between times

Through winter semester I devoted myself wholly to school. My mind aimed at finishing a perfect semester, at proving that I could do this and do it well. I felt powerful determination not to let anything drop before the end. But then I reached the end and I felt like it marked the completion of my goal. I should have been finished! I surpassed my hopes or expectations for the semester. However, I have until December before school is over, and my true goal is still at a distance. Unfortunately, I already surfaced and broke the single-mindedness of my task.

Since then, I have been living in half-lives. The first is this Provo existence, my Here. I am now involved, socially, and have a superficial semblance of a real life. I cannot be fully invested in this place and time, however, because my mind, through my entire submersion, has been on my end goal, on another place in the vague future: my There. It is the aim of my work here, the reward for my labor. I think about There often because of my premature feeling of accomplishment and entitlement. I’m ready for my prize. But it still sits at a distance.

I bridge these two worlds and find little satisfaction in either. One is transient and, often, annoying. The other is imaginary. I need to re-submerge myself in academia, the only real link, like the Wardrobe, between the activities of my real life and the dreams I hold for the future.

Give me hours of blissful productivity in which to feel alive, so that I can end this semi-reality! Let me come closer to my goals and not squander time on trivial things! Help me to hold my breath a little longer, so that the eventual release will bring reward and pleasure. I don’t want to settle for the Here and Now. I want my prize.

falling over emails

I felt rather nostalgic this evening and spent an hour perusing old emails. Just reading the words sent over two years ago makes me smile. I floated afterward, just as I did when I first received them. It's wonderful the way memories and emotions can be recalled and relived. And it's amazing how badly I fall each time I indulge in them. These emails are a treasure I cherish.

I only wish I were allowed to express these feelings, but I feel like there is a taboo placed over the words. There are no norms or mores to guide my behavior in my current situation, so I have to rely on the outmoded ones which restrict expressions of affection to the level of formal commitment. Otherwise I would send emails often where I spoke candidly. Especially tonight I want to send one in gratitude for all of the ones that have come before: I still fall in love with you through your writing. But I can't say it.

In that way, rereading these old communications may have been a good thing: at that time too I was hampered in what I could say explicitly. But every day, I implied it, and he knew. So, I will work on my subtleness once more and recapture that elusive honesty and playful affinity, that I may look back in later years and enjoy them as much as I did their predecessors tonight.

recent loneliness

Sometimes I am lonely. It doesn’t happen often; I am usually too busy to notice. But it happens sometimes, when my energy level is low, and my defenses are down. A friend turning away when a prettier girl walks up, or when someone in a social circle begins to say something intelligent, personal or relatable and then is cut off by a repetitive mundane semi-humorous quip at which every laughs raucously. These things can spark it. Laughing has its place, but sometimes a small laugh suffices. Sometimes I just want to give a wry smile or a shrug or a tear. Crying has its place too.

Quantities of people have nothing to do with loneliness. I have many almost-friends, with whom to pass the time. I am involved and socially active. And I don’t think they know one thing about me. Not really. I have now mentioned Kevin’s name three times to one or another of these almost-friends. I wonder that it should take five months for the biggest part of my life to surface. I don’t want to talk about him with them. I don’t want the conversation to turn into another riotous orgy of joke-telling and half-meant innuendos. I am tired of innuendos. I think I would be less put off if these people pulled any of the tricks they suggest. I am tired of hints becoming the substance of a person.

Hope brings on loneliness. I feel it most often when I want to be real-friends with these my almost-friends. Many of them know the lurid stories of my family life, and I feel like their knowledge is my blessing, like a burden lifted from me. But still my life is not real to them. My parents are a running gag, and my sister the tale of caution. We are like celebrities in a tabloid. I can tell them anything shocking and they will accept it, but I cannot tell them anything real. I feel like I am stretching for something just out of reach. I am sad to think how close we come to being friends before the chances wane.

Sometimes I get angry with the revelers and I want to slap their laughing faces. But most of the time I just want to know what they are thinking. Who are they, and why am I seeing only the lurid exteriors instead of the human substance? I am sure I could love them, but we don’t give ourselves that chance.

These are the times when I am desperate for the Friends I know well and love best. I fear the ring of my phone almost as much as I fear its perpetual silence. I hate hearing my obnoxious ring only to see the screen light up with an unknown number. My hopes mock me just a little. I cannot reach out and make my Friends a part of my life right now, because I am busy spending time with the laughing almost-friends. My filthy hypocrisy leads to my loneliness, and the fact that I feel almost overwhelmed by the thought of lengthy narrative phone calls, in which lives are recounted not experienced together.

I guess I am wishing for three things: I wish that my almost-friends and I could become real friends; I wish I were back in any place where I had real friends with whom to be real; I wish that I could talk more with my best friend, that he were here.

nra leader dies

Charlton Heston has died. Now we can finally get his gun from him.

shrouded gem

The price of this my shining stone is lost
Mid layers of crumbling earth. Can you see
The twinkling, tinkling gem that doth accost
The eye with sun, like off a tranquil sea?
While roughage still surrounds her like a frost
Hides coming spring, then she’ll be naught to thee.
The tag that is affix’t, her worth belies,
And cheapens innate beauty, strength disdains,
And he who wants an easy bid will prize
This shrouded light. Wish I, she might remain
Un-bought for such a coin. She doffs disguise,
Allowing worth to shine. Like fire again
In each man’s heart is greed, alight his eyes.
I’ll sell her high, or else my jewel retain.

sonnet, take one

This is my first attempt at an English Sonnet. Note the 14 lines of iambic pentameter, complete with properly rhymed quatrains and couplet.

Glory in Waiting
And now, good gentlemen, to arms and fall
In line, in ranks, for Glory you pursue.
She poses, lingers, hoping he, of all
The combatants, the gladiators who
Have donned their helms and bare their gilded spears,
Will muster hope, keep faith and claim the crown.
Our Glory, men, in waiting hides her fears
That victor who should win her heart is flown.
Oh soldiers great and princes bold, will we
Our mistress fail? By fighting not, our pride
We spare, our virtue hoard. Surrender! She,
If chased, exacts--if scorned, cannot deride.
For what does Glory mean to broken knights,
Who dreamed to win the crown without the fight?

sick

I don't think I've thrown up in years and years, not like this, not since I was little and had no control over my stomach. Yesterday was terrible. I went to bed feeling slightly queasy and woke up without an appetite and with small jabbing pains in my stomach. I walked to school on time but arrived home an hour and a half later, crawling into bed and moaning. I didn't think people really moaned outside of the movies, but I did. I had no audience to impress, and sometimes I didn't realize I was doing it. I just hurt and I had no way to express it. A couple of times I thought that if I could just throw up I'd feel better, and I even stuck my finger down my throat in a half-hearted attempt to hurry the process along. It didn't happen, because I chickened out. It's lucky, however, that I chose to carry a towel upstairs with me and lay it out beside my bed, because when the vomiting did come, it gave no warning. I felt like a little kid, out of control, weak, scared. And it really is absolutely disgusting on top of all of that.

Nora brought me flat coke ("I stirred it!" she said as she gave it to me) and Wonderbread. But mostly I slept. I sipped coke when I woke, and leaned over the bowl next to me. By night I managed to eat three crackers. At about ten the pain went away, and I slept for ten uninterrupted hours, despite the consumption of caffeine and the six hours of napping during the day. The only time I woke during the night was when I rolled over onto my stomach--probably to ease the pressure on my hips, sore from being on the floor for nearly a day straight--and promptly realized how terribly uncomfortable that was. Overall, not an experience I want to repeat, although being unconscious for most of it probably helped. When the alarm went off at eight, I woke feeling wonderful. No nausea, no stabbing pains, not shakiness or weakness--just a feeling of being rested. I never realized how good it feels to be my usual self. And I even finally ate something about an hour ago.

bragging

In my literature class, the top grade on the recent midterm was a perfect score. However, the class average was six points below what my professor desired. So, she gave a six point curve on the test, giving the top person an A++. She didn't give us back our exams, only that information, and she said she would send us each our grade. I checked my email only to find...I got that A++!

haiku of we

Life, an interstate
Twisting labyrinth, web of veins
Meetings and partings

Travel together
Till you turn or I exit
And we’re two again

We, you and I, two
Are we in it together?
We, you-and-I, one

We who have traveled
On stretches of the same road
Do we share a plan?

I face a cross-road
I look at my map and I
Write you this haiku.

teatime

The essayist, as has already been established by the professionals, must set aside time in which to think, to ruminate, a time in which to remember events not for themselves but for the paths down which such memories will take him. I don’t presume to classify myself as an essayist, but I do try to attach meaning retrospectively to events in my life. In doing so, my mind is pulled back again and again to teatime with my mother.

I don’t know the habits of the British tea-drinker, but I imagine that for them teatime falls at an hour in mid-afternoon. For my mother and me, teatime meant midnight. She worked two jobs to support my older sister in college, and I kept such hours as conflicted terribly with her availability. At the age of eleven, I went to bed around ten and woke near six, missing my mother by some two hours either way. Needless to say, this damaged our communication, and we began calling mid-day to establish some conversation between us. I left her notes on the dry erase board, and she scribbled lines to me on napkins; but we went a month without seeing one another. Then one night I heard the muffled clanging of someone getting a drink in the kitchen. I snuck down the stairs to find my mother just home from work making a cup of tea to help herself relax. She and I smiled through our sleepiness, and I retrieved a second mug from the cupboard.

