wedding day, too. (And actually, there are sincere and weighted considerations that the reception would even be the day/evening before the day of wedding so that the instant that I'm married I can go off to , , , reception only my husband for the rest of time and all eternity.) I can wiggle my hips and cheer him on from over by the cheese tray.

I like the sound of all this, more or less. One thing I've told myself before is that I'll never have my wedding reception inside a church cultural hall . . . but I don't care so much anymore. Churches are great places.

As for other details, like colors, decor, dress, flowers, etc. . . . We'll go with the flow. But I think it would be way sweet if the men wore brown suits. Something untraditional.

I'm pretty easy to please, I think. I postulate that my wedding day/reception day will be quite easy going and laid back. If so, it will be a perfect day. A great way to start off a bazillion more days of marriage. Awesome idea.

Good Night

2010-11-09T22:48:00.005-07:00

I might not have much time left.

That is, I took a late, long nap today and I've cheated tonight with some "sleep aid" pills. I don't take them often so when I do, they work pretty well. They knock me out pretty decently. So I may not have much time to write.

But I just waaaaanna!

Not sure about what.

I've been exercising pretty consistently for a few weeks now and I feel great. Even if no one else notices, I feel great. I feel attractive, even though there's always room to push myself and improve. Bodies are cool. I've been blessed with a really healthy one and I'm ever so grateful for that.

Did you have a letter from the First Presidency of the church read to you in church recently? We had two. One was about not relying on self-help institutions. Lately, and especially since hearing that, I've been noticing how maaaany groups there are that promise to change a person, improve a person, make lasting alterations to a person. I see them and I recognize how the gospel of Jesus Christ will do all that and more, for free...well, for the price of sacrifice. Which is often a price these groups try to avoid. They want to make us comfortable in our inconsistencies, cradle us into accepting 'who we are' over who we should become. Of course many have great intentions, but what does it all boil down to? Will power. Choosing, deciding for one's self. If we use our faith to dig deep into ourselves and humility to allow our weaknesses to be revealed to us, then gospel living will bring the Spirit of God to sweep in and surround us, support us and truly change us.

The Spirit of God. He enters a physical, mortal sphere and is the only thing that can touch our spirits. Of course he has many means, but he always has a hand in it. Like positive and inspiring music, or nature. Oh how nature can melt my heart sometimes! Even when it's a landscaped covered in blasted snow. :) That momentary pause where our spirit recalls a majestic Creator...that's the Spirit's power in nature. I'm grateful for such a strategically designed world where everything physical can teach us something spiritual. That is a perfect design.

Another thing that's been on my mind is marriage. I'm not married and sometimes I think I'd like to be. I've been setting and committing myself to a bunch of goals and I'm glad to see my productivity and positivity increasing. We sure can do a lot when we set our minds to it. I was thinking in terms of kitchen appliances, as I can tend to, and I thought about how life is like a freezer.

We gather things from time to time to put in there and preserve them for longer. After a while there seems like there isn't more room for anything and then some one else moves in and puts their own food in the freezer (perhaps marked with their initials so it doesn't get eaten by the wrong mouth) and the old frozen goods are organized in such a way to make a lot more room for the other person's food.

Organization of the skills and talents we have can make room for more, and can make room for others, whether it's appreciation for their talents, collaboration with their skills, or making room for a marriage partner. A stretch? yes. But that's the way I think, nearly always, in terms of comparison and analogy.

Anyway...I don't think I'm doing anything wrong in my life that a great guy would avoid me for. I'm making improvements and steps to be ready for whenever and whatever. I learn from the guys that I do date. I learn a ton, actually. I'm glad for that. Most recently I've learned how I care too much on what matters too little. I really took that to heart and actually figured out a way to turn that into a positive energy. I care when it's time to care and don't emotionally project any plans onto anyone. I used to care and then hold on to that caring as though it mattered more than it meant to a guy. A single guy doesn't want to make plans until HE wants to, really. I'm also too accommodating, which I'm trying to repair into a strength...but can't figure it out yet. I'm too willing to see a guy I like, or be available whenever he is. For some guys perhaps that steals the thrill from being a hunter...in a way. If the bunny hops right into your arms while you're setting a trap.....I can see where that loses its charm.

What I HAVE been doing wrong lately is allow affection too early on. Sometimes I wish i lived in the time of "good ol days manners" where it was even alarming for a man and a woman to hold hands. My mind lives there for the most part. I sincerely can not hold a guy's hand as I walk next to him until I trust him and until he's made some sort of commitment to me. Hands signify creation and creativity, following and leading, security and trust, care and commitment, hard work and soft help. When I hold the hand of a man that is taking me somewhere, that to me displays togetherness and love. So HOW can I allow myself to kiss and be kissed before I can even hold his hand? I need to figure that one out. Need to think with my hands... :)

But that would be where I'd put my money on why I'm not in a relationship, one that is connected at the hands: I'm too affectionate when the relationship doesn't merit it. I've let kisses spoil the gradual ascent into friendship. And then the boy stops contacting me and I regret that I let my passions steer me instead of bridling them into a positive force of relationship building. I'm grateful for all I'm learning...from my failures...but I'm pretty tired of doing it my way. Sometimes I want to quit dating, but then I remind myself to quit doing it my way. I try. I just do my best to be me and hope that's the most attractive person that some guy, some day, will ever see.

But if not...I'll keep exercising for me, I'll keep reaching for goals for me and for those whom I can enrich, I'll set my heart and my affections on the creator of my strengths and healer of my frailties. Being single isn't a failure, it's a stage, a level. I am grateful for each day I live, no matter who comes and who goes. As long as I keep myself from going away from God, whom I love so eternally, then it won't matter all my losses or disappointments.

Because when we trust God to hold on to one of our hands, we'll still have two hands to use.

Well, time to dream. :)

Words From A Good Mouth

2010-10-29T18:00:00.002-06:00

I agree with this and hope many men and women will read it. Please read and pass it along!

Women Are Worthless

Link above

Tiny Things

2010-10-16T22:48:00.003-06:00

My mom adopted a new itty kitty. My sister and I call her Meow. Some of the things she does that seem to be her favorite so far are meow, sleep by day and scurry by night, nuzzle specifically your nose, try to eat whatever you're eating, and just lounge anywhere that involves human body contact.

Last night I slept on my mom's couch --had a late night and didn't want to drive home-- and Meow was playing in the Great Room all night. She diligently checked in with me throughout the night, though, sliding whiskers and fur thoughtfully across my face; pouncing across the length of my body as though seeing in how few landings she could do it; jumping from the floor to my head to whack me once on the forehead; and finally, when it was time for me to wake and be a living thing, she cuddle onto my neck and began her rock-tumbling purr.

I amused her for a while but soon moved her to where she could be comfortable while I could again take command of my head. There was a lot on my mind and it weighed down my desire to rise.

Curiosity that cannot absorb factual information can quickly turn to confusion, much like lungs short on air might turn one blue in the face. Unless relief is received one might faint from doubt and unhappiness. I was experiencing a similar steady stream of feeling and the flood soon rose to my eyes. The tear ducts were soon overwhelmed and the morning sun reflected in the dew gathering on my cheeks.

This shimmer is probably why she even noticed the salty gem slowly tracing from eye to chin. It was most likely the first tear she had ever seen. As I watched her wide, sea-foam green eyes dare the tiny sparkle to move again so she could leap and strike, I marveled that such a tiny creature even noticed it. She didn't have even the slightest recognition of what it was, even less what it could mean, and yet she watched it carefully, curiously.

Not many things that are smaller than a tear can contain so much within themselves. Meow didn't know, she won't ever know, she won't care, she won't remember, but somehow I was glad those tears were witnessed --intently recognized-- without my needing to explain or discuss feeling with a member of my own species.

I wiped those tiny tears away and the tiny kitten closed her eyes. The tiny spot in the universe continued quietly.

New Life

2010-09-28T10:13:00.004-06:00

Do you think it would be easier or harder to raise a child...if you were dead? :) This short story is a dialogue of new parents. Only 1436 words. Should you enjoy it, let me know. Cheers

August Short

2010-09-01T15:12:00.003-06:00

I've had this idea for a while. I finally spit a version out. I like this pretty well, but it is quite rough... Words 1232; same rhyming/rhythm pattern of the original nursery rhyme gives it a strange flow, but oh well. It was challenging enough just to find the syllables and rhymes to make it all..make sense. cheers

Free

2010-08-15T12:25:00.004-06:00

I have written a poem
Whose words capture
The deepest feelings.

Now I will throw it away

Forgiveness

2010-08-12T17:55:00.003-06:00

For you to assume that I cannot change
Is to reject anything new that you learn.
Though some things about me were prearranged
I have made changes to correct and to turn
And become the woman I was created to be,
And hope always to embrace possibility.
No power on earth can stunt my efforts divine;
I leave to our God to be your judge and mine.

Seeking anOther Somebody

2010-08-10T01:06:00.004-06:00

I would gather the slivers like driftwood,
watch the flames carry the signal,
lie down on the sands where the waves reached just to my feet,
and wait.

July short

2010-07-31T17:20:00.003-06:00

Yes, it counts that I'm writing a long story in short parts.... here's part two of my fairytale twist about 6000 words. Holy cow, July's over.

Broken and Contrite

2010-07-29T15:12:00.003-06:00

An eternal core
of priceless worth
holds the soul
centered in faith,
encompassed by
endless love.

On the surface
the heart beats
ocean deep, shores above
richly layered pieces
on a perpetual course

Forming the mountains
to surmount
Carving the valleys
of survival
Framing the very discourse
of discovery
Causing foundations
to tremble, confound.

But if so constant,
contrite and open
allowing love to flow,
creating hope,
absorbing light,
budding visions grow,

Then let it ever break
tremble, quake;
for its enduring motion-
negative pull
positive draw
turning and rotation-
produces life
and learning,

Tectonic heart
keep yearning.

Update

2010-07-18T23:43:00.006-06:00

(for whatever it's worth. I'm not being deeply inspired lately for any poetry, so I'll just talk about me.)

Okay, now for the Seagull story. I just learned that gulls can live up to 49 years. Dang. Anyway, I'm not sure if this one lived or not. Let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start...

Southbound on the Seward highway is 55 outside of Anchorage. I was deadheading (traveling without passengers) so I set the cruise control (so I don't accidentally speed) and kicked back to watch the beauty mosey by. My Tour Director was riding with me, also enjoying the scenery and poking fun at me in any way he could. We were having some great laughs as we passed Potter Marsh, a bird sanctuary for...birds. There was a pack of seagulls flying like teenagers leaving a high school football field after their team just won. I could just hear the bird chatter, "Dude!" "Dude, sweet!!!" "Dude watch this!" et cetera et cetera when two of them suddenly veered sharply toward my coach. I knew before it happened that it would happen. No suspense, just pending dread, the brutal, slow motion countdown.

I also just learned that seagulls usually fly in packs like this. They strategize. They'll even wait for whales to surface and then dive and peck out pieces of flesh. They're conniving and greedy, unafraid...and sometimes stupid.

I'm trying to ease your pain by diminishing your sympathies.

Its buddy veered up but it just opened its mouth and 'spread eagle' belly flopped the front of my coach (below the windshield and above the license plate). It hit me! I looked later and saw white, salty outline of smoosh and some bird poo or barf or maybe a little of everything on the front of my coach. Not surprisingly, no damage.

The thwack was disturbing enough, but , curse my dutiful reflexes, my eyes pointed to my mirrors. On the side of the road a white bird flopped like a fish out of water, trying to...well, fly I suppose. It had no idea what hit it, I'm sure of that, only that it knew it was breathless and not flying, and that pain inside? Shattered ribs? (Those spindly bones you peck clean from dead animals.) The rear view also provided proof of this broodship: the other seagulls were diving and hovering and screaming above its shocked and quaking body. "Dude!" "Dude..." "Dude man, are you okay?"

I felt so bad. I still sorta do. I wish I hadn't looked back. Or forward, when it hit, for that matter. Uhhheh. A coworker told me she saw the broodship display as well as she drove by moments later. Maybe it lived and has sweet bragging scars. Maybe its "friends" "took care" of it.

Teenagers could learn a lot from birds.

