Something You Don't Know

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.