As time wore on, I didn’t have to hear her banging. I developed sensitivity to the sounds of her car in the driveway, so that I could meet her at the kitchen as she stumbled through the door. We heated the water in the microwave and sat at the table opposite one another as the bags steeped. For the next hour we talked together, she and I, like two grown-ups, equals. Sometimes we had information to share, news about the goings-on in our little household, but often times we waxed philosophical and thought introspectively. She had many more and deeper thoughts than I—or so I believed—especially about life, which I hadn’t yet experienced. She gave me wisdom for my preteen years. At Christmas, midway through her year of pulling double duty, we cemented our ritual. I bought her a teapot and matching cups, and she gave to me a silver charm for my bracelet: a teacup.

I grew during those nights. As she listened to my thoughts, I began to take them more seriously too. I challenged my ideas and sometimes found myself content with them. I found value in the innate wisdom of youth, and I tried to test my mother’s habit-ingrained doctrine. In retrospect, I worry about my mom and how our teatime robbed her of one more hour of precious sleep. I worried about her then, about her constant fatigue, and I tried to limit the burden I placed on her. I hope she never saw teatime as a burden. For me, the nightly tryst was not about the beverage: I don’t particularly like tea, and I had to nurse mine over the whole hour with two ice cubes melting in it until it suited my lukewarm standard. I loved that hour, because I had the opportunity to talk with my mother, to appreciate her and find that I in return held value for someone else.

She and I now live in separate states, but whenever I go home, she puts the tea kettle on at the end of the evening. I have never thought of refusing her, because it would not be the tea I’d reject. Teatime is our bonding time, and looking back I can find so much more meaning to it than I recognized at the time. It became a symbol of my close relationship with my mother and a sacrifice we both made to support it. In trying to affix meaning to this memory, I also find that it is my first instance in my life of trying to find significance in my life. If I ever become an essayist, I may say that I began my musings during teatime.

cinderella ball with the roomies

purse contents, a collections essay

I have always carried a big purse, ever since I turned twelve and found it useful to carry one at all. I prefer a big purse for many reasons. The first is that it makes a statement in and of itself. My current red leather handbag is much more impressive at its larger dimensions than any clutch I could carry. Also, large bags are convenient. I’d hate to haul a backpack with me everywhere I go just to have access to a book. I’d rather be able to slip a novel into my purse and run. I’m always prepared with any number of useful little items. Someone once told me that I have everything but the kitchen sink. For a while, in response to that, I toted around a miniature kitchen sink too. The contents of my purse say a lot about who I am. Mostly, I am a person who cannot leave anything behind.

In my purse in a small, black leather notebook. It was a gift from my sister to encourage my sketching. However, I never use it to draw, but to scribble down my thoughts and ideas I have for my stories. The pages are filled with plot outlines, character sketches and thematic devices. I have this book with me always, so that the moment inspiration strikes I can record it for future use. It’s a collection of at least three writing projects. This is not a journal: it doesn’t document my life or my impressions of the world around me. Rather, it is my creation, the place in which I fashion my own world. Half the notes wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else, unless they saw perhaps the outlines of a literary critical analysis for a book they’ve not read. These are my dreams, my goals for what I want to accomplish with my life, and I carry them with me wherever I go.

Another item in my purse is my cell phone. I could write an entire essay on the dynamic relationship I have with this conglomeration of plastic and metal. I don’t like technology, and I hate anything new on principle. I divide inanimate objects into two categories: warm and cold. Technology is cold. Credit cards are cold; cash is warm. Computers are cold; note pads are warm. Cell phones are cold, impersonal, flashy objects that bother me. I have a Razor phone now, but before Christmas I was content for three years with the cheapest model that came free with my plan. The gift of the Razor was generous on the part of my sister, but it took me these last two months to decide that I like the phone. I grow accustomed to cold things. They must suffer some bumps and bruises and be a little outdated before I can love them, like a Velveteen Rabbit. I’ve now dropped my phone twice, and I am used to the fact that the text messages are different then on my old phone; not to mention I am constantly a few seconds away from all of my friends. Friends, you see, are warm.

My purse is filled with a random assortment of odds and ends. I never want to be stuck in a situation and think, if only I had thought to bring such-a-thing with me this morning. So I carry it all. I am MacGyver and an Eagle Scout all in one. For that matter, I think MacGyver was an eagle scout. At any rate, I am prepared. I have a pocket knife and band-aids, lip balm, tissues, pain killers, pens and pieces of paper. I have my keys with a large key chain so I never misplace them. Prescription sunglasses take up a great deal of room on the off-chance that I’ll be somewhere sunny with a distant view. I bought them for backpacking, and I rarely remove them from their red case. I carry things for other people: gum (do you need a piece), lotion though I hate the feel of it on my own hands, and a deck of cards in case we are bored between classes or before a movie. I have pulled each one of these items from my purse at some time for a very immediate use. Like I said, I’m prepared.

on toilets

In the early 1800's aristocrats in England began using an indoor flushing toilet, an invention to increase comfort and sanitation. Roughly a hundred years later many Americans had ditched the outhouses and evolved. We brought the toilet inside as a mark of prestige. We brought it inside to keep warm, to enable increased magazine perusal, to sit on while sisters curled one's hair. We named it toilet after such preparations. We brought it inside our homes, with our parlors and our beds, and then we quickly put up a door to hide it.

Everyone poops, according to children's author Taro Gomi. So why is it that we cannot talk about it? I'm not advocating body humor--in fact it annoys me--but I am asking this question. Children are originally content to evacuate in diapers, until they are trained otherwise. Shame quickly develops in young ones who potty train slowly. Eventually they learn to separate themselves from the actions of their bodies and to close the door when they're done. We pretend it doesn't happen.

In fiction, functional use of a bathroom is most conspicuously absent. I wondered in Harry Potter five how on earth all of the characters could hold their bladders for nearly twenty-four consecutive hours (from before the History of Magic OWL to the temper tantrum of Harry's after dawn the next morning). In histories too there is no mention of how pioneers snowed into cabins handled the frequent needs of the inmates. Maybe it's unpleasant, maybe it's gross, but maybe it's just natural and these are things we wonder about. The reason for the immature humor surrounding words like poop and fart and gas (get over it!) is because we cannot use them. The reason for stupid euphemisms is that people are embarrassed at saying the words in proper context. Say it: excrement, urine...penis.

That's another thing: sex. People used to live in one-room cabins and cottages or on farms. Even children knew what sex was, and what's more, they knew when their parents engaged in it. I don't want to know about the sex-lives of my parents, not at all, but I wonder at the taboo surrounding open discussions. Along comes the Victorian age and increased income per capita. All of a sudden families could afford larger homes and separate bedrooms, and once again a door covered a natural physical function of human life. One no longer saw sex, therefore one couldn't discuss it. Pregnant women--event legitimate married women--were hidden away for the duration of their pregnancy because society didn't want them advertising the fact that they had intercourse. Never mind the proof in form of a baby later. We, ladies and gentlemen, are all products of sex.

There are many things that are simply taboo to discuss in this culture, and in many others. In Hinduism and Judaism a woman is considered unclean when menstruating. In Hindu culture, she must eat alone and with special utensils so as not to defile others. In Jewish history, a woman has been required to perform a sin sacrifice each month. You know what? I can't ask a girl in my class for a tampon, because then everyone will know I am menstruating. It happens once a month, and maybe if you knew it (without going into details) you'd understand why I'm suddenly crying at Star Trek.

We don't talk about anything negative, those slimy gross things we try to hide: divorce, eating disorders, mental illness, aging, genocide. Why don't we talk about these? If they are wrong, they will not go away without discussion, without voice.

And why is it that so many things that are good are also silenced when society deems them uncomfortable topics? Bodies, we do not talk about the flesh of our bodies unless it is to criticize (that's a-ok by the media) but God gave us these bodies to love and to use, yes even in ways that we try to hide. Everyone poops, and everyone should be lucky enough to enjoy sex with someone beloved. Yet nudity is frightening and bodies a squirmy topic of conversation.

Emotions. Emotions are messy, and deeply, deeply personal. We handle them with a twelve-foot pole if at all. Exaggerations of them are paraded on HBO and the WB and we gorge ourselves on mockery. The true homey and good feelings are ignored quietly like anything behind closed doors. We rarely discuss love in real life. We cannot share our emotions with others because such raw sharing is equivalent to opening all the doors in our houses, the ones meant to hide bedrooms and bathrooms from visitors. I cannot tell you I love you, or that I'm sad, or that I am frightened for my dad or of the future. You ask me, "how are you" and society dictates that I answer, "I'm fine."

I go on this rant about opening these doors, when I am not convinced all doors should be opened. I feel confined to my island when I cannot share how I feel or what I am thinking; but were social restraints removed, I don't know if I could give that much of myself to you. The idea is as foreign to me as leaving the stall door open when I am using the bathroom.

random rewards

B. F. Skinner, pioneer in behavioral psychology, conducted infamous tests on rats and pigeons to discover reactions to reward. He found he could teach a mindless animal to do a very complicated task simply by breaking said task into small increments and rewarding the animal every time it incidentally completed a step. He got pigs to vacuum. He found that as soon as the reward was taken away or a punishment induced, the animal desisted from said behavior. They persisted most determinedly, however, if the reward was given at random intervals, unpredictably interspersed with punishment, on the off-chance that a reward would be given. Everyday example: a girl waits by the phone for hours despite the fact that her boyfriend rarely calls.