On a happier note

Today is Sunday. I packed a skirt this week on tour and stashed the faith that I'd actually get to use it. Sarah Dawn and I waited for a shuttle that didn't come and then decided we'd hitch hike as much as we could from Denali to Healey, AK. We walked, her in saucy high heels and a sleek black dress. (She looked hot, not gonna lie) and me in white flats, white legs and a white skirt for about half a mile before Jim picked us up. He took us about 8 miles to where his kayaks were chillin and then we walked to the nearby Princess wilderness lodge and talked to them about a shuttle. This lovely lady called a guy named Kit. Kit drove us in a motor coach right to church, another 11 miles north. Sweet. We were at sacrament meeting precisely on time (which is to say ten till 7pm, the meeting started a few minutes later). Sarah Dawn also got us a ride home. Something about a roommate's friend. Bryson. He drove us all the way back to our McKinley lodge. Sweet again! I like that I hitchhiked half way to church. :)

This lady that sits in the front seat for my present tour told me I needed to spot a moose for her. I saw three moose...two on the way to church and one as I drove back from delivering a needed bag from the belly of my motor coach to the top of the mountain at the Grande Denali Lodge. That's always how it is. The moose are always in the place where you're not looking for them. It's almost like they know how cool they are and they hide whenever more than ten people are rolling along in great big animal smashing mobiles.

Think about it, though. People come from everywhere just too see moose. People love them so much they'll even settle for moose poo--purchasing it (from whom? Some shmuck that goes out and scoops it up and puts it in a bag with a price tag on it)--as a last resort. Or even as a fond souvenir? It comes in jewelry form, too. Really. Moose get no royalties. They get hit when they cross the freeway instead. And they get even. More people die by moose than by bear. Believe it. If you're out walking or riding a bike and you see a moose, you stop and take pictures and think you're so cool. If you see a bear you get away (unless you're stupid). That's what most people do. They think moose are cute and charming and stuff. They let down their guard. They don't know how to act. Here's how. Basically, the moose just wants you out of its space, so get out of it. Run away, jagged-like. Swift side to side movements frustrate the moose and it gives up. Bears instinctively chase after what's running, so instead, stand your ground and make noise. Bears kinda freak when they see an animal upright on two legs making strange noises and waving their arms. If it does attack, play dead, protect your vitals. If it goes for the kill, fight back. If you don't you'll surely die. Might as well try not to.

I hope I never have to outsmart the big animals around here.

So anyway...that's good for now. I have a tummy ache. buh bye.

Tragedy

2010-07-03T02:06:00.003-06:00

I'm really in the moode to write, but I worked 17.75 hours today. I work again in less than eight hours. There's a rubber band stuck on my arm...? I ate some halibut fish n chips in Seward today. Best ever and they know it. They actually made the obligatory scoop of slaw taste good, if you can believe it. Why even put it on the plate if it tastes not good? And, I hit a seagull (or did the seagull hit me?) today. That was a loud 60 mph belly flop smack. I can expound on that later. That's the tragedy: something to say and no time to lay it out. Next time.

imagine it with its mouth open and not cast in black and white dramatic tones and that's exactly what it looked like before...before..rehh

phew, it's still June in AK

2010-07-01T01:58:00.002-06:00

just made it. 5438 words so far. I'm having fun with this story but I'm also still figuring it out, same time as my main character. Stay tuned, this one's

to be continued...

A Thousand Words

2010-06-20T17:17:00.004-06:00

Feelin good at 84 and then I rolled 3

Birthday Thanks

2010-06-09T00:04:00.003-06:00

Thank You:

God, for making birth and days and blessings for twenty six years. I love you.

Mark, for making the trip out of your way to take us to dinner (Godsend with that rain!)

Friends, for making me warm and fuzzy inside. I love you.

Matt, for...everything. For making me feel, seriously, like a princess today.

Bakers and candlestick makers, for making edible goodness, and wicks to make wishes.

Mom and Dad, for making me. I love you.

Violet Shadow

2010-06-02T17:57:00.003-06:00

May's short story, Violet Shadow, is 5099 words. Perfect! I could probably cut out 99 words easily, but I'm pleased with this draft for now because there are plenty of places where I did cut back, where i could have expanded. This to me is the kind of story that could go into novel one day. We'll see! I hope you enjoy it, oh lovely blog followers!!

Another Emily's Words

2010-05-23T22:18:00.000-06:00

Heart! We will forget him!
You and I -- tonight!
You may forget the warmth he gave --
I will forget the light!

When you have done, pray tell me
That I may straight begin!
Haste! lest while you're lagging
I remember him!

E Dickinson

Sipping Spring

2010-05-02T00:39:00.015-06:00

Low cumulonimbus pillows
Tucked under blue sheets
Form fluffy white shapes
To the trained, shielded eye

Squinting and causing
Wrinkles to crease
Crows feet directing
The sun's balmy rays

Onto freckled cheeks
Into rouging ears
Warming from soul
To skin that feels

The desultory breeze
Inhaling and absorbing
Every current event
Drifting here to there

Plotting a trail of
Temporary stones
Stepping across
An undisturbed pond

Where the willows
Catch the rill of scents,
Comb the tangle through,
And tremble as if to sneeze

From the memory
That tickles the nose
And tugs the corners of
Two lips red as

Tulips curling open
To bumble bee kisses
While grasshoppers leap
Over rocks and twigs

And ants march to the drum
Of the heart of earth
In spongy dirt
Where worms fill orders

To deliver flowers
Their fertile diet,
Tiny roots winding down
The freeway of life

Pulsing under foot
Pressing softly in
To tender green blades
That bow to the breeze
Sweeping through thin clouds
Spread over endless canvas
Airbrushed blue
Arrayed in sunlit beams.

April's Short Story

2010-04-30T15:03:00.002-06:00

The Advocate (just under 1700 words) is kind of cheating...I wrote a rough draft months, maybe years ago. The writing needed polishing, but the idea was already born. It is also "cheating" if you think of what happens in strictly "real world" applications. The Advocate is an analogy. Parts of the "history"--location, specific crime, time of era--are intentionally left unmentioned. This was to provide flexibility in interpretation. If you read this as fiction, then you'll be less critical, I hope, in possible applications. Most analogies aren't perfect in their applications, remember this. Then maybe you'll like this. Cheers!

Relay

2010-04-18T22:40:00.006-06:00

Listen,
You will hear the air
That settles in your ear.

Swallow,
Can you taste my thoughts?
So carefully prepared.

Here,
Can you feel my love?
Heartbeat in hand.

Look,
Can you see my faith?
In deed and word.

Breathe,
You will smell the future
Almost reminding you of...

Husband Merenade

2010-04-13T12:04:00.003-06:00

Twenty-six years have passed
When we couldn't share stories.
Soon as two authors write one life
Let's make it an adventure:
Front page sensations every morning.

Be patient while we wait
And after you know me, too.
I'm not perfect, but my love
will supply everything required
To make life's marinade sweet.

I want to marinate you.

Don't ask, "Will you marry me?"
No,
I won't "one time event" you.
I do,
I will always marrynate you,
And I'm already mixing
The sweet with the sour,
Waiting to soak and soften.

Sit on my right and I'll scratch your back;
On my left and I'll finger a love serenade,
My voice a soft wind in the
Sunshine chords of this ukulele.

Or walk next to me, either side,
Holding the hand that is yours
To have, for every want and need.

Hug me.
No, hold me in your arms.
Better yet, fold me in your heart.

Stand behind me when you wait
For my makeup to be finished;
You'll be ready, already,
But wait for me with me,
With your arms around me.

When I stand behind you
My head will rest on you,
On a soft blade of shoulder.
My arms closed around you,
I will never be able to let go.

I will love you--
If you only knew how much--
So don't worry or wonder or wander,
Because our paths will meet.
Or maybe they have...

Our hearts will meet.
And the moment will be
Sensational.

Curious Title. Second Glance

2010-04-09T17:26:00.015-06:00

First line, second chance:
First impression already surmising,
Opinion forming,
Interest...waning? piqued?
Judgement realizing,
Persuasion reorganizing.
A clever, winning line.
Your mind accepts,
Wandering beyond the words,
Releasing hold of title and letters,
Ink merging into memory
Smearing, stamping, circulating
Images flashing, resurfacing;
Silent movie, admission for one.
And then it's over
Before you're done.

Over, but never ending
Because you read each word
Transfusing into your veins.
Only the words know where you bleed;
They rush to the pain...
But do not always heal.
Words stampede at full speed
Then tiptoe like bedtime kisses,
Expand the imagination's lung
Then choke the rising passion;
Steal speech, tie the tongue,
Numb its tip, prick the nose,
Fill the eyes, dissolve.

Your eyes absorb the title.
Your heart transmits the letters.
Your veins bide the pressure.
Your blood craves another dose.
Your disease can be remitted;
Your nerves wait for the word.

Moon Shine

2010-03-30T02:36:00.003-06:00

I see the man in the moon, but he don’t see me
He's got bright light in his eyes to the nth degree,
So it ain't his fault. His backside's always colder
And he always peers behind his shoulder
Cuz that mister sun is always comin'
Sure as the noise 'fore the train comes hummin';
‘Xcept, the sun’s quieter than a baby’s blink
And seems even nicer, so why be scared, ya’d think.
But the man’s always lookin kinda pale
Like he's seen a ghost in awful detail.
He even pulls his covers to his chin
Some nights, cuz he starts getting mighty thin
Till he’s clean gone like a scaredy cat
Who gets spooked away with jus' a tip of yer hat.
Then I watch him peek over again
Lettin down them starry sheets till when
One day he waits to meet that sun
And I’m glad when, that son of a gun,
Fin’lly decides he’ll face that sun to ‘is face
And holds his ground and don’t move from ‘is place.
The sun yields behind the moon at last
And for a second the man’s face is cast
In blinding blackness and I can’t see
Him but I feel that he can fin’lly see me.
But the sun is a strong guy and I understand
How if you wanna be seen you gotta stand
In his rays. And stuck livin in that sky
That man in the moon can only sigh.
I bet he wishes he could do something new
But, like I says, he’s kinda a wimp, that moon,
So he just does as he’s told, plum to prune.
What the sun says today, the moon will say tonight
And it doesn’t seem to phase him. It don’t seem right,
But I understand; when Pa tells me “Listen here, son”
Boy I listen quick. And I do till the doin’s done.
So tonight the moon sneaks by my window frame
(I’ve snuck down the hall that way just the same)
And I watch his eyes peek back behind him
To search the horizon till the stars get dim.
I say, “just relax, let’s close our eyes and sleep.”
And we yawn, him and me, as big as space is deep.
I look at him; he’s like a glowing marquee.
I see the man in the moon, but he don’t see me.

Pancake Journey

2010-03-29T22:55:00.008-06:00

Today I wanted pancakes. I wanted wheat ones. I searched and searched but I didn't find any wheat pancake mix

(Krusteaz has this amazing honey wheat mix. mmm)

Who can blame me when the pantry looks like this?
(But I did find some delicious Cheez-Its to snack on!)

I was kind of disappointed; I really wanted that wheat and honey kind. So I sat down to think. Then I remembered the Snickers bar that I'd bought. I wanted that, too. But I'd already eaten like a dozen little sweeTTarts earlier, and thought, 'oy, what chubby thoughts" but then, thought I, what if I mix Snickers and Pancakes!?

I thought and thought....and my tummy whined and whined...and then I turned the Snickers bar over.

Bar Hunger. Get that hunger outta my face. So, I set myself to work. But wait, is that a banana I see?

Suddenly I remembered my first job, at Granny's Drive Inn, a great shake and burger place. One of my favorite shakes to make was banana snickers (yes, really) and I decided that had to go into the pancakes, too.

I had the pan preheating, the spatula standing by, the whisk anxiously waiting, the mix and the bowl.

(....wait, does that Snickers already have a bite out of it?)

(I couldn't wait....)

I measured out two cups of mix and the called-for water. I made the batter thick, thinking, "I don't want thin cakes with lumpy humps--because when I flip the pancakes that will prevent both sides from cooking" and it's a good thing I thought it, because I would have been right.

But...I may have made it a bit too thick. Just a smidgen, though. Thems were some fatty panny cakes. I mean...

I added Snickers pieces

I added banana chunks

I even added chocolate chips because I just didn't think the Snickers would go far enough.
They were just so darn good looking, those chocolate morsels. And good tasting, too!

So, in they went. In they ALL went.

I added bananas to just half, the ones on the top there; the bottom two had just Snickers and chocolate chips. (I wanted to taste the difference it made without bananas. It wasn't extreme, but I could definitely tell. I think I liked it better with the bananas.)

