solicitous

People who are solicitous hover in such a way that I wonder what they are selling, or what they need from me. They are not there for my sake, their how-are-yous are forced out of their mouths like a whine, and they gain satisfaction from mealy hugs that are worse than their dead-fish handshakes. Their very presence is apologetic, which begs the question, what offense have they committed? The answer, for there most certainly is one, is that they are carrion fowl: they are there to prey, to take life from others' lifelessness, to conquer in a sideways-creeping fashion that which they could not bring down in its height of strength: they are eaters of the dead.

They do not view themselves this way. They view themselves as helpers. They are there to support, succor, aid, assist. These nice verbs, settled firmly into a positive connotation of Christian virtues, lack one thing: an object. These verbs demand one, they need one in order to have any meaning. I help... what? whom? Those who base their identity on these verbs invariably demand the aid of someone else to underpin it. These helpers must search for willing victims to validate their identity. That is what they demand of you when they hover and smother and paw. Let me help you, is their plea. Without you to help, they are incomplete, vacuous things. You legitimize them, solidify them, humanize them. You remove the question mark from their self-identity. I help you.

Save me from the solicitous! Every time I hear their queries, I feel the blood seeping away from me toward their gluttonous bellies. I want to scream and raise my arms in defense, to beat away their predatory advances. I'd rather run and hide than hug them in that sideways fashion, but to do that might hurt their feelings, heaven forbid. So often I submit to their caresses, overtly intended to convey their sorrow while really fueling their pleasure, and I feel drained by them, like a bite has been taken from my soul to feed theirs. And these are the helpers of the world!

Give me the life-givers. These are the people who don't ask for validation: they are completely self-actualized. They are. Whatever adjective follows this verb is self-contained and does not require an object. Sometimes they are grumpy, irascible, gruff. But at least they are. This does not imply that they never have needs outside of themselves, only that their needs do not threaten your own. They may ask for anything from a cup of sugar to a hug to a lifetime commitment, but they do so with candor, allowing you to freely grant or refuse. Their very requests honor your independence. And their hugs are strong like their handshakes, giving as much as taking.

Solicitous persons do not like these free agents, who grant them nothing. To them, the latter are rude, uncouth. They do not adhere to expectations for their behavior. They break rules. This is precisely why I like them, those I typically call jerks: they do not bend their behavior to my expectations and they have no expectations for my behavior. It is very freeing. When I am low and have nothing to give, the only company I can abide is that of people who do not need anything from me. Their energy does not sap the remnants of my own, but allows me to build up my own reserves against future parasites. Plus, they're okay when I am mean to them. And lately, I've been mean a lot.

recent nightmares

I finally mentioned to my counselor that I have nightmares. I overlooked telling him before, because to me they are rather commonplace. I have had them consistently for four and a half years now, so I forgot there is something unusual in waking frightened and sad from lengthy and vivid dreams at least three times a week. So my counselor asked me to start writing my dreams down; he wants to find a pattern and thus fix my broken subconscious. I told him there is no pattern to my dreams anymore, though there used to be. This is not entirely true. The last week I have noticed that in all of my nightmares I am lost. I cannot find my way to where I want to be. Familiar buildings have suddenly unfamiliar layouts, rooms I cannot navigate. I haven't reached my destination yet--too many fearsome things prevent me from doing so--but I spend a lot of the night running. I am unsurprised by my discovery; these are the same feelings that overwhelm my waking hours too.

five years ago today

Five years ago today, I became friends with April over a parade. I had an ankle the size of a small melon, and she and I walked (or limped) to ninth east to watch the homecoming floats idle past. Our status as roommates became something more. That day alone I learned that she loves anything innocent and childlike. She hops when she is giddy. And she makes friends easily. I do not. I'm glad I went to that parade.

Five years ago tonight, I had my first date with Kevin. It was his birthday, and he and I doubled with another couple for game night on campus. I remember I wore boots to support my ankle, and I had a terribly difficult time talking with strangers. I always do. He didn't ask me out again until February.