I was thinking about Skinner today because I was ready to give up on my dad. He hasn't really been Dad in a long time, and I am afraid of him in those times when he doesn't really register my presence and annoyed with him when he does see me and ignores me. I try, less and less frequently, to have a relationship with him. I recently invited him to a John Wayne movie and he told me that he didn't want to. He didn't even pretend to be busy. He never comes to family events and he is now talking of moving to New Mexico (don't get me started on him and his plans!) In the year I lived in Texas he never called me once. So I don't try too much anymore.

But today I was given three free tickets to the BYU basketball game. I invited my friends initially, but I was given chair seats, so I couldn't sit with the fourth if she came via and all-sports pass. So I tried to figure out whom to take. In a fit of who knows what--a last ditch effort maybe--I called my dad. Not only did he answer the phone but he also agreed with enthusiasm to come. I was speechless (which is itself a figure of speech since I usually wax gregarious). The conversation didn't last long but it left me feeling bemused. Dad's behavior, completely inconsistent, makes it impossible for me to give up. Every once in a while, sometimes after long spells of decline and disinterest, my dad surfaces for a day or an hour of a relationship. For those moments, I keep trying and probably will keep trying despite common negative results. I am no more an agent unto myself than Skinner's vacuuming pigs.

idle minds

Life is noisy. Even the mind cannot shut out the background distractions, the parts of the brain that keep tickertape on your spending and a laundry list of things to-do in case one has a spare moment (for we must avoid those devilishly idle hands). In class, professors tell us what they think and what Great Thinkers have thought before us. What do you think about those thinkers, their tests ask us, and from a more practical standpoint, what will the professor think about what we think about these thinkers? My sisters quote movies at me, and while I am responding to the situation at hand my brain is scouring my repertoire to find the right character with the right voice with the right line who matches not only what was said but what I am expected to say next. It’s like I’m in a play with a script the length of all media I’ve consumed in days past. Think, think, think. Did you get that reference? Are you on your toes?

Sometimes I just want the world inside my head to be a little less bombarded by the world outside it. I need to stop thinking what I’ll term as motor thoughts. These are the types of thoughts that get us from one place to the next, that get us through a test, a conversation, a chore. These are like motor skills, those which result in motion, the more precise the better. Thoughts can be like that: some result in motion through life, some quite task-specific and others rather more foundational. Converse to motor thoughts are latent thoughts, as related to the first as potential energy is to kinetic energy in physics. The two cannot exist at the same time. Sometimes I need latent thoughts.

Latent thoughts are always there, but they are quiet, so quiet that the rest of the mind must be absolutely still in order to hear them. They are Potential. These are personal philosophies, dreams and creative energy. We have worlds inside our heads waiting for our God-like forces to unleash them. But we never pause long enough to understand. Self-reflection is a way to listen to latent thoughts. Journal writing, poetry, art, a long walk dedicated to observing. These are ways in which we begin to listen to the little voices inside, these little voices which sound somewhat arbitrary (for they are not relevant to the external world of motor thoughts) and oftentimes deep in some silly way. It is when we are listening quite hard that new ideas begin to form and God-dropped seeds begin to ferment and grow.

I have never wondered the purpose of my existence in the same moment in which I am balancing my budget. I have never let my mind trace the edges of eternal mysteries when I’ve gone over a class syllabus. I don’t dwell on hope and love and dreams when I am watching Arrested Development. But I can do those things when I take make the conscious effort to stop thinking my motor thoughts, to leave the world of kinetics behind. Then I am free to focus on Potential.

on being shallow

I'm tired of comedies not winning Best Picture. Juno was good, and I want it to win this year. Why is it that we assume pain is more profound than joy, or that "deep" writing is better composed than something that makes us laugh? In my creative writing class, everyone has handed in poignant and pretentious essays on the most severe tragedies of their lives. They get back shining reviews from the class, because who can criticize your writing when you've just found your brother's body? Does it matter that your voice was irritating or your sentences were so identical in structure that it read like a cookbook? I still--still--can't say anything because your brother was on drugs. Damn, hand her the trophy for best writing! Sure, the writing sucked, but you have to be nice to cry babies.

For my essay I wrote something light, something pointless, something funny. I did it out of anger, and I am most funny when I am mad. I wrote about food, the things Joyce and I ate when we were growing up. How did it go over in the workshop?

Praise:
engaging voice
gripping first sentence, we're hooked the whole way through
I laughed and laughed
great puns
the swearing helped put an adult twist on a child's perspective.
really descriptive
good continuity
fun theme
very well written

Criticism:
I'd like you to develop this into a deeper theme, maybe comment more on your relationship with Joyce. I want more depth to your feelings.

Which won out? They spent fifteen minutes on the criticism and in the end everyone quickly listed the good points. All the ones I included came from the professor himself. In the end my essay was viewed as having a lot of potential...if only I had put in some sob story about how Joyce and I had drifted apart.

I think I'll use this rant as theme for my next essay and see what they do about that. I hope they tell me again that I have a lot of potential, because that is my favorite backward comment, one that says I'm not good yet. I love it.

inspired by a devotional on modesty

keeping up

I feel a little overwhelmed this semester. Surprisingly, I am not talking about my school work. I am taking 18 credits and working 25 hours a week, but so far I have managed to do all my reading. Yes, I know it's stupidly optimistic on the third day to say that homework's no sweat, but looking at my breaks between classes, etc. I think I will be able to keep up.

What frustrates me is my inability to talk about it all.

I want to share everything from every class. I learn such interesting things! But I'm too busy learning them to tell anyone, except Nora, who, alas for her, is present for my every caprice. No journal writing, no blogging, no phone calls to Ted, whose calls I have missed repeatedly. And the longer I wait to communicate any of this, the less important such things become, e.g. a joke told in class, or the comment I made that impressed people, or the girl on my shift who hates me, or the discussion on definitions of family.

I don't know what to do!

pain in the throat

I have been saddened this semester by my limited internet access. I cannot get to my blog from my work computer, so even lunch breaks are out, and I have no internet-compatible computer at home. I must use the office, and with football season and the working hours associated with it, I've rarely been home during those times. Today is an exception.

Why am I home on a Thursday? Shouldn't I be a responsible kid and be at work? Why, yes, I should. But my tonsils should also be smaller than golf balls, my throat shouldn't burn like I've eaten raw garlic, and my body temperature should be at 96.7 degrees Fahrenheit (I run colder than average most of the time). If my body parts don't behave I don't see why I have to. I called in to work, slept in an extra hour and then spent the morning reading, drinking echinacea tea, eating homemade chicken noodle soup and gargling salt water.

I think this is karma, because I told my co-workers not to worry, that they wouldn't get me sick. I never get sick, you know. I don't remember being sick since I moved here. But maybe this fever is affecting my memory.

If it's not karma it is definitely a physical manifestation of my emotional state. I do tend to get sick when I am stressed out--stress is so destructive to one's immune system! And right now I am terribly, terrible burdened with the stress of my upcoming move. I think my body decided to embrace rather than kill this new bacteria just so I would stop for a moment and rest. I am trying but the fever makes me restless, the pain makes me irritable and the time away from work just gives me the opportunity to think. And that is only bad.

the second time around

The first time I got accepted to BYU, it was a very quiet affair. I took the letter from a stack of mail and walked slowly to my room. I opened the letter in private, and I may have held my breath. I did not feel excited. I felt afraid, and any betrayal of excitement was giving into that fear, giving it power to snatch something away from me. I lived with too many disappointments, which is why I opened the letter alone and why I did not smile when I calmly told my antsy mom and dad that I had gotten in. By the time I had finished opening the letter, I was already bored by the news of my admission. It was self-preservation.

This time, however, it was all different.

Oh, it started out the same, the applying last minute (though this time was a little later than last minute) and expecting a refusal. Hell, this time I got a rejection, but somehow that made it easier. What did I have to lose by submitting a letter of appeal? All they could do was tell me no, and they'd already done that. I think the whole point, for me, was seeing if I really wanted it, or if I would be content with waiting. I thought I would be. It turns out, I wasn't.

The admissions committee meets every Thursday, so I expected to wait a week for news. Maybe I could have been blase had they sent a letter the following week, but maybe not. I had already shown myself just how much I wanted this. So, while the phone call on Tuesday did catch me off guard, I think the excitement was waiting already to spill over. I was completely set up for a crushing disappointment. Instead, I heard the man bluster and stutter as he tried to sort his way through data on his desk, while I hung on his every much-spaced word. Did he say what I thought he said? The phone call ended eventually with me saying thank you a million times as he tried to repeat, again, that I was indeed admitted to BYU and could start my registration November 2nd.

I hung up the phone. Was I calm, bored, dignified? No! I laughed aloud. I danced. I was in public, and I began twirling and shouting just to release the joy and gratitude I felt. The triumph!