So, the cakes took to the heated pan perfectly and it was soon time to flip. Just try to do it a little better than I did...

And seriously, they were thick. I worried that the inside wouldn't cook.
This lid helped. Made a mini oven for my mega cakes.

Which awesome mega cakes cooked all the way through.

And to top these babies, I didn't want syrup. No, I went for the fluffier sugar: whipped cream. I even whipped it from scratch myself (preburning calories...)

It helps to have a sweet mixing bowl with a donut lid like this, so the whipped splatters are fewer. Beat the cream on high speed until it gets a bit thicker, add a couple tablespoons of powdered sugar if you want, keep beating on high until....

It forms soft peaks.

Then, be civilized, get a plate.

You know the rest!

They were good. But next time I'd make less mix or get more Snickers. Maybe I'd even skip the whipped cream, cuz those suckers sure used up the sugar %DV on their own. Or, try the shake. Banana Snickers and vanilla ice cream. This is a great world.

cavern

2010-03-27T00:50:00.002-06:00

In a corner of the Arctic
A mound of snow in bending trail
Accumulated naturally.
Packed tight by time's patient hands
It will never melt,
Sheltered by frozen air.

I found it, nearly solid ice,
Began carving, caring
For just the outside;
The visceral center
Would remain intact,
Frozen in ignorance.

But an external blast
Rocked the frosted ridge
Cracking the front base.
A rift exposed the interior.
I felt it and began carving,
Uncaring, with frozen tears

Melting faster than tools
To the hardened crux
Until the mound,
Hollow and echoing,
Became a remnant crust
Arching over frozen ground.

Depending the weather,
I might seek passage into
The frostbitten basin
Turned upside down.
An unguarded entry gapes,
Summons my frozen reluctance.

It is duty to preserve
The bond created to protect
Secrets, errors, confidence;
A solid core dissolved by tears
Can rare reform the trust.
Perhaps time will thaw a frozen faith.

(feedback much appreciated)

Yes!

2010-03-22T22:31:00.002-06:00

March has itself a brand new ACTUALLY short, short story! (4204 words) This one's for the romantics. I was feeling romantic I guess. Cheers~

Randomblings: on love

2010-03-19T02:32:00.004-06:00

Well, the time has come to clarify. I recently posted some words attempting to reflect some of-the-moment feelings about men. It definitely came across as man-hating and woman-worshipping, some wordy stuff that I don’t even believe in myself. At the time I had been hurt, so I lashed out. I think we’re all entitled. And you are also entitled to think and say and comment whatever you want.

Here’s something else: I love men. I absolutely love men. The idea of men, manly things, muscles, voices, smells, mannerisms, etc. I love my grandpa, I love my dad, I love my guy friends, I even appreciate ex-boyfriends. I truly believe woman is not complete without the man as the man is incomplete without the woman.

But let me just say here that both are genuinely priceless individually. And I believe that always, no matter my mood.

Then we all know that each gender has its quirks. Then each person has a personality and character. All these things are, in my opinion, pieces of the mosaic that make up this tectonic world. The world is beautiful and active and progressive because of individuals and their tendencies and their choices. We all need each other, we each have our needs, we express our feelings, we long to share those feelings with others sometimes.

There’s plenty I could say about women. The day after I wrote that Randomblings about men not deserving women, I made a whole list of why women are trouble and how they need men just as much, if not more, as men need women.

I won’t give examples, because those too will come off as generalized and not applicable to everyone underneath a blanket statement.

Here’s what I think. Humans have desires to trust and to love. Those develop through relationships, which develop through experiences, which traverse countless paths of connecting lives.

A lot of learning can happen with every experience. Sometimes we learn the biggest lessons from our hardest choices, our deepest pits, our indescribable feelings, our thickest fears. Sometimes it’s from the tiniest glance or the lightest touch or the faintest sound that we feel or learn the most.

It’s personal. Until it’s personal, it’s someone else’s. We want personal. We want to learn, we long to experience, we desire, we crave, we plunge into experience.

Sometimes we desire that personal part of ourselves to include another. Like the gears of a clock, any move we make, they move too. And, on for a while, one experience moves two people, two people move one life. The tick and tock of two hearts, defying time and reason: love is an ultimate experience.

Love is a timeless experience.

That is why, when it’s gone, sometimes it feels like you’ve never moved, even if you’ve crossed the whole world a thousand times, even if you’ve left it entirely and come back.

That is why, when you’re in it, you can’t wait.

That is why, when you’re living in it, you can experience, grow old, and die and it still holds you as though you were just born.

The time it takes to learn what love is, is the time experience travels from the head to the heart. No one can tell you what you’re feeling, you will learn that as time goes on. Like me, you’ll make plenty of mistakes and maybe regret a few choices. But that’s the way I needed to learn, and I am glad it took some time to learn the right way for me to learn love. And I suspect I’ll have yet more to learn. All the time.

There is no rewinding love, there is no return to love. At every moment, love is present or absent. The more often it is present, the more one can build on love, making relationships, understanding, forgiving, loving anew.

I say anew, because, well…For example, I loved a boy and I really liked the way I loved him. But that ended, or at least, it was suspended for quite some time. I realize, now that the love for him is gone, absent, that if I were to love him again, it would have to be a new love. That’s what I mean when I say there is no return to love. (Not that if you feel without love that it's beyond relocating, no, not ever.) Love fits in hearts, not in time. People fit into both…

Am I wrong? Maybe I’m wrong again. I do not mean to say that love is lost at every new moment. No, love builds, love wanes, love is very active. It’s just that it is not bound by time in any way. It is as gravity, a law immovable, but with a flexible understanding. Airplanes thrust into the air and gravity is not changed. There are ways into love, out of love, around love…but love will always be.

That is how it is timeless, that is how I believe it waits. It waits for us to gain experience and to learn what it feels like within us. Then it can propel us in any direction, out of any depth, through any fear, into another’s arms.

In case anyone reads this, know that I believe in love. I believe it takes work and that that labor refines the worker. The final product of a life well experienced with love is that heart of gold we all seek. In ourselves and in any other.

Life is about timing. Love is the experience of a lifetime.

I Love Thai

2010-03-15T22:01:00.006-06:00

This evening I walked about 2 miles to eat dinner at a place called The Thai House. Boy was it worth-it good!

I went by myself because I don't really have a friend here, or anyone's phone number....but whatever, I just wanted to eat. I walked through Oriental town pretty much, every sign was first in some asian language and sometimes not even in English after that. Let it be known that the entire two miles showed no place selling ice cream. I kinda want some ice cream that is not McDonalds, because, let it be believed!, McDonalds is gross. Anyway, I felt safe, as I walked the 6 PM streets to The Thai House because I figured, not many inhabitants of this area would have many animalistic desires triggered by seeing a six-foot white girl.

I made it to the google address intersection and followed the directions to the right, which took me around the entire block and led almost back to that intersection before I got to the restaurant. Yay google. Anyway, I was greeted by a very large Thai smile and put at a table by myself. I looked at the menu and was excited to get me some Thai. I came across the Satay item and was surprised to see two options: 4 chicken skewers or 4 Osrtrich skewers! I asked to get two skewers of each and the waitress said yes. Sweet.

Ostrich was awesome! Well, at least the way they skewered it. As advertised, it tasted very "free range" and it was tender. It was like...a lamb and a rabbit got married, had a kid and then later, a cow married that hybrid kid and together they had a kid = Ostrich meat. Kinda ducky, too. Like a birdy beef. Yeah. I liked it. The chicken as well was super succulent and divine, and the peanut sauce they served it with was classically delish. They also served it with a sweet, clear sauce (I tried in vain to guess any of its ingredients) loaded with cucumbers, carrots and sweet, red onion. That was tasty.

Then came the yellow chicken curry. Big chunks of perfect carrots and potatoes, strips of tender chicken, and a creamy, spicy sauce that is just too good to be true. Those Asians really know their spices. Whew. Added to that, a side of rice. It was amazing, cuz they either cooked it in or soaked it in coconut milk so it had added flavor and pizzaz for the love of coconut. I love coconut.

After having eaten such amazing food, I was sad to have gone alone. I love when someone can share good food with me! And I love that feeling when, having eaten food so good, of really wanting to tip, to really give money to the restaurant because they earned it, bordering on sponsoring the restaurant in a community event. Too bad I don't fit into the community and might do more harm than good promoting it. ;) So, instead I'm blogging about it. Best next thing. (Their website has a few recipes on it, take a look!)

So, if you're ever in the Vancouver area, give it a try. Keep your eye out for the Ostrich!

On Holiday

2010-03-11T19:59:00.005-07:00

Sometimes it is ever so nice to be on Holiday and get paid for it. Well, technically I did work today, if you call driving a city bus filled with the Swiss sludge curling paralympic team members wherever they need to go, work, then yes I worked. But in the down time as they practiced I was able to catch up in my journal and write a letter to my missionary brother. I drove around with my co-driver, Yvonne. She's probably late sixties and has sparkly silver hair that she covers with a rain bonnet on rainy days especially like today. I love old lady bus drivers.

I love Olympic cheer.

I love the smiling faces at the front desk as I walk through the sliding glass doors at ground floor.

I love the slish of the Holiday Inn hotel key card to let me in my room.

I love the fresh towel refill and cleaned bathroom.

I love how they fold the tail of the toilet paper twice to make a tip.

I love the new linens, even if I have to untuck three sides of the bed just to get in.

I love how much room I have and that I'm not paying for it.

It is a tad lonely, but I'm super content. In a state of peaceful happiness. My life sure is looking up, right at the stars. I'm out of debt, I'm going to Alaska for the summer, I will get a new car and will soon finish school. I like being single but I'm ready whenever God is to get me a husband. :) But life is sunny, my eyes are bright, my heart is free, I'm skipping down a yellow brick road with bare feet and whatever happens, I'm ready. And for now I'm great.

something. anything

2010-03-06T09:29:00.006-07:00

"..so quiet I hear the Willows weepin," -Chic Gamine, Sunny Sunday

I have to put something on here. Not for you, for me. Just need to.

But I've got nothing on my mind. So, I've opened up this blogger post box and we're about to see what comes out. It's 9:30 AM

Somewhere, I've lost a friend.
Well, I know where she is
But contact has come to an end.

At first it was only his
Life I had to take myself out
Of; I wasn't expecting this.

I don't seek pity or mean to pout
I'm just somewhat confused.
She knew me before his route

Crossed over ours and fused
A relationship with her, then me.
In time, he and I were bruised.

But I figured what had been would be
Still, with her, a solid friendship
And here pierces the mystery.

Maybe I let a wrong word slip,
Or someone said something misleading
About me, which caused a rip

In her judgement and reading
Of my otherwise sincere and
Honest heart, now bleeding.

Because it hurts more to be banned
Without even knowing why
Than be released from the hand

That held my heart and my
Everything. Because lovers come,
Move everything around, pass by

And go, but friends offer some
Stability, some orientation,
A sort of pathway home

When the journey's expiration
Is far from a familiar place;
Likewise giving explanation

From a familiar face
When something isn't right.
Friends don't just erase

Years of memories in one night.
It must have been something bad
That I don't know I did, in her sight,

And it makes me really sad.

And now it's 10:30 AM. I talked on the phone with a fellow bus driver, David, for 16:26, so this poem, if you will call it that, took no longer than it did to lose a friend...

What else can I say? Whatever it is will best be in haiku form, I'm sure.

The bus company
Working the Olympic games:
Gold medal failure

It has been two weeks
Breathing through a mucous straw
Not enjoyable

Sun, unearth desire
Winter stills the bravery
Evaporation

Haiku is harder
Than I was hoping right now
Too bright out to sleep

Well, maybe this is better than nothing. It's 11:13 AM.

Randomblings: from the heart

2010-03-02T13:48:00.002-07:00

I wrote this Saturday Feb 27. I had a rough sort of day and the following streamed from my fingers. I started a short story for February, but have not finished it. Busy month. And a shorter month. Maybe I'll finish it pretty soon. But for now, this:

I feel. I am a woman and I have feelings. I use them honestly. When I don’t feel something, I don’t portray it; when I feel something I’ll let you know. Only excepting when I just can’t, because some feelings just can’t be told. Sometimes even letters can’t be formed from the debris of words certain explosive feelings leave behind. Then is when you just sweep it all up and make a deposit in the dumpster.