I got in!

epiphanies

Most of my decision-making is done by my subconscious. While I like to be a rational, logic-based person, I find that, really, I am directed by my feelings, almost entirely. Not my emotions, my feelings, my senses below the surface, just under the radar of my conscious. On some decisions I may appear to deliberate for a very long time--years even--coolly and collectedly, maybe even desultorily. Then sometimes I seem downright impetuous. Examples? It took me three years to pick a major. I announced out of the blue that I was moving to Texas.

I do not admit to considering a question until I know what I want. I took classes for three years without deliberating about my major. Then I set out to make my decision. I had never taken a sociology course, but I had taken classes in many fields and knew my strengths and weaknesses and likes and goals. I didn't try to make that choice until I knew what I wanted. When I one day thought to myself that I needed to figure out if I was going to move to Texas or not, it was revelatory that I wanted to go. If I hadn't, the decision wouldn't have had to be made; I would have kept on keeping on. Out loud I say, I am deciding whether or not to...while my subconscious says, I have decided that I want to do this, and now I am consulting the conscious.

I use pro/con lists only to clarify my desires. They either disappoint me or satisfy me; they do not make my decision. It is a way of understanding the value of something, to look at a list loaded with benefits on one side and to think, I still want the other option. It gives it worth. It defines the opportunity cost. To know, wow, I would be willing to give up all of that just for this? My mind is not changed, merely my resolve strengthened.

All of my research is like this. I do it quickly, thoroughly, unhesitatingly. I go online at once to see what classes are required for a sociology degree, or what apartments are listed on Craigslist. My research is not really to help me decide what I want; it is to help me know if it is possible. When I can finally admit that I want to do something, it means that I have decided to do it. When I say I want to major in sociology, it means I will. When I announced I think I want to move to Texas, I meant, I will.

And when I finally say I will, I mean I have gained confidence in my decision and know how to accomplish it.

That last part sometimes takes a while, because I am waiting for my logical side to catch up with my intuition. That is also the time when I finally stop being stubborn and consult the Lord. The latter part goes much easier, as I am usually reminded that He is the one guiding my intuition in the first place, and that my brain is being the stupid tool stopping me from listening. I think the Lord speaks to me through epiphanies and starts my intuition down these paths that my brain tries to justify.

Some of the biggest epiphanies have come on airplanes, in the same revelatory emotions that accompany a pro/con list. Leaving one place for another grants clarity.

The most profound experience was when I left Tarythe's wedding a year ago July. The excitement on the way there was expected and rather trite. What I didn't see coming was the feeling of leaving home when I got on the plane to leave. I watched Austin fall away beneath me with the distinct impression that I would be coming back, soon for an extended period. Returning to Provo felt temporary. That, combined with what followed a month later, began the subconscious decision-making process that led to my eventual and seemingly-spontaneous move to Texas.

All of this ties together.

Two weeks ago I mentioned carefully to a few people (only those from whom I needed information) that I was trying to decide if I wanted to move back to Provo. Even as I voiced it, it came as a shock to me, because I knew what that meant. It was a repudiation of the life I had been living, backward-facing, paying for the past; it was a reprieve. It meant that I valued my life there more than being immediately debt-free, than a trip to Africa, than having savings when I returned in August per my previous plan. It made taking a trip to Provo dangerous, a risk to the status quo.

The trip is now behind me, along with much research quietly conducted. And if nothing else had clarified my feelings, the plane rides today certainly did. I felt a weight descending on me the closer I got to Austin, until, when I disembarked, I had the distinct impression of pulling an all-nighter. It was fatigue in advance, and a determination to get the worst over with. It was the gearing up for the final battle. It meant my heart was no longer in it, just my time.

So now I can definitely say that I want to go back to Provo, if I can.

red dress

I went on a shopping spree. It was a planned and budgeted shopping spree, but still just a little bit wild. I handed my card over at a seeming whim. But Oh--the pretty clothes! I wanted to stop feeling frumpy, and the biggest part of that lately are my shoes. I bought four pair, plus an outfit for each. I'd forgotten how much I love Maurice's! And that I still had a coupon for $20 off. I really don't think I'll have any buyer's remorse, mostly because I went with Joyce and Nora and got feedback on every item. I really like my new clothes.

But I love my new red dress.

This is a dress to top all dresses, the perfect shade of red, scarlet but not quite so orange. A delicate calf-length dress with a double waist, a ribbon sash and eyelets. I feel so completely feminine in it, lady-like and sexy all at once. With the perfectly matched red heels, the ensemble screams to be taken dancing, to be taken anywhere, as long as it's seen.

It's the kind of dress I've always wanted. Someday, I said. Someday, I will own a red dress.

There are certain achievements in life, like a wedding or a graduation, that mark a moment in time. There are also acquisitions that display certain quality of life: a new car suggests independence; a new computer, perhaps dependability; new pans, stability; insurance, security. Possessions are a reflection on the owner's character: a bicycle for an athlete, books for a reader, shoes for the fashion expert.

The red dress is a little of each. It's statement is of fun, elegance and a willingness to embrace life. I have always wanted to be a person who owned a red dress. And now that I do, I will probably try it on every night, just for a minute or so, just to relish in my ownership of it and to experience the moments of forward-looking when I wonder where I'll wear it.

home

Ah, here I am blogging on a computer in the Cannon Center. It feels like the two years of my life that have passed. I feel like I am home. There is my family here, whom I love more than air, and so many familiar faces. The smells get to me the worst. It smells like home, peace, enthusiasm, and innumerable other things. Who'd have thought that peace smelled like mountains and enthusiasm like the cleaner used in the Canc. Home smelling like Nora--that's predictable. It makes me want to chuck it all and stay. You can't force me on that plane on Monday! Everything I need I have in this backpack. I put off coming back too long, or not long enough. I am interested to see the lasting results from this weekend.

blond

I automatically compare myself to other people. I do it with friends, strangers, co-workers. And I tend to judge people by our differences. If in a situation a friend does something that I would never do, I use that instance to decide if the friend is better or worse than I. I would never steal, therefore in this instance I am better. I would never help that person, therefore I am worse. Similarities are above judgment, simply because I don't feel justified in condemning or praising someone for something I do too.

I first saw her a week ago. I haven't met her, so my analysis is strictly by distant observation. But that didn't stop me from drawing conclusions and making comparisons. For all the qualities that we possessed in common I felt vindicated, consoled even. Yes, of course she's intelligent, he'd only date someone intelligent, he thought I was intelligent. And if I made more comments in class, so much the better. But again, it was the differences that struck me.

I found myself asking, who's better here, is this what I was missing, is he glad that she is...? She's shorter than I am, and I can confidently say that he liked me for being tall. She's so put together in a way that looks like she irons her underwear that I felt suddenly sloppy. She's graceful and soft-spoken and well-educated and professional. I am none of those things, but if I ever desire those qualities, I know I can obtain them. If I find myself wanting (this isn't about his judgment, honest) then I can put forth the effort to change. Maybe I'm not patient yet, but I will be, sooner or later. Maybe I don't have a degree right now, but come Hell or high water I will get it! She probably doesn't swear either. Shit. She also doesn't touch him (at least in public) and while she may be very finished she is lacking in impetuosity and fun. Did I see her smile once? In these areas, in the raw material I feel I am better. Please, oh please, let her be judgmental too!

There is one issue, however. One area when I feel I've hit a brick wall in my Holier-than-her analysis. She's blond. And I can't even begin to judge her for this, because her differences are such that I cannot look at them and say which is better. I could never aspire to be blond the way I might try to achieve patience, and I could never criticize her for failing to have dark hair. I would not be me if I had golden hair. The concept it too foreign. So why does this trait hurt me more than any of the others? First, because for four years I have heard my friend say he doesn't like blonds. Secondly, a blond is my antithesis, the anti-Audrey. And the fact that she is one feels like a complete rejection of all that I am. It is enough that it is different without being better or worse, because it is what he has chosen and not what I am, and therefore worth envying.

the price of eggs

The cake ended up using fifteen eggs. Oh no, that's not in the recipe, but by the time I had started over--again--I had to dip into my new roommate's stores. I don't know why the first cake came out as flat as a pancake, but I do know why my egg whites wouldn't stiffen the second time around. You'd have thought I was a baking novice! I ended up with a splendid dessert at the last, glad that eggs were a dime a dozen, even if I did have too much ganache and whipped cream left over and clogging the limited freezer space. Finally came time to eat.

At church I had told Jared that I'd be making a cake, to which he replied, "Look at that! All of a sudden, we're friends again!" So he came Sunday bringing Dan, and the four of us--Holly, my new roommate, completing the circle--began to feast. We hung out until both Jared and I felt it was time for bed (a ridiculously early 9:30pm).

The next night I brought home Vivian and Elizabeth for cake (this was--is--a very large cake), joined once more by Holly who has insinuated herself beautifully into the group. Jared showed up uninvited, asking without preamble as he crossed the threshold, "Where's the chocolate?" and helping himself to the contents of my fridge.

It was then, sitting in the corner of my dining/living room, watching those I've wanted for friends eat my baking, that I realized my happiness. I have no greater joy than being with those I love, enjoying laughs, conversation and comfortable silences, depending. The only thing to increase that joy is if I have contributed to it. Perhaps that is why I adore feeding people. My happiness in cooking triples when someone else partakes, increasing exponentially with their reactions. Praise me obscenely for cooking and you will have no more loyal, grateful friend than I.