But right now, I’ll say a few words. Men are idiots. Women should forever be exalted for letting men into their lives. Men don’t deserve a good woman but oh how they need one. And just one. Once she has agreed to be his, he should remember—always remember—how useless he is without her and cherish and respect and adore and honor and pamper and waste away his life trying to make something of his own through hers. A man whose life is not given to one good woman will waste all the good he’s got and be good for nothing. Okay, not nothing, but close.

Guys generally like sports. They like to run into each other charging at full speed. They like to hit and throw and toss and kick assorted athletic balls. They like to win and get whatever they want, get a prize.

Women are not prizes, but are to be prized. They aren’t trophies to display, but treasures to bury deep in the heart. What man wasn’t born with and what he won’t ever find elsewhere in the world is contained in one word: woman. She is the goal. She will cheer for his success as long as she’s the goal.

What’s in it for him? Did you really ask that? You did if you’re a man.

Why does any athlete train, sweat, tear his muscles to make them stronger, push, bleed, break and fight for the sport? He has a goal, he wants to win. I thought that was clear enough already, but I’ll say it differently.

She is the goal, she is the success, having her = to win; she makes the effort worth it, she makes his life have full worth. Anything else he aims for, he may achieve; but until he wrestles the bitter game of love, he will not know the sweetness of losing his life to win a woman.

It just makes me so sad when he loses sight that there’s nothing grander than one good woman; when he submits to the steroidal impulse to get a quick woman, any woman; women, women. It makes me sad, too, the quick women that submit.

I’m tired and I just don’t want to write a short story that I haven’t thought up yet. I’m deflated because the world doesn’t value the ultimate team of a good man and a good woman; the Olympic possibilities of golden years, with silver hair and bronzed skin, together to the end.

Men, go for the heart of gold, the one you’ll earn only through losing yourself to win that woman.

My Nose

2010-02-22T08:55:00.001-07:00

I'm drinking warm water that soaked some peppermint leaves in it for about ten minutes (I would have just said peppermint tea, but then y'all might think whatever it is you think, so I specified) pondering my luck of going one and a half months without getting sick, when whamo, the sniffles. Don't you agree that it's the worst thing to wake up in the night to escapee snot tickling down your nostril, the one you haven't been able to breathe out of since you turned your head onto that side? In my frantic ear-plugged, half-sleep, eye-closed reach for the roll of toilet paper, I knocked the tissues under the bed. I rummaged and found them again, unrolled, tore and twisted a wad into my nostril and flopped my listless head back onto the pillow. Leaving the tissue as was prevented any further worrying and snot dripping. So, turns out, I slept well. All eight hours. Except, my roommate did wake up three hours before me and that woke me up ever so slightly -- enough to actually feel self-conscious about the paper plug in my nostril so I snuck it from my nose when hopefully she wasn't looking. Not sure what I did with it after that...

I love breathing from both nostrils. It feels more correct, filling both lungs evenly. Normally when I sleep, I nostril breathe, I don't snore, basically you'd sometimes wonder if I was actually breathing I sleep so quietly. When I'm sick my nose habitually nose breathes still, until that becomes too laborious and I switch to mouth. I hate it. I am convinced it makes me more sick since it dries out my throat and allows all sorts of airborne hitchhikers to get right where they need to go, and bust. Yes, I hate it when I have to breathe through my mouth when I sleep. Mouths should stay closed except for eating, laughing, cleaning and saying intelligent or witty things. Oh, and kissing. Kissing is definitely on the list.

When I get that nice clogged feeling at the back of my nose, my brain always suggests and encourages that I move it from there, into my mouth and then onto the ground, into the sink, wherever is appropriate for the time. My brain is kind for the constant motivation, but when it comes down to it.,..I just can't obey. I can't voluntarily hock a loogie. Which is to say, in a word I'm sure how to spell, spit. Yeah, I just can't get it from point A to point B, only point C: swallowing. Only sometimes my body decides to bypass the informing part and just takes care of the A to B reflex for me. I appreciate when that happens. I know it's gross. But, you read the title of this post. You could have stopped then.

What else about my nose? I rather like it. It's pretty average and fits nicely on my face, below my eyes and above my lips. When I smile it spreads out a bit. Some times more than other times it seems. At times it looks like it grew overnight and those days are always self-conscious ones. But anyway, I was really only writing until this tea was gone, so that I wouldn't have to drink it cold.

Current conditions: both nostrils are clear, north and south bound. But, I don't think it's going to last very long. Forecast shows there will be a nap and the build up of mucous will probably start shifting from side to side. But for now, the mouth is pepperminty fresh, and we really do need that nap so the immune system can do some clean up while the body's at rest. This report brought to you by the cranberry and pomegranate Emergen-C packet consumed earlier. Emergen-C, when you can't get from A to B, try C.

:)

More Things About Canada and Stuff...

2010-02-20T14:07:00.004-07:00

I haven't gone to any Olympic events or met any athletes, but I have watched stuff on T.V. I haven't gone skiing or snowboarding, even though this is skier and snowboarder paradise. I don't know how to do either and I don't want to spend all my money just learning how to (and being maimed in the process).

I made an american flag out of towels I bought from WalMart. It's pretty....it's an honorable mention. I'll have pics soon. The pics were taken with another's camera, so I don't have them. It was a fun craft, Mom you will be so proud.

Oh! I wrote a poem. I think I like it... I'll post it soon.

Driving down the highway one morning I saw a friendly red truck driving in front of me. I don't remember most of the drive because I was imagining all the fun I could imagine happening around a truck like that. It was a coca cola truck, with painted fizz bubbles in the finish. It had two empty spaces that looked like they were reserved for coke vending machines. Maybe it was on its way to get more beverage to share with the thirsty world. It had large, animated everything it seemed. It just looked like a play truck that was actual size and functional. Eventually we came to a red light and I passed by it going in the lane to turn right. First thing I noticed was a steady stream of brown liquid pouring from the side of the truck. Hmm, I thought. Then I noticed the giant unfriendly tow-truck the poor red coca cola truck was hoisted on to. Poor bleeding Coca Cola truck, I thought. And it made me thirsty.

I have to go. I'm going to Squamish! I'll hopefully have pictures next time!

Take That, Back

2010-02-12T16:55:00.000-07:00

Here I stand triumphantly, if still in excruciating pain, because I got out of the top bunk and walked to and from the bathroom and didn’t fall. Funny the things we take for granted when we’re healthy.

Things that should be painless that I took for granted before this week:
Sitting
Walking
Bending
Crouching
Lifting
Leaning
Twisting
Getting up
Lying down
Stretching
Standing
Laughing
Reaching
Moving

I think I really must have done something awful to my back and no matter what I do to take it easy, it’s just getting worse. So, is it my bed? Is it bus driving? I think these were harmless before, but after mysteriously tweaking my back they serve as contributing villains in the conspiracy of bringing me down. But, this seems to be all I talk about lately. Talking, typing and thinking are about all I can do now.

There are always as many sides to a story as there are characters in it, plus one: God’s version.

Let’s say there’s a girl. What she knows is that she’s in a lot of pain and can hardly move. She sees that she’s in a country with laws partially foreign to her own and is unsure of what help she can turn to, or if she could afford it. She thinks to herself, “I’m not sure I can take much more of this.”

God sees all this and most likely wants to relieve the pain the girl feels. He knows He can work miracles and relieve all pain. The girl also knows this and carefully maneuvers her body to the floor, curling into a kneeling position.

“God,” she confides, “I understand that with mortality comes pain. I’m not sure what I even did to cause this back pain and so I’m not sure what will help it go away. I feel like I need this pain to go away. But if for some reason I need to bear this pain for now, I can accept that. I do need to work while I’m here in Canada and I’m not really functional with this pain at the moment. I really believe in miracles. I know that the Priesthood power provides for all manner of healing and I would like a blessing. I believe in the healing power of Jesus Christ.”
As is expected, God listens. He registers her faith and assesses the situation in its entirety. He can see all that. He can see everything. He is pleased to have the invitation to help a daughter in need and as always will do all He can and wills.

The girl lies back down, heating pad softly warming the aching joints. With hope she presses play to start the movie The Testaments on her laptop. The gentle music soothes her tender faith and the beautiful images remind her of the power of her precious Savior. How she does love Him.

Farthest from her mind are the pieces of paper hanging on the dorm container entry doors “This is a female dormitory. No males allowed.” Zach, a thoughtful Priesthood holder is on his way, and faith is gearing up for any possible miracles. A light knock at the door is answered, “Come in.”

Zach slowly opens the door and when he sees only the girl he suggests that he’ll wait until her roommate comes back. A very gentlemanly thing to do. Meanwhile, a girl down the hall ingests authority to enforce the rule previously mentioned, written on a paper, hanging on the wall. At the same time, roommate and another male friend and Zach enter the room together, with a little red tray of food for the immobile girl.

Zach proceeds, anointing the girl’s head with consecrated oil for the blessing of sick and afflicted bodies. The very moment he places his hands again on the girl’s head to give a blessing, another knock on the door is heard. Roommate answers the door and the girl down the hall presents her recruited voice: a bold lady with hair as strong as her will to enforce.

Without any attempt to understand the situation she demands that the males vacate the dormitory. The friend nearest the door slips out right away, hoping that his departure would be satisfactory and that Zach would go unnoticed. But roommate opens the door wide enough for Zach also to be seen. She commands that he leave as well.

Unable to move and filled with pain and emotion, the girl explains, “Excuse me, ma’am, my back–“ Strong Hair interrupts. “Whatever you’re doing can be done somewhere else, you cannot be in here.”

Then tears unhelpfully intrude. “I cannot move,” the girl says, “what he is about to do is sacred and—“

“You need to leave.” Hmm, she thinks we didn’t hear that the first time she said it, perhaps.

“What if I leave in two minutes,” suggest Zach very innocently.

“What if you leave now,” miss sassy pants continues. “When you signed up to live here you agreed to obey the rules, no males allowed.”

Loss of cordial patience, check. “Actually, I did not agree to that rule. But if you want to go tell on me that I’m breaking rules, go right ahead.”

Huffy exit of strong-hair lady, tattletale girl in tow, charging for rule police back up.

Finally, a moment of…relative peace. The girl was crying, already repenting for being short with the short-sighted woman, hoping that the Spirit wasn’t too far from her flustered heart.

Zach, the poor brave fellow, blesses the girl, nervous hands on her head.

God, the wonderful, kind Father, blesses the girl, masterful hands on her back.

Immediately the girl feels a loosening of cramped and tightened muscles. Still teary and a bit flustered she doesn’t mention it as Zach leaves, but she feels it. There is still pain, but she is mobile. On the floor she does a few tender stretches, and roommate fetches their clean laundry.

Another knock on the door. Roommate answers once again, this time to two males with authorization to be in the female dormitory. The girl on the floor notes how their position and official jackets qualify them to make exceptions to posted rules. The brutes’ hearts soften as they view the red-eyed girl on the floor and they ask what the trouble was. Roommate explains about a blessing and apologizes for being short with the woman informant.

The burlier of the two males proceeds to offer possible home remedies, suggesting this and that, as if there had been no disturbance, no reason for tattletales to come running. They radio for a female first aid attendant and when she arrives, the security squad leaves.

What God saw surely must have been entertaining. Indeed, being able to look on the heart should give His view a very well-rounded show.

He watches the girl’s heart swell with gratitude as she maneuvers with ease to the bathroom—a trip that took a full five tender minutes previously now only took two. The gratitude swells even to her lips and the joy of a miracle leaps from her lips in form of a laugh. But, she counsels herself, take it easy. She smiles and smiles.

The Priesthood power, the girl thinks later, is of the most precious gifts God has given to man. Well, perhaps it is the all-encompassing gift God has ever given. The creation of this world, the atonement of His Son, the current open from Heaven to man through the Holy Ghost: these all involve Priesthood power and have been given to undeserving man. A portion of this power is allotted to worthy men on this earth, to bless and brighten lives of everyone around them. What an honor, to hold a bit of God’s power. What a blessing on earth.

The girl remembers how two certain men wearing security jackets entered the building because their authority trumped the rules. She thinks how interesting it is that a single man, draped in invisible power with authority issued from God, broke rules to administer to one in need. His authority was not visible, but it was even more than kings, magistrates, emperors or crowns can command.

And that power of God connected to a sick daughter’s pain and relieved it, and continues to heal her. No other reflective-jacketed man or first aid attendant could have brought that healing. Whatever must be healed by faith happens through invisible power. A servant of God wears his faith in his actions and can be called in as a first-response authority. God be thanked for restored powers on earth.

Back vs Stomach

2010-02-10T13:16:00.002-07:00

This morning I had the 0715 shift report time. The cafeteria opens at...earlier than 700, so I was able to go in and get a mixture of oats and yogurt and a couple muffins for the road. Oh, and rice krispies. So, I take my little red tray of food and decide to just stay on the bottom floor of the cafeteria instead of ascending to the second floor this morning, to save time and energy, and pain in my back. I tenderly lower my body at a table by my lonesome and I'm facing an older gentleman who is sitting, faced to my left. I chomp away diligently at my morning meal and don't think of much. I think of how I really love 'yoats' and how my back is quite tender and just try not to move more than my mouth. I hear the older gentleman make a coughing noise. No big deal.

A man and woman enter with their little red trays and set them down, a seat away and across from the left-facing gentleman in the orange toque. The man and woman left their trays to go get some jam and in the mean time, the orange-tipped man continued his hacking until he turned quickly and vomited in the trash can gratefully right behind him...ungratefully directly in my view. I think I paused...every muscle below my forehead and above my belly button, deciding what to decide to do about my current predicament, as he continued vomiting a few more times. As my eyes were in a moment of indecision, they continued witnessing his convulsing heaves. I peeled my eyes away and cast them toward my own food.

Here was the moment where I had to mediate between back and stomach.

"Ow," said my stomach.

"Ow, don't even think about it," said my back.

Why move seats when I was almost done eating just to get up, move, sit again, finish and then get up again, move again, etc. It was just too much to bear. My stomach was quickly disciplined and I let my back be the victor.

The other man came back and witnessed some of the vomiting and looked at me. I'm not sure what my face told him, but he kept looking at the vomiter, his food and myself, and it made me laugh. Not out loud, but enough to comminucate that I too was undone. but I also felt bad for the guy! It's no fun to vomit. And why oh why was he still stuffing froot loops and yogurt into his stomach if it was rejecting the thrown-out waffle being finely coated in syrupy vomit?

I don't know. I commanded my stomach to finish the yoats and I took my muffins, my red tray and my back out of the dining area.

Well, lessoned learned: go upstairs to eat.

Days Off

2010-02-08T11:58:00.004-07:00

Besides the broken back, the nothing but good times continue. There are just so many things to tell about!

I got paid! That's always reassuring, that I'm not actually being mistaken as a volunteer. We all wondered about monetary materialization for a while. My fears are gone, and so should be yours...

My face wash smells like Sprite. Here in Canadia boonies I think of Sprite more than I have in my whole life. And that leads me to think of Italian sodas that my family makes now and again and it makes me miss those occasions. Hey out there, family that rarely reads my blog. Love you guys!

So, in the week of Feb 1-6 I only worked two days. So, with four days off in a row, Seth, Merilee and myself went to Victoria Island. It took a two hour bus ride connected to a 15 minute sky train to a 1 hour wait to a 45 minute bus ride to another hour and a half wait to the hour and a half ferry ride to another hour bus ride just to freaking get there... So that you don't have to think about how long that was, I'll just tell you this: we started at 9am in Whistler and arrived in Victoria Island at 6:30pm. All that transport was very tiring.

So first thing we did was call Dispatch to tell them we would be needing an extra day in order to see anything at all, since at that moment in time we had only that day and the next off. It would be horrifically unhelpful to just go home the next day at 10am. They told us we could have another day. Yay! So, we checked in to our hostel, added an extra night, and dropped off our crap to go to dinner.

We walked for many blocks to an Indian restaurant. It was pretty good. We got food and ate it. Then we left after we paid for it. Pretty basic.

We went around the town a bit then, looking for ice cream mostly, but seeing many other things in the mean time. Like buildings, stores in them, windows in the front of them, and whales and totems and eagles, oh my! on the street. Finally we slipped into a conviently placed store filled with all the junk one needs at 9pm or later and got a little tub of vanilla brownie fudge ice cream and three spoons. We went back to our hostel, ate it, played some pool, did some yoga while I wasn't the one playing pool, and THEN we went to bed. The room was awesome! Well, it was a room. With a bunk bed, a mirror, a small desk and a chair. But the ceiling was like twenty feet up. Two more bunks could have easily made their way up there. But as it was was sufficient for sleeping, which we did.

Then we went to breakfast in the AM at a place called the Sour Pickle. It was yumesome! No, didn't have any pickles, sour or otherwise, and yes, it was the typical breakfast all day place, our order taken by an asian lady that we couldn't understand who kept coming back to ask, "is anything all right?", another asian-looking man taking off an apron and going out the front door, either to smoke or get more ingredients for his kitchen...it was the beeest. Really. I do recommend it.

Then off we walked for many many many blocks. Many. We saw the world's tallest totem pole with a living, sitting eagle on its top. We saw a beach with an ocean attached to it. We saw many rocks worth picking up to admire on the beach. We got more ice cream and that was enough to fill our ice cream quota for the week really. Those fast food ice creams go right through me usually. Yeah, I don't like to hear about it either. Okay, so we kept walking. Oh, we walked through a park! Beacon something park. Lovely place. Did you know there are black squirrels? There are. Did you know there's a peacock in Beacon park? Birds just don't even know how beautiful they are, don't you think?

Ah shoot, I have to finish this post now. Okay...we had a lovely day, rewound that hectic travelog, made it home for prison dinner and slept. I woke for the 0415 shift the next morning. Yay. 12 hour shifts are the most delicious. Oh yeah, so just in case you didn't know, I'm driving motor coach buses up here in Whistler Canada, transporting the security personnel to and from venues where they can protect people. It can get super boring, but it's beautiful around here. I haven't fallen alseep at the wheel yet. So...more later. Cheers!

January's Short Story

2010-02-02T11:04:00.003-07:00

Actually, I had the idea for this story and it just kept coming out until 10 thousand and a half words were burnt onto the page. I wrote it in probably eight hours...it just came. I loved it. I hope you can read it all, because you need to start somewhere. I'm going to have eleven more. Hopefully I can keep them shorter, but I think this story needed everything I put in it. Pretty much. But I appreciate your fresh (soon-to-be wet) eyes, so you can drop off your comments. If you're anonymous, however, I think you should say something productive if anything at all. Just sayin. I appreciate encouragement and constructive criticism as much as the next writer. Maybe even more than the next writer. We don't know who he/she is, anyway, so it's hard to tell.

The short stories that I write this year will be on a separate blog. They're too long to post in with the Dramastic writings, and I don't want those delicate and sometimes petite writings to be interrupted by visually intimidating, lengthy posts like Heather's Heart. Heather's Heart is a work of fiction. It is not about my life. I hope it doesn't happen in my life. But many characters are inspired by people very close to me, though I do not intend that these similarities are necessarily reflective of my perceptions of these people. I fictionized many things. But I also felt many real things as I wrote it and it comes direct to you from my tiniest heart fibers... Hope you enjoy. Cheers!

Little Pieces of Canada

2010-01-31T20:33:00.003-07:00

I notice as I drive up and back the same 15 minute stretch of highway 99 twenty times a day, that I wave at all other motor coach and bus drivers. It has become so second-nature that I sometimes catch my hand waving at anything that looks big or has clearance lights on it...
Like Hostess truck drivers, for example, or pick up drivers. Even when I was getting a miracle ride home from church today I kept my hand from lifting as every great motor coach sailed by.

I know the road so well that I can practically sleep and drive. But I don't. The coaches seem to get as bored as I sometimes, driving along, they themselves having memorized the route. Only now and again will the routine be broken up by a slow tractor in the way...or a female flagger in a neon yellow reflective jumpsuit...or a snowboarder racing across the road as only a snowboarder can in stiff snowboarding boots...but not by any animals yet. I haven't even seen a piece of road kill here in Canada. They take cleanliness very seriously.

But when I walked out of the metro on Friday when I went down to Vancouver to send off a mitigation letter to plead for innocence in regard to my logbook infraction on day one, I saw a man sitting on the rain-wet ground. His hair was the same color as his face, as his jacket, as his hands, as his sign, that said, "Anything will help." Anything, really? I could think of a few things that might not...but anyway, I thought of one that could have. "I have an apple," I offered. He opened his mouth and I knew.

"I'd take it, but I don't have teeth to eat it!" He smiled. His look was as vacant as his gums. He had laughed about it, but really. That's sad! Can't even eat an apple for how life has neglected his mouth. Wow.

Today I made it to church. A little 5-member branch in Squamish, BC. Today there were about 15 or more people, though, for all the visitors. I brought two others with me, Merilee and Seth, our curious friend. It was a much less dramatic journey to get there this week. We got dropped out of the bus right off the highway (basically tucked and rolled) and then from there it was just a mile walk in a mildly misty air. It was pleasant. And on the way, there was a sign about how to care for your dog on its leash and its poop, and underneath the human part there was this for the dogs:

Dogs: Woof Woof, Bark Bark. (Good Dog).

I laughed and laughed and made Merilee take a picture of it. So she made me get in the picture and I'm sure that looked marvelous...but it was a funny moment. I'll hopefully get that picture soon.

OH! We've walked around the Whistler town a couple times. We hit up the sweet library (that's now closed for the Olympics...and there's a secondary school that's going to close for the whole Olympics, can you believe that?), we strolled the whole area that's marked on the cartoon map as "stroll area" and looked at all the over-priced stores. We walked through one Olympic store that has awesome cool Olympic everything that I can't afford. We walked through the movie theater which really has a speak-easy feel to it. We found a MARVELOUS candy store called The Great Glass Elevator Candy Store. YUM I found a piece of heaven in Whistler. And we got icecream that was delish and not as expensive as the other place that has a great, actual-size COW made of...ceramic? who knows what. But whatever they made it out of must have been expensive, or why else would one scoop of icecream cost $4.95? That's not right. They had creative t-shirts, too. Like "The Jonas Brudders" and "Dairy Potter" etc. Maybe if they laid off the gimmicks people would actually buy their ice cream! cuz it wouldn't cost an arm and an udder.

We saw a lot of people running around in short shorts and long socks with Australian flags for capes. It was Aussi day! That was all we saw, though. That and a whole heap of snow boarders and skiers. Oh, I bought some mittens. They're red and white with little Canada flags on them and Whistler on the wrist. Cute and cuddly, that's what they are.

Okay, that's all that's come to mind here as I sit down. And I'm about to run out of battery. So no pics with this post. But soon!

Don't Lend

2010-01-27T16:41:00.002-07:00

A snowflake perched on my fingertip
Briefly pecks with a winter nip.
One, warm from a beating heart,
Melts the finite frosted art.
Distinctly unique yet none perfect,
Two matchless formations briefly connect.

My five fingers merged into his,
Trust his lead wherever it is.
Each tip, clutched in a faithful hold,
Could have a different story told
Of every touch and tender graze
Slowing nights from becoming days.

What are the odds that two will meet,
Even match, though with parts incomplete?
Both, hoping the lend will give and take,
Try hand in hand a life to make.
Divinely paired yet none perfect,
Two mismatched formations briefly connect.

"Hello, Bonjour"

2010-01-26T14:42:00.002-07:00

The official languages of the Olympics are French and English. Often I will hear people say these two words for greeting and since I know both languages I usually respond to the word I hear last, “Bonjour!” But there are only a dozen maybe who can go any farther than that, and with these dozen I have a jolly splendid time using the French side of my tongue. ☺ It’s the best.

There isn’t a whole lot to do except eat, work and sleep up here. We went into town today and I’ll get to that in a later post. But they provide three meals daily and the options are quite varied. On top of that, the food is actually quite good! Cereal is always available (aaand, I seem to be eating it at every meal…) and desserts are served with dinner. Recently there has been a lot of blueberry-inspired dessert options. Methinks they have a great big glob they want to use before it goes bad. My roommate hypothesized that they must have had a large blueberry donation. These are times when I just pat her hand and nod. And laugh, haha! Cuz she’s so funny. Blueberry donations… There is a road here that intersects the freeway called Blueberry Dr. and that made me happy and continues to do so each time I pass it, which is about a double dozen times a day when they put me on twelve hour shifts every other day.