The world was full of goodwill last night, as the yellow glow of my lamp lit faces filled with laughter. We lounged on couches, my couches, as Elizabeth planned and Vivian bemoaned blind dates. I knew the stories and jokes and suckings of the last bit of chocolate off forks had to end eventually, though I felt loathe for it to do so. Jared put in the movie, quite unceremoniously, as though mi casa era su casa. My 13'' TV didn't feel too small with 5 of us kipped on the floor around it to watch the Wedding Planner. We trickled to bed one at a time until I was left asleep on the floor. It was the first time in over three weeks that I had fallen asleep easily and without pain.

I awoke this morning to a day off, filled with leftover euphoria. I walked to the kitchen, noticing that Vivian had reassembled my red love seat before she left. And while I laugh at Jared's level of comfort in my home, I noticed as I grabbed a bowl for cereal that he had done my dishes of the night before. I felt almost sad that the night had ended, wishing that I could be certain I'd have another like it. When I opened the refrigerator, I saw a good third of the cake still left. I looked at it for a moment, still beautiful with its fresh berries on top, and wondered if its marvelous powers stemmed from the unorthodox amount of eggs that went into its making. It was worth every one of the fifteen. I think I'll officially change the recipe.

playful

I feel like swinging or climbing trees or jumping on a trampoline. Alas that I must pack instead!

mortification

Charmin toilet paper is true to its word. It is soft and absorbent. It is also cuddly and accepting. This I discovered last night. But perhaps I am starting at the wrong end of the story.

Mrs. Chandler, my High School Sophomore English, once engaged us in a debate: what is the greater fear--fear of failure or fear of embarrassment? To this question I have a simple and correct answer: yes.

I don't know what in me broke first, but I'm thoroughly convinced that it didn't have to do with Kevin. It didn't start out about him, and it didn't end about him, but somewhere in the middle my finger hit the number five on my phone and speed dial took over before I could recover my digit. I couldn't hang up at that point, not by the time Caller ID had betrayed me. How I long for the days before that blasted invention when a girl could call a boy and hang up in peace!

"Why won't you talk to me?" I asked. The very first words out of my mouth. I had meant them to sound righteously angry, but they came out a little whiney and needy. I had meant to vent anger. I had planned to demand answers, to force him to say he didn't want to talk to me and why. Why didn't he even call to get April's number! I was furious on her behalf, and I have been frustrated since. I felt like I was beating my head against a brick wall trying to make it possible for us to be friends. Kevin has said it too, that I am the peacemaker with us. I'm just better at it than he is. So I tried, Heaven knows, I tried. I sent innocuous text-messages that were friendly and forgettable. And he responded civilly. CIVILLY! Of all the insulting behaviors in the word, civility is the worst. It is indifference magnified. And each week as I sent a line or two my pride pained me a little more. And my heart, which had been doing so wonderfully, ached just a little bit.

And then I talked to Ted. I told him I was hurt and angry at Kevin, Kevin who said he loved me but then never called, Kevin who says I am his best friend but never in six weeks tried to talk to me, Kevin who obviously doesn't give a damn. And Ted, always oh-so-gentle, said it simply: maybe he doesn't want to talk to you and you should stop trying to be his friend.

Stop being his friend? I felt an awful mutinous numbness at that thought. That was not what I signed up for when I first voiced the idea of us dating other people. Not be his friend. I remember us agreeing to still date, to still be friends, to see if we could find a way through this next year. But then again, who's to say my memory is accurate or that what we had intended has anything to do with the actual consequences. Could I not be his friend? Probably. I haven't talked to him in six weeks. Of course, the last week of that included an almost constant feeling of betrayal. For the love of Dumbledore! Harry Potter was out and Kevin and I have a year-long wager on its outcome. I talked to other people about the book's content, but these conversations were meant for him, I was supposed to be talking to him. We had a bet! He's still the first person I think of when I have a thought that needs expressing. I have been so quiet these last weeks. I wonder if my thoughts are getting lost, because they don't fall upon his ears.

But like I said, last night wasn't about him. It was sparked by the unastonishing realization that I am once again playing the role of "safe girl" to a guy. Always, always, am I found in the part of kid sister/platonic friend. And every so often, that is a disappointment. I tend to feel a little bit undesirable. I tend to wonder, what is it about me that is so unkissable? It's part of a thought that has haunted me for years, a feeling of inadequacy that has been present since the first great disappointment of my life. When I told myself with all the self-esteem I could muster that there is everything lovable about me, I reached the conclusion that if it's not me, then the blame rests on someone else. That's the point where I found it easy to be mad at Kevin for not wanting me. About the time my first sentence had ended and he began to sigh, I didn't find it easy anymore to be mad at anyone but myself. I ended the phone call quickly, and who can say who was more relieved at its untimely demise? I didn't even get to tell him that I'm moving. In two days he won't even know anymore where I live. I tried not to worry how he'd find me. He doesn't want to find me.

Hanging up the phone, I was swallowed by utter humiliation. I can't believe you just sunk that low, I lectured myself. I felt I deserved to unleash my inner judge on myself. Oh what a fool I am! But I didn't deserve to hear what I told myself later. Here it is, the thought that haunts me and eats my very soul: that there is pain because I was not good enough. If I had just been a bit better...

If I had been better--more open maybe, or made better grades, or been a bigger help around the house--then maybe I could have saved my parents' marriage. If I just exercised a little more discipline, I could have my degree by now. If I had just been stronger, more faithful, maybe Mom wouldn't be so lost right now. Dear God, could I have prevented my dad from feeling as much pain, if I had been a better listener? If I had been more patient, would Kevin have wanted me? If I had been a little less selfish would I have been able to help Joyce?

This is where I broke, all the old fault-lines rupturing. This was the pain I had been feeling and that I hadn't found a voice for. But I heard her again, crying on the phone. Joyce who storms and rages and laughs, reduced to weeping weakly? I listened to the memory of her sorrow and realized that I was hearing it from my own mouth. Weeping became sobbing and I drowned in grief.

I inched my way to the edge of the bed, because even in the worst crises I am aware that I need a tissue. I stumbled to the bathroom, where I relieved the rack of a fresh roll of Charmin. I stood shakily against the door frame and blew my nose. But I couldn't stem the flow of tears, I couldn't dam the flood of sadness. I thought of my Father in Heaven, who was watching me with painful compassion. I turned my face away, tried to hide my whole body in the corner. Don't look at me, I prayed. I'm not good enough to be your daughter. I slid to the floor, wretched and broken, until I lay sobbing on the cold linoleum, fighting for air, demanding of myself a calm which neared impossibility. I'm sorry, I wept. I'm sorry I wasn't good enough. My fingers clutched at the bouncy white cylinder. After a while I battled myself onto hands and knees and moved to the shadowed mass that was my bed. I managed to stand and walk the last few steps, before climbing under the covers. I don't remember my crying slowing, but I do remember clutching as a lifeline the roll of Charmin. I woke up a few times in the night, each time holding it close like an old beloved teddy bear.

There are three definitions to the word mortify:
The first means to humiliate or embarrass.
The second means to have a part of the body die, while the rest goes on living.
And the third means to subjugate the passions by abstinence, ascetic discipline and or self-inflicted suffering.


This morning my tears were gone, absorbed by the inanimate toilet paper. I didn't feel worn out from the breakdown the night before, but physically refreshed by the night's sleep. I still feel embarrassed that I called him and foolish for letting myself come unglued. Charmin told me that he'd keep my weakness a secret, lover-like, but as I glued myself together I knew I wouldn't be able to hide the shoddy repair job. But I resolved not to fall apart again. This time, I'll be better.

When recently I had a choice to remain here or to return to Utah to finish school, I admit I found myself defeated and unequal to the task. My two highest goals were at odds with one another, battling for supremacy. Goal number one: to finish school. Goal number two: to get out of debt. To stay meant keeping my job, thus enabling me to quickly end my debt, though protracting the whole school thing. To leave meant returning to school and lengthening the time in-debt an immeasurable amount. I could not choose, because to think about the issue at all left me wallowing in shame, self-pity and remorse. I grieved. The two things I hate most about myself are that I am in debt and that I am out of school. And no amount of repenting could erase those two facts. All my decision did was throw those truths in my face and demand that I pick between my two biggest failures to crawl back to and try a second time to defeat.

I couldn't choose. So, I looked to what I hated third about my life. Always, always I hate failure. I do not try for fear I will fail to measure up. I am embarrassed to the point of snapping annoyance when I am having to learn something new. I cannot laugh at my failures, or if I do it is with certain hysterical mania that leaves no room for humor. My third greatest failure was to my own headstrong determination. Money beat me. School beat me. Then spreadsheets printed with daydreams beat me. The reason I came to Austin failed. My number one goal, to be a wife, did not work out the way I planned it. I haven't failed yet, but I let my set-back label my entire sojourn here in Austin a failure. So I snatched my move back from the mouth of self-condemnation. I decided that I would make Austin the right decision for me, to redeem my actions prior by my choices subsequent. Thus I stayed--to avoid failure.