We have nine buses and eighteen drivers staying here in Whistler. So, now when there isn’t as much to have driven around we basically have day on/day off schedules. One driver works twelve hours instead of two working six hours…don’t know why really. A LOT could go a lot better around here, if people communicated and made final decisions. There are just so many people and things to keep track of. I’m so glad I’m not in any leadership position of any kind. Bless their hearts…

Sunday was a day off for me and a bunch of the other Mormons. We decided to jump on the bus headed to Vancouver and go to church. Back when we were housed in Vancouver I had looked up where local churches were and there was an address listed not far from where we were staying. We ended up going to a different ward the first Sunday, but this Sunday I was desirous not to have to travel the eight miles/forty minutes out of town. First thing I had to do though in Vancouver was go to the UDAC (don’t worry about what that is) to get my “accreditation.” I don’t even know its purpose but I wear it around my neck and it makes a lot of things become free and closed doors magically open. It’s sweet. So, I got that first, which only took about five minutes. During those five minutes, Vic was having one of the UDAC employees look up the address of the church since I couldn’t remember the exact location, only that it wasn’t far from the hotel. She looked it up and the internet showed that at that location the ward was Spanish. I thought to myself, “huh.” And took the sticky note she had written the address on and returned to the mini bus filled with drivers. We were headed back to the hotel anyway and I would double check the address because I know that I saw a regular ward meeting at that address. It was true when I looked again, it said 1st Ward Spanish (1:00) and 4th Ward (1:00).
It was already 1:00 when we rushed for the city bus so we weren’t so concerned with being on time, but we did want to get there asap so we walked briskly. I had little black flats on and it wasn’t ideal. We did catch one bus. It took us maybe 1.9 of the 2.7 miles we had to cover and where it dropped us off we walked some more. It was cold and slightly rainy, too. Uphill both ways… jk. Well, after passing a Jewish center, a Methodist chapel and some other building with fancy letters that looked possibly religious, we saw a simple steeple on a brown brick building and we knew it was the one. Well, technically it was the right church, the right religion, but we all heaved a sigh when we saw the letters on the outside: La Iglesia de Jesucristo de los Santos de los Últimos Días. Wrong language. Apparently the Internet failed to mention that actually the 4th Ward met at 9AM.

We sat around for a while, soaking in some spiritualness, talking to our nonmember friend that had trekked with us…yeah, that too, and then left to wait for the next bus to take us back to the hotel. My feet hurt by the end, but it was a fine adventure. This friend is still asking a lot of questions and I gave him my little copy of those give away paperback types of Book of Mormon. I guess he’s already started reading it and getting bugged by the “And it came to pass”es, so he’s doing just fine… ;) Anyway, it’s a good book.

Pretty much now I should be done. This is long enough. I have written a poem that I may post next time I’m around the Web. I’ll just say it’s been a hard one to get out. My creativity is constipated. Too much serious work digestion. A la prochaine!

Who knew

2010-01-22T18:13:00.003-07:00

When you can't go into the already-cramped office area because you're not allowed to, but you want to use the Internet, well then just huddle at the neighboring trailer where no one can see you (except the curious grounds workers) and pilfer the internet from outside. mwahaha ha ahem. My fingers are cold...

Another Day

2010-01-22T11:17:00.001-07:00

So, I have arrived in Whistler. It’s seriously way beautiful. It’s about a two hour drive from Vancouver and the last hour or so is spectacular. After a bend in the road, looking over a very far drop the ocean comes into view, but it’s surrounded by mountains and has big, rocky islands spotted throughout. It’s important that I keep my eyes on the windy road, however, so I haven’t taken many lengthy looks. But the snap shots that my eyes reported to my brain were very agreeable. It reminds me of Alaska and Provo Canyon kinda mixed together. Wednesday was the first drive where I took up a group of people with me to Whistler. After dropping off my bags in my room (I’ll get to that in a minute) I went back to park the bus. The way we parked—wait, back up. Where we have available to us to park is dismal. We parked in there facing away from the exit and I voiced that it might be better if we at least angled ourselves the other way to make it easier to get out. The other drivers agreed. I moved my bus and when the next driver went to move his, stuck. So we figured we’d get that one unstuck in the morning and leave the others as they were.

When we returned in the morning at 9AM, the bus I had parked moved out perfectly. Another had been parked behind the others so it moved out just fine as well. The stuck one wasn’t going anywhere, even after half an hour of chains and sand. The chains burrowed nicely into the icy dirt making a cozy dual tire cradle for the bus to rest in until the tow truck giant wrecker tow mobile came. Oh, and the other bus that I hadn’t parked the night before but would be assigned to for the day was also stuck. So we had two stuck buses and a tow truck on the way. We waited in the little driver’s lounge and drank hot chocolate and three drivers against one dispatcher discussed Mormonism with another worker. It was pleasant enough, but she kept saying, “WOW” to anything pretty significant like “uh huh, you guys are nuts.” Haha But it was a fine discussion. The guy driver next to me went for the kill, ya know, right into the Joseph Smith seeing God story and I, who am very not ashamed of that story, still thought it just wasn’t the right setting for the whole explanation, but whatever, he went for it. Sometimes, in my personal opinion, ‘missionary mode’ is better left to missionaries, and ‘simple answers until further questions’ can be for the non-full time missionary members to practice, showing mostly a good, happy, real example of gospel living. I like to keep conversations real, two-sided, open for people that I’ll be working with instead of shooting out the whole story first chance they ask. But, best of all, just ask for and follow the Spirit.

Aaaanyway, so since it took about two hours longer than expected to back out the other two buses, Merilee and I have the day “off” until 4pm. We’re doing laundry and sleeping. Well, I’m obviously not sleeping at the moment, but I will. Gonna change the laundry first. I got pretty nice rusty chain juice all over my pants this morning. We’ll see if that comes out.

Our rooms are about ten by ten by ten. Four more feet than my body’s length all around? Yeah, that might be about right. There’s a door to get in through, a six-foot tall locker, a five foot tall boxy closet of sorts, a desk attached to the wall under a window and a bunk bed. I’m on top. So, all things considered…it’s not terrible. At least we only have two people in here. I heard that Security workers have four to a room. Yow. There are individual communal showers, if that makes sense, public restroom toilet stalls, even some urinals even though our trailer is all chicks inside. And there’s free laundry! And I have to go change mine. So, this is where I’ll end so I can sleep. A la prochaine!

Week One

2010-01-18T20:56:00.002-07:00

Well, almost one week anyway...okay actually five days. I've done mostly sitting and I've made over $700 after taxes already. :) Cool.

Okay, so to explain the first day's post...We didn't get a whole lot of "how to" information (a pattern that has continued solid throughout the trip) about our driver's log book before we started on the road. EVEN when instead of leaving at 7AM we left at 10AM, we still didn't know what we were doing and really even where we were going except following the first bus. The bus that my driving companion Merilee and I were in had a governor at 70 (meaning we couldn't go over 70 mph in case you didn't know) and soon we lost those in front that could go faster. I was quasi-sleeping in the rear when Merilee kind of panic exited and it was one of those unfortunate exits that doesn't have an on ramp to get back onto the freeway. So we eventually got back to the freeway and to the waiting drivers, but there was no intercommunication among drivers and it was a real mess. I'm not very good at mind reading. I've been trying to work on it, but it's not coming very naturally. It would come in handy about every five minutes here, because no two minds are alike, neither any two plans, two decisions, two final words.... Yaaaaa! It's somewhat frustrating. But I'm still having a good time. Optimism ruins bad situations and I'm really having a great time. I just love Merilee, she's awesome.

Okay, well so we were driving. I started driving Thursday at about 5:30 in Boise, ID. We drove for about two hours and guess where that led us? Le Grande! Cool! I called my Grandpa but he was stuck at home without Grandma and couldn't come see me (too bad I didn't know we would be stopping...I wonder if anyone knew...) but it was still fun to talk to him. Then we continued on. our log books had us logged on as "on duty" since 7AM, so when we got to Washington I had been "on duty" already almost fifteen hours so when the amaaaaaaaaaaazing weigh station guard checked our log books, his thin understanding of motor coach road rules wrapped us into parking and bringing in our paper work. He printed off some sheet of rules that were really vague and hard to understand on the fly but he relied on them like the Bible for a just punishment. Technically, however, if the right rules be read correctly, we weren't over our hours of allowed driving time for the day. See, drivers (truck or passenger vehicle) are allowed only so many hours on the clock a day and in the week. If you go over it could mean you're working too hard and could get drowsy, etc., etc. So, it's heavily tracked, regulated and punished. So I was one that got caught. The awwwwwwwwwwesome guard took us all through the process with this little "my tights are too tight" attitude, not really listening to our questions for clarification, just pointing to the omniscient piece of paper, and even covering his ears with his hands when my supervisor tried to get something cleared up. Wow. He decided he would go "easy" on us and he only fined us for going over 14 hours...which didn't make any sense to anyone. And another driver found the green book of official federal rules later and found out where the guard was wrong. So, we'll get off the hook, but we still have to plead our way out of it with a judge and stuff. Me and my noodle-nerve self were crying in front of the guard and the other drivers. I always get teary when I'm getting disciplined for something and it frustrates me even more and I lose control of my tears even more....I think it's terribly lame. But my throat ties in about eight knots if I try to suppress it and then I'll end up crying anyway, so I just let it out.

So, he finished the lame, lengthy process of giving me a lame, pricey ticket and I went back to my bus. Merilee would have to drive from there because I was off the clock until 9:20 the next morning. It was about 11 then. We drove to the next town, Kennewick, and it wasn't until 1:30 that we were checked into a motel and 2AM when we got to bed. LONG DAY.

Well anyway, here in Vancouver it's pretty cool. The first thing they warned us about was to not walk within 8-10 feet of the perimeter fences where our buses will be parked because of the heroin addicts throwing needles over the fence. They do it in anger because the Olympic committee took that port-side lot that formerly had abandoned warehouses on it that the addicts used as hide-outs of sorts, so it's mostly an act of vengeance. So, we need to watch out. I see bums EVERYWHERE and it makes me sad. Drugs are so powerful it's just not even fair....there are so few people that aren't mixed into some addiction or dependence on some substance not meant for consumption. Really sad.

Well, there's really too much to say... I'm in a hotel called the Shaughnessy and its theme is "cruise ship." We have individual rooms with a pull out couch bed, a bathroom, a sink with cupboards and drawers and a microwave, a television, a two seater table and a patio. Neat idea, sure, but a definite weird smell and sense of isolation that I really don't like. It's like a slightly souped up camper. Except this room I'm not worried about crashing into icebergs and sinking. At least that's nice...

So turns out I won't be staying in Vancouver, I'll be in the mountain town Whistler. It's the olympic venue for most skiing events and I'll get to see it tomorrow. We've just been training so far, which includes a lot of information, misinformation and re-information and sitting. And donuts. So I'll be disembarking the Shaughnessy and headed to a truck trailer with bunk beds in Whistler. Huzzah. :) The adventures seem to be endless for the 2010 Olympics.

Until next time. I have to wake up much too early tomorrow.

Day One

2010-01-15T02:09:00.001-07:00

My very first driving infraction. $179

It's 2 am

I've had better days

Ebb and Flow

2010-01-07T10:42:00.004-07:00

When I wake up, my eyes remain closed. They watch the lovely dream fade and return to its shimmering pool atop the stream of subconscious thought. Its departure permits again the recollection of a limping heart resting in my ribcage; heart broken, without a crutch.

The compulsory storm crawls in, swirling black clouds.

This waking moment is where decisions begin again.

Do I stay in bed, wounding further the captive heart, or get up and neglect it some more?

Blazing memory flashes brighter than original experience, with every thunderous crack of my heart.

One. . .tw—echo rumbles. Still so near.

Serious love sparks serious burning. If my singed heart were visible, to any undilated, unclouded eye, how pitifully she would plead her case. Implore, reach. But she must be disciplined, forsaken...

Serious work, serious grown up responsibilities must be done; no time to sulk. And no time to play. No time to heal.

If another heart presents itself, how anxious she is to hold and caress. But always she snaps back her reach, eager fingers slapped from stealing a taste.

No indulgence, no happiness. An unfamiliar happiness is not the same as what true happiness was. Don't absorb any hope. . . Be healed, then hope.

Hope for rain.

I cannot see. Tears? Be gone; gone like the half of heart he took with him. Unless you can form the new half I need from your salty dew, be gone. Useless. Nothing grows from dripping tears.

The other half, I kept. That half is his. He took the wrong half. That is why it longs for him: it is his. I cannot give his back and I do not want mine back. I need a new heart first.