Part of my succeeding here means beating my other demons. I try to reply with uplifted head that I have not finished school yet. I try not to cry when I cannot pay as much toward my credit cards this month due to moving, and tell myself that extending my debt to January still means it's diminishing (after all a new year is only symbolic, not concrete). I try to make good what has haunted me and made me feel of less worth.

Then today in institute we had a substitute teacher who talked like a televangelist/used car salesmen. We talked about finances. I felt myself shrinking. Oh please, Father, not about money, I begged. Then he talked about debt, and how the only good reasons to go into debt were for eventual gains (education, house, business, etc.) So came investing. So came education. Please, Father, please Oh God, not school, please not about school. And when he began to mock, to openly ridicule, those who foolishly pursue majors that will not translate into a lucrative job I stood in the middle of the room and walked out.

I rode home on the bus, cried a little and then ran until I sweat away the water I would otherwise have used for tears. To get myself to speed I let the anger flow freely, pushing my legs and lungs with power. I am not a failure, my mind stated. I am not a failure, it yawped. I am not a failure! I screamed in my head. Until I realized that no one had called me a failure but myself. I pursued a subject I loved because it made my life richer. I learned from my mistakes. I work hard at a fantastic job full of opportunities for self-fulfillment. I did something brave and took a leap, because when I am old I want to be able to say I was the type of girl who would move across the country for love. And I am the type of girl who can rebound when life takes a twist. I am not a failure.

i walked on the moon

I just bought the Brian Regan DVD! I now have the entertainment portion of my house-warming party taken care of. Now I just need my own place. In one month (roughly two weeks after the DVD arrives) I'll be able to open my home and kitchen to the new friends I made and introduce them to Cannon Ball Wound Ointment, Egg Areas and the Lunar Rover among many many other things. All hail Brian! He's an 8!

ultimate

I. Played. Ultimate. Frisbee.

I did. You should believe me. I didn't believe me at first but I said it with such honest conviction that despite having the wrong number of fingers in the air for scout's honor, I eventually came to the realization that I was telling the truth. I played a sport. And I loved it. My weekend of activity began with volleyball the night before. I played long and hard (and terribly) until my arms were bright red and I could no longer see. I caught the bug.

So last night I changed from the dress I wore to the wedding reception, and with my hair still in a formal up-do I ran the length of a field about infinity times until I thought I would faint. I found it a much better release for aggression than immature swearing (and yes I tried really hard to make the swearing sound ridiculous so I'd quit). I played with those who unlike me have played before. Luckily they stacked the teams. The middle players were on one team, and the two best players were with the two worst. The two guys, instead of passing to one another to win, made sure that we girls were involved and encouraged. They played like Bryan Dunn, Matt Bushman or Ted Long: they played exceptionally well, with the intent to win, but also with the spirit of fun. Because they would pass to me even after I dropped the Frisbee, I eventually began to catch it. Soon I caught it often. By the end, I had it unless it went wild. Throwing is another thing. I'll work on that.

tryin' like hell not to swear

Damn it.

I'm feeling the kind of aggression today that has to be burnt out, through long vigorous walks, singing loudly with music until I'm hoarse, and by swearing. Once it is sweated and cursed out of my blood I will use the resulting calm to uplift myself in scripture study and personal reflection, but until I finish screaming with Dashboard Confessional my mind won't sit still long enough to listen to my spirit. I feel like throwing my frickin' journal across the darn room.

Last night was so humiliating. I overheard Jared on the phone with Sarah. He mentioned he was going to give me a ride home. Her response (which I could hear quite plainly): "Oh Jared, you're so kind to her. It's so generous the way you take care of her." Did you hear the tone? For the love of peace, did you hear the belittling condescension? I did. And you know why it hurt so damn bad? Because it is what I think already! If she were to say to someone that I am a slut, I could laugh, because there is and never has been any truth in that. She could call me a liar without hurting my feelings, a gossip, stupid, whatever. But to hear in words what I fear is true, that I am a burden and a charity case, that went straight to the heart. I started crying in the car. Despite my embarrassment, I couldn't stop. The words that came to my head are worse than those I allow out now in continued frustration. I tried to explain to Jared just why I felt so hurt, and he tried to explain that he didn't mind giving me rides. But oh how my pride was wounded! and my pride is my favorite weakness.

Ask Bryan, my dear friend, and he will tell you how much like pulling teeth it is to get me to accept a ride, let alone ask for one. Hell, that's how he and I became friends: we got in a fight because he insisted on giving me a ride and I kept refusing. So I finally made a friend here and routinely accept help from him, and then a mutual acquaintance tells him he's generous for taking care of me! I almost called my mom that moment to buy the Honda Civic from her, even though I can't afford it. My pride would bankrupt me and be worth every penny.

Then today Nora let me know that my previous blog entry might look purposefully mean to Kevin were he to read it. Shit, I responded, glorying in my swearing to someone who won't look down on me for it. I didn't think what I wrote would be hurtful at all. Believe me, I have been hurtful on this blog on purpose and I succeeded. I can wield words with exceptional accuracy, but in this case it was ignorance, and I still can't see where I went wrong. I compared Jared's company to Dan's, but neither was a reflection on Kevin. But now I feel annoyed and angry at myself all over again, because there was truth in this second accusation too in all likelihood, and I'm still not retracting anything I've said, though I am sorry if it appears malicious. Hell.

date dichotomy

Last night felt like two separate nights: there was the bad date and the good one. It was not a continuum of time, but two wholly separate events, almost two entirely separate selves.

The first date was one which Jared threatened would come. I swore to him if he broadcast my availability I'd kill him. He didn't have to broadcast anything. His roommate asked me out. Jared thought it was funny; I told him I'd shank him. The date itself was everything I have come to fear and expect of first dates with those whom I could not see myself dating. Give 'em another chance I've been told, but people do not usually grow on me, and I don't see a point in subjecting myself a second time to that which I found so painful the first. There is no acquired taste with me. I did not find him attractive in the slightest. And it turns out, that's a big deal. We rode on his motorcycle, and I thanked my lucky stars that I am not at all afraid of riding, thus able to keep my hands at my side and not around his waist. Over dinner there were long silences while I tried to gnaw through the burnt bacon in my BLT. I did remember to say thanks, and I managed not to check the time, but relief swept me when he noted we had to get back to institute.

I didn't know however if that was included in the date, if I were tied to him for that much longer. Luckily by some divine intervention, we had numerically assigned seats, and afterward Viviane saved me when Dan just kept hovering. I tried to make the off-hand comment about how I was tired and had a lot to do still that night, e.g. grocery shopping, to see if Dan would take the hint. I don't know if he did, but Jared picked up on it, and that's where the night shifted.

Jared took me grocery shopping. I'm almost completely positive that doesn't count as a date. But it felt like one. I mean, come on, we even danced in the aisles just a little bit. He didn't pay for the groceries but he bought the food at McDonald's afterward. We talked and laughed and flirted and touched and argued over which cereal was best. I talked with him without script or brain-racking. He flirts so ostentatiously that it's completely innocuous, and while I'm not quite sure what exactly to do with that, we're both okay with him laughing at me for blushing. If all dates were like that one, I wouldn't mind them so much. I think the best part was that it wasn't really a date at all, and I could enjoy my time casually with a friend.

freaky friday

My mother has switched bodies with...Ted.

That's the only explanation for two phenomena. The first is that Ted, noting my distress on Tuesday, did not try to badger me into peace, but told me he loves me. This I know, but he has only said it once before, and it meant a lot.

The second phenomenon is that my mom lectured me today when I told her about my date last night. I felt chastised and slighted when she tried to give advice. It really would have sufficed for her to say: "Hey, dating is hard. Way to get back up on that horse. I'm glad you had fun. And that was smart of you not to kiss him. What are your plans this weekend?" But she lectured me, when I think overall I am very aware and in this instance I was extremely well behaved. I felt like I was bashing my head against a brick wall...you know, the way I feel with Ted.

my cheeriest poem this week

with the cadence of "Noisy Nora"

The movie's not as funny
as it seemed to be last time.
I may not be laughing,
but not crying means I'm fine.

I had a quite relaxing day
with enough time to enjoy
those painlessly lapsed hours
on my bed with no employ.

My friends were on the river.
I was invited to attend,
but I avoided sunburn.
And who needs time with friends?

I managed to go shopping,
a chore put off 'til now,
but I made it home with only
chocolate and no chow.

I find it's to be expected
I'm not always at my best,
but if I didn't know better,
I'd say that I'm depressed.

At first I avoided showering
but then I showered twice.
I couldn't find a way to pass
the time that was as nice.

I didn't want to talk at all,
but I waited by the phone.
While company's annoying,
it's an improvement on "alone."

I didn't stop to eat a meal,
for nothing sounded good.
I've always found hot cocoa
a good substitute for food.

I found the inspiration
with direction from my muse,
but each new poem written
sounded darker and confused.