Stop thinking. It can't do anything. Thinking is for those with nothing to do. Get up.

Arid hope. Tired thinking. No healing.

I drop out of bed like a tear. Getting up is for those who intend to go somewhere, perhaps grow something. But I flow through motions of survival.

Eat. Work. School. Life. I activate this storm and will traverse it without boots and umbrella; I will not look up, reach out, feel.

Lightning tugs at distant clouds.

One. . .two. . .three; thunder shudders at its leash.

Increasing time between memory and feeling. Maybe it's almost over.

Shine through, unmoving star. That is what you are to me: the sun. My life. I am drowning. Suitors flood in and ebb away, a tidal dance. It is making me sick; you know I never cared to dance. Until you hold me I do not care to dance.

You were my sunshine. You are the storm. I need you regardless.

Work. Eat. Homework.

Suitors. A suit is supposed to fit its wearer. One after another finds me too small, too big, too plain for his ostentatious thread count and style. Ever I was a body to be clothed, never did one body fit my form as yours.

Naked. That is how I feel.

Without your hand in mine, my fingers close. No use; their hands don't fit, just as their suits don't. Their arms too loose around me. Their lips so far from love.

It is not only you I know. It is only you I love.

Naked is how I feel. How I sleep. How I want you here. Naked, bare, exposed, vulnerable like me. Love me all the way, the way . . . the way I will always love you: naked; rain washing over.

Bed time again. Why have a bed to myself? I don't need it. A floor, a spread of fallen leaves, an altar of stones, a puddle of muddy tears: these contain more of you than does a bed.

The bed pulses with the beating of my heart. Beating. Rightfully so. Beating my sensible mind: no, heart, you don't know what you want, want, want, throb, throb, throb.

The heart beats a turbulent passion; the mind flows down a steady stream.

A flash of heart, it tugs.

The mind thunders the constant echo, "I think, I know. . .I think, I know. . ."

And I think and think and thunder and cry and hold his half of our heart as it sparks and flashes in the dark, storming soul inside my skin.

How can you not hear it! You are in my bones, my blood.

Or is it really you? No, it is my memory of you, my longing for you, an echo of my resounding passion for you. . .and only you.

Empty bed. Odorless pillow. Copious blanket. Lightning.

One. . .two. . .three. . .four. . .four and a half. . . .

Thunder's softer reply.

Blink. Heavy blink.

Blink. . .eyes open. Blink. . .one. . .two. . . Errant tear. . . Eyes close.

Breathing ebbs. Subconscious swells. Sleep flows.

Beat. . .beat. . .beat.

Happy cutting-edge twelve month session!

2010-01-04T11:09:00.005-07:00

Ask anyone (except Kendall) and they would agree that I would be like a tortoise (and not a praying mantis) were I to compare myself to a creature that creeps the earth. Tortoise is not only a word with magnanimous spelling and awesome pronunciation, but it is also a word used to represent a creature that is slow and, according to Aesop, steady, sure to win the race. (Others may disagree and say I'm more like a giraffe for how tall I am and for the interesting tongue that I possess, but for the sake of simplicity, we'll stick with the representative slow-moving, shelled-in example for today.)

I am not really a fan of "New Year's" as a holiday... The title of this post (I put the word 'new' and then the word 'year' into my quick reference thesaurus for new and original words!) reflects my mild rebellion not to do what everyone else is doing, to post about their resolutions and what not. I am in no way scorning this practice -- au contraire! make this world a better place, one resolution at a time, please! -- it's just that I am really lame at making a list of goals and following through with them. I like to give myself good, effectual ideas and I usually pull through to complete them as they come, but a whole gob at the beginning of a year scares me, so I don't do it. I have some moderately good habits already that I know I can improve on and will. I take life as it comes, pump the future with some adequate planning, but I really just take a flexible approach that leaves room for surprises, good or unfortunate, and just keep plodding.

I have a...goal, you might say, to write a short story every month. It shouldn't be hard....well, I haven't given myself any guidelines so it will be really hard not to succeed. Is it cheating? Okay if you think so. I basically just want to finish the stories -- you know, have a beginning, middle and end -- and revise them at least once. I'm terrible at revision. That's a thing I need to accept as necessary. I'm too impatient and proud for intense revisions, but I need to humble myself and get over it.

So I'll be like a tortoise. Except my goals and I won't be racing against anyone else and their goals. We'll just keep "plodding" along, my vision and me, until...whenever. Deadlines....yeah. Lame at those, too. I usually like to work on "inner" things that just get added to my habits and don't really need deadlines or have endings. But each time I complete some planned thing or surmount some unplanned thing, I stash the little successes in my sweet shell and keep plodding ever onward. I'm tall and not all that graceful, so plodding is an apposite word for my tread, but let's hope at the eventual end of my successful race, when those waiting friends (I love you, friends, by the way, along the way, all the way) will hoist me upon their shoulders and cheer, that I'll look at least a little better than this:

Look at that face! ahaha!

Oh, and look at this real tortoise story. I love the last line: "All lame tortoises should be so lucky." I am a lame tortoise.... :)

Men of Snow

2009-12-29T22:30:00.002-07:00

They had their snow suits, gloves and boots and they carefully etched a trail to the middle, one stepping in the prints of the other.

"Let's make snow angels," said Ellie, jumping into each step of the larger stride of her big brother's best friend.

"Lame," said big brother Jack, casting back a why-do-you-always-have-to-tag-along look at the hopping mass of pink snowsuit. "We're going to make forts, and snowmen to battle each other with snow balls!" His loud, un-lame idea tried to stretch into the silence only to freeze and drift back to the ground with the great, quiet flakes.

"Yeah, snow fight!" cried Fred pumping fists and enthusiasm into the air.

Ellie stopped jumping after them and, totally unimpressed by their war plans, trudged her own path toward the small incline at the back of the house, designing her own plans for a snow house with all its amenities, especially angels.

She didn't pay any attention to her brother and Fred as they made the forts, which was a slow process since they kept using pieces of it to test the warring distance. And then when they started making snow men she concentrated fully on the snow couch she was packing. She hummed so she couldn't hear them charging each other with all sorts of absurd crimes as they made piles of snow-packed ammunition. With her hearth and home complete she set out to surround it with angels, and didn't pay any attention to their devilish launches and counter-attacks. When her corner was complete, she was so bothered by their complete disregard for her existence that she went inside to thaw.

Inside, Mom had boiling water for hot cocoa waiting. Removing her snow clothes obediently by the door, Ellie tiptoed toward the stove. She wasn't trying to be quiet. Somehow on tip toe it's just warmer.

She gratefully took a styrofoam cup and glided to a window to watch the war. They didn't see her watch, they didn't notice the steam of her hot cocoa fogging up the glass. But that gave her an idea. She stepped gracefully over her wet clothes, avoiding any melted puddles (wet socks are the worst) and opened the door to the porch.

"Hey guys," she cooed, hopping from foot to foot. "Mom made hot choooocolate!" And just as she suspected, only food could penetrate the pretend of boy, to finally get his attention. They came running. But not before Jack tackled Fred and a white wash war of two minutes ensued.

Red-cheeked, -eared and -nosed snow boys came stomping up to the door and Ellie hopped back inside before the whole floor became an unavoidable puddle. She waited, standing with cup in hands, to see where Fred would choose to sit.

* * *

From outside, the house quickly disappeared in a curtain of flurried flakes, pouring from the frozen sky. The veiled sun was soon setting and the boys' snowball battle was adjourned to a later time.

Midnight materialized out of minutes and pushed the clouds away and breathed a clear, starry sigh over the house. The snowmen, three in total, shook their powdered heads and shrugged their frosted shoulders.

"Where am I?" Said the one with the scarf, whose eyes had been forgotten.

"Who are you?" Said the one with eyes of stone.

"I. . .I'm" he faltered. "I don't know. How can I know?"

Stone stared. "I don't know."

"If I could see you I would know who I am not." added Scarf vacantly

"Well, I'm a soldier." Said the third, looking down to see a toy gun halter around his middle.

"Soldier," Stone began, "be on your guard; there appears to have been a battle here recently."

"What happened?" asked Scarf. "Tell me, I can't see."

Stone swiveled at his waist to register a 360 degree inspection. "I see two strongholds . . . one square, one slightly rounded. Both seem to have been abandoned. It must have taken place much longer in the past than I suspected. . ."

"Well," observed the soldier. "I think we's actually was here when the battle was goin' on."

"What? How is that possible? I would have seen something."

"I would have heard something, no doubt," said Scarf absently.

"And I woulda finally seen some action!" The soldier stuck his twig arms into the sky.

"Stay focused, soldier. You said you think we were already here. Explain yourself," ordered Stone.

"Oh, right. Dude, you've got some of those ammunition balls . . on you . . ." He ended cautiously.

Stone looked down and saw on his body what he had seen on the ground.

"I see," he said perturbedly. "Did you think maybe I just have a rough figure?"

"I believe that," offered Scarf. "Besides, battles involve Big Bangs, anyway, which I never heard, in all my time listening, never heard." His theoretical mumbling continued, ignored by the other two much like his very presence.

A tree above them shivered and burdened boughs dropped snowy shells on the unsuspecting targets below.

Looking up now for the first time, Stone and the soldier cried out and promptly trundled their round forms out of harm's way.

"What, what's happening?" yawned Scarf until snow fell on him and interrupted his stretch. He clutched his arms in around his middle.

After the flurry dissolved, the other two looked at him. "Is ya'okay?" asked the soldier.

"What was that stuff?" he shook his top and patted his middle, then wiggled at his bottom.

"No idea," said Stone, inspecting the ground and then the heavens again. "It came from above, all of a sudden, no warning, apparently with no intended aim since it did you no harm."

The soldier patrolled between the two forts now, his curiosity and drive for warfare heightened. Stone let his head trace the soldier's search back and forth.

Scarf, still patting his middle, tilted his round head. "That stuff, the stuff that came from above just now. I think I'm made of it."

The others froze.

There was a long, uncertain silence.

"Scarf," Stone started, but stopped again, confused.

"Yes?" Scarf tuned his head to the sound of Stone's voice.

"The stuff that just fell on you," said the soldier delicately, "is the stuff that these here war balls is made of."

"You mean to say that I am made of the same stuff that is used for war?" Scarf asked sadly. "Do you think that means I'm dangerous? I can't imagine myself as being dangerous."

"I don't think he meant to say you are made for war, and I highly doubt you could present any real threat to anything," said Stone. "But if you are made of the stuff, then so are we, since we're all the same."

"Oh!" Scarf's face shined like the moon. "You and I are the same? You mean -- I mean, we're the same?"

"Yes, it appears so." Stone puzzled, looking at all the pieces of the scenery around him. "The forts, the battle, even ourselves . . . all made of the same white stuff. How . . . interesting."

"That don't make sense to me." The soldier resumed his patrolling.

Stone stared thoughtfully at the sky.

"Well, wait just a minute and think about it," Scarf continued. "It does make sense. Why should any of us be here and be made differently? And why shouldn't everything else also be made of the same stuff. If it can be used for so many different things then it must be some sort of . . . omnipresent formula or solution to all our problems."

"Omni-wha?" tried the soldier, bending over one of the forts.

"Omnipresent. It means present everywhere." Stone stared distractedly at the stars. "You know, the specks of light up there seem to be weakening in brightness. There is a slight purplish hue there behind these trees."

Now it was Scarf's turn. "A hue? No idea what that could be."

"It's a color. Oh." Seeing Scarfs blank face --amazing what can still be read from a face without eyes-- he realized the impossibility of explaining color. "Well, it's as if the sky is melting from . . . small to wide, if that makes more sense."

"You're right," said the soldier. "Tha's a great way to der-scribe it."

Scarf still hadn't said anything. "What do you suppose that means, Stone?"

"Does everything have to mean something?" Stone sighed.

"Well, maybe one day when you can't see you will understand that a thing must have meaning to be seen completely."

"You think so, huh?" Stone mused. Not waiting for a response he continued, "Well I think it means the sky is changing, that's what it means."

"Well, the sky can't change and everything else stay the same," said Scarf.

"Why on earth not?" said Stone, growing tired of the triple-tiered philosophizing mound of white.

"If you say that's where the white stuff comes from, the stuff from which we are made, well if the location it comes from changes, then logically what comes from it will change, or it will cause changes. It follows. Logic."