I guess I needed time
to myself in which to rest--
I'm just not used to being
emotionally distressed--
but if I had to admit it,
and I will if pressed,
it might just look as though
I'm a little bit depressed.

distance

I've been thinking today. A lot. Mostly about distance. A quote came to mind from the movie I.Q. Alas, it is not quoted in IMDB so I cannot relate it here correctly. It is where Catherine, explaining some theory or another, states that it is impossible for two people to dance. The reason being is that you always travel half the distance between two points, therefore never reaching your destination although critically narrowing the distance. I thought of that today, and how no matter how much effort one person puts forth to close the distance between him and someone else, inevitably at some point the other person must come the other half. Or, I guess, the first person can aim for double.

class of

The last time I saw these people, we were wearing mortar boards and sitting in a chapel the size of the Death Star. Now they are again wearing those goofy hats and dresses and facing a dark and unknown future while a band plays Pomp and Circumstance and their parents wave rosettes. I looked at them walking through the Co-op with their fan clubs in tow, parents who arranged jobs for them either through contacts or prayers, and I thought what a joke it all is. And then I started crying. I just got left behind. First Rory and now all of my high school class have taken that next step from which I am temporarily barred.

Then, Sunday, I received two messages via Facebook from two such persons, not met in four years, only these were the pleasant visage of the high school memories:

Brittany and I became immediate friends on the first day of fifth grade. The friendship stuck, though with differing school schedules we were not as close during high school. Then after the fateful walk we never talked again. Until Wednesday, when after a few brief emails we figured out that we are both in town and I called her to make plans to meet up. The conversation felt like we had talked the day before, that those four years hadn't existed. It is lovely to think I have a friend in town. A friend who can remind me of the good parts of my past. A friend who knows me already. A friend who hasn't graduated college yet. I knew I still loved her when I heard her say, "I was so depressed this weekend with our entire class graduating that I locked myself in my apartment and wouldn't see anyone." Kindred spirits!

The second girl is Rachel Werth, who above anyone I've ever known, even Joyce, has marched to the beat of her own drum. And I wouldn't say there was any sort of rhythm. Or much marching for that matter. She kinda ambled to her own lute. She disappeared before we donned the caps and gowns, slipping out of the system and my life. I've worried about her for almost five years, but now I know she is okay. She is happy. And she is graduating before I will! Oh, the injustice! She dropped out and got knocked up and still, still, she is going to beat me across the finish line.

I know. I know. It's not a competition. The point is making sure I am driving myself with the best of what's in me, working for my goals, trying to reach my potential, never quitting. (Can you hear the sarcasm or the maniacal self-torturing laughter?) With all these reunions, on top of all the new people I've met, it has never become any easier to say I am taking time off from school. I get the same pitying look from everyone when I tell them I plan to graduate, like even those who have no education themselves don't think very much of my plan. That's why I like Brittany and Rachel--even though it's not a competition--because both of them know what it's like to alter the prescribed four year plan. And what it's like to hate with poisonous envy those who could fulfill it every jot and tittle and diploma.

swing

I sit sour on a swing and study the world
with all its rich purple textures
and perfumed sounds, lost to it all,
even the russet grating under my palm.
Pensive. Pendulous.

I press my feet against the torpid ground
and feel my thighs force the earth away.
The corpulent globe recedes amid a cacophony
of rusty squeaks before it rushes back.

Do not break the fall.

The fulcrum carries me into flight away from dour doldrums
until I soar chained and dip in my dance,
running a pendulum course.

The air with her violent kiss breaks my maw and feeds me
until all my pain is nursed away
in the rhythm of fro and to.

Dismounting,
the verdant mattress still ebbing and billowing under my toes,
I find my thoughts are once more ductile,
stilled by the motion of the earth and me.

calling all fans

Not mine of course. Tomorrow is Gilmore Girls season finale, but rumor has spread rampantly that GG got canceled, despite its planned one last season, thus turning tomorrow night's Luke and Lorelai reunion into the SERIES finale. I wanted to check on this rumor to see for myself from a reliable source, but my computer lab has blocked the Gilmore Girls link on the WB website. Of all the sites to block! Does anyone know if this is true? What I mean by that, is go check the website, darn it, and tell me before I implode!

smoke

So, it turns out, if a smoke detector anywhere in my building is set off, all the blazing fire alarms break forth into demonic heraldry. And the only thing that can stop them is the authority of the much-delayed fire department. If it were anything but my pot-smoking neighbors, I'd have burned alive in my bed, because, forget evacuating, I stuffed my ears with orange plugs and tried to sleep despite the noise. My only concern was, if I did have to flee the burning ruin of my every earthly possession, would I have time to grab my thumb drive?

What can I say? I'm a girl who knows her priorities.

very happy birthday

Yesterday I turned twenty-two. This morning I planned to write a simple blog about the nice things that happened on my birthday (like my coworkers buying me a cupcake with a candle in it) but I didn't think that much about it today.

William asked me out. Again. At first I was totally clueless and thought I was agreeing to a group outing. Then I figured out that I had been asked on a date. I didn't know what to do, so in line with my character I did nothing. I called Kevin and Emilie and told them of my blunder and the difficulty facing me. Kevin, of course, was highly amused and even completely indifferent as to whether or not I went, though he did offer to chaperone. Punk. That only increased my discomfiture, because now there were two sides (however facetious the one) to my choice. Kevin and Emilie both said to go, and I did not want to. I wanted to go out with friends, that being such a rare occurrence for me, but I had a sneaking suspicion that William wasn't entirely disinterested. If he hadn't made those awkward advances four months ago, I wouldn't have had any qualms about hanging out one-on-one. I'd do it with Dan Jones or Jared or Abinadi, no sweat. So while I saw the necessity of cancelling, I hesitated.

I think the main reason for my hesitation--and you may chide me if you like--is that I knew it would be vastly uncomfortable for me. Especially if he really meant it when he said we could be friends. Did I want to embarrass him and myself by mentioning my unavailability when he clearly knows of my relationship with Kevin? I kept putting it off until I could convince Emilie (my conscience) that texting him wasn't tactless.

I spent the morning and early afternoon consulting her via text-messages (the office was rather slow today). I asked her if I should text him or call him to cancel. She did not take that as an either/or question and so replied, "unless you want to go out with him." Good grief! I meant, would it be more tactless to text him now or to wait three hours and call last minute when I get out of work. She said that Ted said that if I went to the movie I'd be leading William on. That didn't exactly answer my question, but it was better than either of the two options I'd presented her. I immediately sent the text message; something polite and distant, like I don't think it's a good idea to see a movie together. Or something along those lines.

Ted's words got me thinking. No matter what, I would have cancelled with William, because I would have been more uncomfortable alone with him than I would calling him to ditch out. And this is all about my comfort. That includes the comfort of my conscience, because when it nags I am utterly distressed. I once led on one of Ted's best friends. I thought about that today. I still squirm a little with guilt. I dated Jon because he made me feel desired, desirable. My vanity liked him immensely, and he was my friend truly. He was there before I chose Kevin, and he was there the summer Kevin was away, and he was there when Kevin and I weren't talking, and he was there two days after Kevin dumped me. While Jon is an awesome guy, he really should have had more self-respect than to come for me every time I missed Kevin and beckoned for a substitute. I was (there is no other term for it) a bitch.

I didn't want to do the same thing to William, and it's not just because I don't anticipate being single in Austin. Sadly, it's not out of compassion for William either. It's because I want to think of myself as a good person. Really my vanity is limitless. But I don't need to string along an admirer, even though he does text me back to tell me I am incredible after I ditch out. (A side rant: a person shouldn't think I am incredible until I go to great lengths to impress him! And, no matter what Emilie says about it being a cute gesture on his part, it is still improper to ask out someone who is dating someone else! I was rather irritated at Emilie who looked fondly on William's overtures, reasoning that I am not yet taken. Grr. End rant.)

Mostly what overcame my vanity and my seemingly-constant and certainly damaging need to feel desired was simply that it came the day after my birthday. I'm not saying that my natural innocence shows through on that day...though I do like to think so. Rather, it is the first birthday of mine that I got to spend with Kevin. Three years ago I was in McKinney, while he was in DC. He emailed me at exactly midnight the morning of my birthday, however, knowing that I would check for warm wishes. Two years ago I was with Jon and not speaking to Kevin and denying that I was not speaking to Kevin. Last year he was in Austin, and I was anticipating the trip I'd be making there in 72 days. And this year, he kissed me.

Yesterday I turned twenty-two. Today I turned twenty-two and one day.

crazy afraid

The crazy people of Austin's drag constantly make me uncomfortable. There is the deaf woman who rants to herself in sign language. The man who cut the crotch out of his pants for who knows what reason, and much to my horror. The girl who wears all white, including painting her body, but neglecting a bra. Then there are all those who are crazy in the normal been-on-drugs-too-long kinda way. But today I felt frightened, really truly.

When he showed up at the bus stop I immediately felt nervous. Perhaps because he kept staring at me with an unfocused gaze, such as when Joyce stares at your neck like Dracula during Lent. I make jokes, but he was strange, a scary strange, and he kept edging closer, shifting this blue beer cooler by his feet and stroking his stomach with his fingertips.

Not being an idiot, I planned to let this man board a bus first, but when the 5:42 came I sprinted toward it: it was safer than the bus stop because it was full of people. Full to the breaking point. That was the problem. The bus driver waved me away from the doors and pointed to the next bus which was completely empty. They were all switching buses. Crazy man was looking the other way and a torrent of mishandled bus passengers were following me, so I went ahead and boarded the second bus. First aboard. And before many others came the man clutching the blue cooler and walking with his body leaning forward. The entire bus sat open for the taking and he took the seat next to me before I could move to the aisle to block him.

For a few blocks I told myself I was being judgmental, that he was crazy but harmless, that I was letting my discomfort out of my control. But soon I didn't have the presence of mind to talk myself out of being afraid. He kept leaning closer, the kind of close that only Kevin has a right to be near me. He stared quite openly, rocking slightly, raking me with his eyes. I tried to keep my eyes focused out the window, tried to fit my body into the crack between my seat and the glass. Tried to escape the nearness of the crazy next to me.

I don't know what finally cracked me. But extreme fear flooded over me. I was on a crowded public bus (so crowded in fact that I could not have taken another seat) so this man could do nothing to me there. But I knew that he wasn't going to leave this bus before I did, and I could not get off alone to have him follow me away from the many passengers. The man shifted in his seat and I almost screamed. The rational side of my brain told me in a shaky voice that I could talk to the bus driver if the man was still on the bus when we neared my stop. I knew he would be. My fear bordered on hysteria, albeit behind a calm, bored commuter expression. I am not this afraid. Ever.

Then my mind grasped onto the Lord. I remembered the Stripling Warriors, thanks to breakfast time reading (my primary president would be so proud) and I prayed for protection. I thought on how he kept them from death and I knew God could keep me safe too. Please protect me, Father! I cried. Don't let him harm me!

Immediately the lid burst from the man's beer cooler, spilling ice onto the floor of the bus. Whatever else he carried inside stayed there, despite the jostling the cooler received on the floor. At the noise, the man jumped, as though being attacked, grabbed his cooler protectively under his arm and fled, racing from the bus, pushing open the doors himself. He did not stop running when he disembarked. My heart raced too.

Another stranger took his seat and could not have been much further than the crazy head been. Yet I felt safe afterward. And glad, very glad, that nothing happened.

consider the lillies

The night that the all-evil MasterCard SOBs decided to steal my money and break my heart (all legal according to the contract we'd signed years prior--Satan was the arbiter), I knelt to pray to my Heavenly Father. I did not ask for comfort, because I did not feel I deserved it. I did not ask for help, because I knew I didn't deserve that. Instead I said I was sorry. I said I was sorry for eighty-four-thousand things. For not listening. For telling Him what I had planned. For slapping away His gifts.

That last one was the biggest. How could I ask for help, I wondered, when He had already helped me before? I was thinking of Utah. My problems there, of the financial order, were tuition and paying off my debt. The Lord gave me the gift of government money, the hard-earned money of tax-payers everywhere, of which I was not yet one. The VA benefits were enough to pay my tuition, books and debt in two years' time. What a generous gift! It only applied, however, as long as I stayed in school. And four months ago, I left school.

The decision to move to Texas was mine. I made sure Heavenly Father didn't disapprove, but I pretty much worded it this way: Father, I want to go to Austin. I can do it, if You'll come too and take care of me. He agreed with a subtle reference to Matthew 6.

But once I got here, I let myself become unhappy. Heavenly Father took care of me, I reasoned, when He found me a job. Then the work was up to me. The hours put in, the careful budgeting, the anal payment of bills. I had enough-ish. At least I made no credit-card purchases, even if the balances stubbornly refused to shrink. And when I became bored with my job, I told myself to look past that to the next paycheck and the bills it would pay. When I missed school, I reasoned that if I kept up with my boring job and kept paying my bills then someday I could go back to school. But enough isn't always enough, and I got down on myself for being unsatisfied, and I felt sadness and remorse in addition to loneliness and dead dreams. And I thought it was all my fault and my well-deserved lot.

Then, when on my knees that fateful day, I got a gentle admonition. Quite a lecture, about many things, actually. One part of it (for I refuse to tell all) was, were I to put it in my less charitable words: stop playing a martyr and ask. It was as though Heavenly Father looked at me sternly and said, I never said you couldn't have more blessings; that was your thought. I cried to Him, that I thought I didn't deserve another chance because I had refused His great gifts before. You asked me to come with you. Now ask.

I bowed my head in shame, and were it not for His all-hearing ears He might not have caught the mumble. If I could get one of those 0% Interest credit card offers on balance transfers, then I could transfer my highest interest card over and more easily pay off my credit. It was a humble enough plea. But I felt right away my Father's pleasure that I had asked. So then I simply told Him I loved Him, and I didn't know how to fix my situation, but that I'd really like His help. I felt His love, even if it came with a message from Him saying, It's about time!

Two days later the credit card offer came. The job followed within a week.

The benefits of my new job are many. The money difference, will for instance enable me to pay off my debt by December--the same date I could have paid it off in Utah, even though I now have the added debt from the move--and still have a considerable (for me) savings.

Oh, and my company will pay for school too.

an allegory

There once was a man who was never born, but simply created for a convenient allegorical purpose. This is his story as I've heard it told:

A catastrophic flood hit his hometown and the water rose so quickly and so steadily that this man (let us call him Arthur, for reasons of our own) became stranded in his house. Soon he climbed onto the roof to escape the rising waters. Luckily, Arthur possessed great faith in God and more importantly in God's proclivity to answer the prayers of the faithful. So, kneeling on the gritty shingles amid swift brown currents, Arthur begged God to save him. Then he stumbled to his feet and watched the flood without fear.

A man, Arthur's neighbor, paddled by in a canoe, which got stuck on the rain gutter just long enough for the neighbor to extend Arthur an invitation to join him, but Arthur waved the man on, while he stood and waited for God's saving miracle. After a while, his legs ached from standing, so he sat on the ridgepole of the roof and watched the swirling, foaming water rise over the lower edge of the roof. But Arthur felt no fear.

Soon a large, yellow raft, powered by an outboard motor pushed along against the current: rescuers looking for those stranded in their homes. Arthur smiled pleasantly at the Christian example these poncho-wearing rescuers set, but he waved them away with a shout barely heard above the motor and the rain. God will save me, he told them. Away they chugged. Still Arthur waited, and he had absolutely no fear.

The water started lapping his toes and then his bottom. Before the strength of the current could grab him a ladder fell in front of Arthur's face from a helicopter up above. He stood on the precarious roof and waved cheerily to the pilot, but refused the ladder. He knew God would send a miracle to save him. When the helicopter left, the man climbed onto his chimney to give himself a little more time. The river swallowed his roof and rose along the bricks of the chimney, row by row.

The story as I heard it ends with the man drowning. He then rebukes God for not saving him. Predictably God recounts the canoe, the raft and the helicopter. What more could you want? God asked. It must have been a tough lesson for Arthur to learn. But it would have been tougher had Arthur figured it out before he died. As he watched the unstoppable flood creep ever nearer, knowing that nobody else would come and that it was his own fault.

chocolate makes everything better

My roommates took to baking on Monday night, 'round about the same time that I was bawling in my room. Tuesday morning as I ate breakfast, Araceli walked through the room. Oh, she said, pausing before the towel-covered cake pan. We made chocolate cake last night, so feel free to have some if you want. Thank you, I replied almost too sincerely. I know you like chocolate, she grinned with some hesitation. We held a twenty second chit-chat before she left for class. Before she did, however, I made a venture on my side too. Your hair looks beautiful, I told her, evoking a real smile. It's true, you know. Her hair did look beautiful.

return to spender

Yesterday felt a little like March 28th 2005 all over again. (Except the part with the babies! My clothes still smell like baby.) I got an email from my credit card company. Or I should say one of my credit card companies, for I have several. In said email, they informed me that my payment was past due. They charged me a late fee, which put me over my credit limit, so then they charged me an over-limit fee. Though I have not spent a cent on that card since I used it to buy gas on my move down here, my balance was fifty dollars over my limit. I didn't understand how this happened. I mailed my check the same day that I got my statement. I went to the mailbox on my way back to my apartment to cry. In the mailbox was my check returned the same day for reasons of insufficient address. How could the address be insufficient on a self-addressed envelope?! And why did it take the postal service fifteen days to return it to me after they stamped it Return to Sender?

I called the credit card company right away. The kid who answered the phone didn't help me any, but with assertiveness that would have done Heather proud, I asked for someone who could. I told him my problem, and I told him to fix it. Just drop the fees, I said. I know you can. I'll make the payment now online, but I don't deserve these fees. After the conversation that involved asking, demanding, rebuking and begging grew to such a length as to make me wonder if my cell phone company was in cahoots with MasterCard, I began to cry. The man had already removed the 35 dollar over-limit fee, but had told me repeatedly that he could not remove the late fee. I trusted my payment in the hands of someone else, he said. That's not their fault. They don't go by postmarked dates, but by the day payments are received. Don't trust the postal service. Thanks. Lesson learned. But I did cry. I told him, a complete stranger, that I've been trying to pay this card off. That I make all my payments on time and refrain from charging. This still puts me over my limit, I wept. If it will help, he offered pompously, I can put in a request for you for a limit increase. I hung up.

I hung up and sat at my desk, laying my head on my arms and sobbing my heart out. It wasn't really the money. Well, not just the money. I still had to double the payment I thought I already made just to get below the point where a service charge wouldn't put me over my limit again. But also, after three months of pristine behavior (and good behavior before that) I am back to where I started.