"Logic?" asked the soldier. "Logic won't be changin' anything. Think all ya want, Scarfy boy, but it won't change nothing."

"You're right, but at least I won't be surprised when the changes come." Scarf folded his branch arms in front of him and tilted his nose to the sky.

"Except that you won't see them coming. Simply their arrival will surprise you," Stone flung his words impatiently.

"Well, if you'd be kind enough to let me know if I become endangered, I'd be much obliged." He turned away from the direction of the sound of Stone.

"Looky now," the soldier exclaimed. "The whole sky is spreadin' across wi'yella!"

The trees at the far end of the adjacent field formed clearly into view and the whole world around them came slowly into focus.

"Everything seems to be changing now," said Stone. "I can see so clearly now. Things I never saw before, never knew were around us." He waddled back to the spot he first found himself in, eager for familiarity. The soldier did the same. Scarf hadn't moved from his place.

"What did I tell you?" he turned back to face them, pleased that his faith was now supported by reality.

They were all silent as the sky lit up. The first beams of sunlight hit the distant trees and four earthy eyes watched the bright line advance toward them. As the sunlight slid down the roof of the house, Stone and the soldier stared intently.

"Does anyone else feel . . . warm?" Scarf was ignored.

"What's happening, my friends?" asked Scarf concerned. "You have been quiet so long."

"Oh, sorry Scarf." Stone turned his head a bit, but kept his eyes on the house. "There has been --uh-- a silent wind of brightness advancing steadily across the ground. Well, we also saw a strange moving box, it was yellow --I'm sorry I cannot describe that to you-- and it stopped a moment and started flashing red. After that moved out of sight is when this insensible wind really dropped down, slipping down those trees, gliding across that white field and now it is advancing down this large stronghold so close to us, but that we hadn't seen before because of the darkness--"

"Darkness?" puzzled Scarf.

"Dah." Stone really didn't feel like explaining. "Well, I guess you could say the sky around us had been very far away and now it has come much closer, now that this wind has blown in. And you do understand I am not referring to an actual wind, right? I mean that this light is the wind, and it is pushing away the darkness."

"Yes, I think I can imagine it a little. But I'm more concerned perhaps what this wind is doing to me now. Do you not feel very warm?"

"I think I does," said the soldier. "But it's prolly nothin' don't you worry."

Stone was inspecting the sunlit roof. Its border was dropping tiny, glimmering pieces of something to the ground. Already there were some large, clear spikes clinging to the edge. He felt a sort of tingle all over his body.

"Our world is getting warmer. And fast." He said suddenly. "We need to do something, or this stuff we're made of is going to start looking like that." He pointed and though both of the other two looked, only the soldier saw the icicles. The panic, however, was much more noted by the other.

"Like what? What can we do?" Scarf said. "What can I do?"

Stone turned and looked at the tall trees hanging over them, combing the sunlight and blocking the men from a direct hit. He calculated that if the line kept advancing as it was, however, that they would soon be exposed to a solid stream of melting rays. His Maple shoulders drooped.

"Nothing," he conceded. "We are going to melt. Our lives will come to an end in a few short hours."

The soldier's mouth gaped. He fingered his useless gun. "Damn," he surrendered.

"Really, there's nothing we can do? We just . . . got here. We have to leave already?"

Stone robotically resumed the exact position he had originally found himself in and braced himself for the end. It really did seem unfair somehow. Hardly figure out who you are and then realize that whoever it was is soon to be terminated, game over. He felt he had nothing more to say.

"Well, I say we at leas' try teh fight it!" said the soldier, retaliating. He picked up a prepared snow ball and threw it at Stone's head. It stuck out like a teddy bear ear on one side.

"What the--?" Stone turned to the soldier. "Are you insane? It's not my fault we're going to melt! You're not helping by throwing those useless balls at me, you idiot!" But still he also stooped down and launched a ball at the soldier. The soldier tried moving, but it struck him in his bottom rear. Bunny tail.

"See how it feels?" said Stone. "Now knock it off. Let me melt in peace."

The soldier slumped. "It's so warm," he echoed.

"It was nice knowing you boys," said Scarf with a faltering voice. The connection of his top and middle where the scarf was wound seemed especially warm. His twiggy fingers tugged at it. "I guess one nice thing about never having seen anything is that I won't miss anything. But I believe we weren't made for nothing. There will be something else, another yime. That's something I see without eyes." His voice kind of gurgled. Stone had a bad feeling about that.

A few moments of silence later, Scarf's head slowly started sliding to the side. Stone looked away and heard a hollow thud a minute later.

"Agh," the soldier cringed. "Just the scarf left." He too looked away. The first casualty.

"Nothing we can do." Stone repeated. "Nothing we can do!" he shouted it in the air as if to etch an eulogy into the sky.

* * *

After the school bus dropped Jack and Ellie off at home, they threw on their gloves and boots and charged to the back yard. Jack jumped excitedly down the stairs before he realized, then stopped short.

"Oh. Look how much they melted! Dang!"

Ellie, still on the porch balcony looked over at her melted house, too. "Oh well. It's not like you could have done anything anyway. Just wait until it snows again, make some more."

Jack was already kicking the remains of the snowy corpses with his camouflage boots and stomping down the snow forts.

Ellie shook her head and walked back inside where it was warm. "Men."

see also this link

No One, eh?

2009-12-29T00:48:00.004-07:00

Right now the disposal of my mind is backed up, slowly regurgitating the disposable fragments of my day back into view. I don't have anything else to do so I'm staring at each thing I thought I could throw away today, and now I will make a garbage creation, a finite masterpiece, a forgettable symphony melted into a frosted window with the warm tip of my finger.

Except...words make a thing without end.

Perhaps you, stedfast reader, have noticed that I don't swear in my writings. At least I haven't here on my blog except for maybe once or twice, and that was the word ass, which beastfully interpreted, is no swear at all. Right now I think I have a special lack of sympathetic emotion that one might have when one desires to swear. But I'm not going to. There are more clever words to employ for now. Get to work, then.

Anonymous commented on my last post. He addressed me with "hey lady", which for obvious reasons is applicable, but, coming from an anonymous sender, is unacceptable.

"No one reads your blog."

Strike two. And in my game you're out. Don't bury your talentless corpse under anonymity so you feel free to extend a hand of flattery only to slap unobservant criticism in my face.

Your anonymity bores me.

Dull. That's a word to describe my humor at present. Not because I'm uninteresting. Not so. Clearly.

Dull because I already fell from the uncaring branches of reality, to a hard, failing, infertile ground. And when I got up and left that place, it is dull, unimaginative and tasteless now to be presented with a twig and a sack of dirt. Been. Done.

What? I stopped feeling when I fell. I'm not going to return to a grave whose inhabitant left me once already. You can bring the girl to the grave, but you can't engrave the girl any deeper. That doesn't make sense really. See, I'm trying to be more poetic than these feelings deserve.

Do you remember the first lie you were told? I just thought that. I don't remember. I doubt anyone can. I remember the latest lie I was told. And why do they call it "my word"? As in, "you have my word" or "I give you my word"? You don't have words. No one has words.

No one reads my blog. Surely No one is a fan of words then.

If I promised you my word, you would get my word. If I give it to you, it becomes yours and you have it. Sooner than later it would become a lie because you would still think it was mine, and you would think it was obligated to do something for you, but you forget: it's yours now. I am not compelled.

Dull becomes me. What does that mean? I don't even know. I'm not editing this line even when I wanted to from the start. I want to delete it entirely. It doesn't deserve eternity.

"no vacancy in an empty heart motel." That line regurgitated from my journal. That's where I write from my pure self. Where I'm writing from now? That part that knows No one will read these words.

Oh, here's a big piece resurrecting from the disposal grave.

"We're shutting this motel down, Lady."
"Wait, why? Every room is open? Why close a motel that is so . . . open?"
"Because No one comes here, that's why."
"Actually, No one is here! No one is my friend. I'll take you to his room. Suivez-moi."
"..."
"'Follow me.'"
Leader, follower.
knock-nuh-knock
"No one, hey, it's Lady."
Nothing.
"Come on, man. The boss man is here. He's going to shut us down because he thinks No one stays here, which when I told him I knew No one was, he looked confused, and now we're both confused I think, but if you come out, he will see indeed that No one is staying here and we can both stay. Right, boss man?"
"Wrong. This is ridiculous, Lady. I think you may have lost your mind. No one is in there."
"...?"
"No one. Is in. There."
"That's what I'm telling you. No one is in there. I know him! He reads my blog!"
"That's it."
Boss man sashays away, Lady loiters, No one comes out of the room.

(because sashay is a cool word)

So now, it's over. You've experienced it. Except, it didn't do anything to you because it wasn't sharp, neither piercing. It won't do anything for you, don't expect it, because these are no longer my words.

Sorry if you were thirsty since all I did just now was open the soda right in front of you and dispose the pop tab into your palm. Which you shall not use to slap with.

And now I am flipping the switch and dumping the soda down the digesting disposal; it needs liquid to drain.

Keep the tab. That's what I really want to give you. Really want it. For you.

Pointless now that the can is open. Dull.

A Christmas Day

2009-12-26T18:28:00.003-07:00

I didn't dream of a Silly String Christmas, but I got one....

I had a super fun day. We made a yummy breakfast and then went to the movies, saw Sherlock Holmes which was simply awesome, and when lunch/dinner was all prepared and in the oven we opened presents. Two-year-old Caleb did most of the ripping of everyone's wrapping and it was fun to make a merry mess with family. Dinner was soon mostly on the table and we played "Lefty Righty" which involved brown paper sacks and a story and every time mom the narrator said left or right, we passed the sacks left or right, respectively. Caleb was in the middle and grabbed and passed sacks at random very excitedly. When the story was over we got to open the sack we ended up with. Among other things, each sack contained a can of silly string. Mine was actually the first open as I tried to help Caleb spray some people with it. But then his mother, Autumn, unleashed the entire contents of her can and everyone was quick to join in and if not protect themselves, thoroughly revenge themselves. I was strung pretty, well, silly-ly, wouldn't you say? Right. Then we had dinner. Yum! The sweet potatoes had had some buttermilk coconut syrup added to them instead of just brown sugar and butter. Wow so so good! I made a butternut squash sweet casserole that was super good too. Then there was the usual ham, turkey, scalloped potatoes and rolls. And I helped everyone wash it down with egg nog cheesecake. So a lovely, full day. I slept well. I feel like sleeping well again tonight. I love Christmas break.

Sure Win

2009-12-19T22:28:00.005-07:00

You won't trust anyone.
Me,
as long as you kept your heart out of it,
you could whole-heartedly trust.
I'd carve a statue of you, made of words, for the world to ever esteem you, and the monument would crumble before your trust in me could ever fall to pieces.
And words cannot crumble.
And I won't fall to pieces.
I won't fall to pieces.
So
Nothing is more securely placed in me than trust.
The heart is nothing if not everything.
Which is why I tell you, remove first the heart.
Because then
I won't let you down;
I can't if I'm always above you, never beside you.

See, I trust myself about as much as you love yourself, or hate yourself, depending on which is more endless in depth.

ReRotation

2009-12-14T14:58:00.010-07:00

One Sunday, toward the end of June,
the world stopped spinning.

In Jerusalem, high noon stretched down;
tassels of sun held duties dangling
suspended in time
paused.

In New York where no one was sleeping
the tall buildings appeared to sway
and people held on to poles,
parking meters, each other -- perfect strangers.

The stars down under seemed to pitch
and the kiwis rolled and bounced
around like forgotten fruit
in the back of a truck.

And the halt made everyone's stomach
and eyes and heart and brain
start spinning within
whether moving, whether still.

But then slowly, oh so slowly
(no one had ever noticed how slowly),
the world began to spin again
from setting sun to rising sun
from east to west to west to east,
and looking down the clocks began
to twitch and stutter backwards.
Each right turn turned to the left
and left turns wheeled around again
and Earth seemed so confused that
cyclones twisted back from Texas
and twisters wound back to the sky
and rivers crept a mirrored course
of the one they'd run before.

Right and left of me, people thought
aloud, "So will I go to work tomorrow
Or will it be Saturday?"
Important riddle.

But little confused was I when I
felt my heart beat join the wobble.
It was all the same
sound and pulse and rhythm
of the moment when
you told me it was over.

My world turned west to east that day.

Earth's heart, her core, must have
this day
been broken down the middle.

(hmm, what do you think of this one?)