For five years I have loved these two people. For five years I have had the same conversations with April about Kevin, first while she and I sat on the vanity in our apartment and then via phone from across a continent.I have been grateful everyday that I know them both. They have shaped my life in the years since I met them. They always will.

When I had to register for the GRE, I picked October 11th because, call me superstitious, but the date had a nice auspicious feeling to it. I am glad of things that happen on this day.

zebras don't change their spots

I recently decided that chick-flicks annoy me. Part of it is the glamorization of womanizing. I just watched Made of Honor, which besides being a hodge-podge of every obnoxious movie plot, made me hate romantic comedies. The main character is a slut, never sleeping with the same woman twice in a row. We accept this because he is a man, and his father has taught him to be this way (and in other movies it is adorable because his promiscuity is a result of a broken heart). And somehow we as the audience are supposed to hope that he gets the girl in the end. He's completely commitment phobic, but now he's in love with the best friend that he marginalized for a decade. We're supposed to find it romantic that he loves the one he never slept with, that now he's changed. That's what chick-flicks promote: the romance of love-inspired change. It's a testimony to how much the guy loves the girl that he could give up his wicked ways. Then it doesn't matter that he is a slut, or a drinker, or a gambler, or violent. He'll change because, girl, you changed him. Feel blessed, feel loved, and feel confident in his continued fidelity.

Bull. Shit.

My first question is, how do you know that you're the one he really changed for or the one he can't change for? In every chick-flick there are multiple failures before the happily ever after. This is true of women as well as men. The same example of Made of Honor is that she was completely in love with this Scottish Duke but then made a split-second decision at the altar to be with the New York Slut instead. I admit, Patrick Dempsey is hot, but the twist annoys me. Why is this one supposed to work, when the previous attempts have failed? What changed? The answer: nothing. The only difference is that the movie is over. That's what cues the actors and the audience that the happily ever after has arrived. Take any romantic comedy, and the actors are in previous relationships where they think they have found "the one" until something comes along to hurt that, nothing that is the protagonist's fault, of course. So, given their previous security and bliss, followed by utter ruination, what's to say that this time won't be exactly like that?

Cynical you say? Maybe.

There is an answer. The reason you feel secure is because you establish a new pattern. You have to judge the future based on the past. Because of this, some people are afraid to get hurt again, since that is their pattern, but others find the ability to trust someone else based on the pattern of their behavior. That's what John Cusack movies use to help him get the girl: he has a pattern of being hopelessly devoted. If you fall in love with John Cusack, you are safe. So see, I am not against romance; I am against idiocy. I am against choosing the slut, the adventurer, the workaholic, the married man, the liar, the flake. Yet protagonists, fictional and real, do it, because their egocentric attitudes tell them that they are the ones these profligates will change for.

Prove it.

I am not against change. I believe that it can happen, that it can be a true sincere change. And I do believe that love can be the catalyst. I just think that it doesn't happen as much as we would like to believe. Nor as easily. Maybe I am basing this on my patterns of behavior: I fall into the same rote time and again, and it is damn hard for me to break my habits, especially when it comes to how I related to others. Sometimes, I make a really good start, a determined sprint, and then I lose the drive, motivation or ability. When the change is real, it comes slowly, painfully and with conscious effort and attention to the small things. It's like diet and exercise: the grapefruit juice diet leads to binging, while walking a couple blocks a day is likely to stick. I believe in small changes.

I would still hedge my bets.

I don't approve of saying when..., as in, it will be better when... I will be happy when... That's the current code of my life, because I have been so unhappy, clinging to the idea that this will go away when... and that's where I get pissed off. If I am not happy now, I will not be happy when.... So while changes happen, even big changes, common sense dictates that you do not bet on them. The pattern shows that he is faithful and kind, as opposed to, he will be faithful and kind when...

Some patterns are easy to recognize. There are some easy color or number patterns, where you can see 2,4,6 and 8 are going to lead to 10. Correlative patterns are harder. She becomes irrational and moody every four weeks :: she is a werewolf. Maybe his bad mood coincides with BYU football losses and it's not the fact that you brought up bills. So, yes, I do believe in situational factors. Maybe he is distant because there is more stress at work and he really will be better when... But again, to know this, one has to see the pattern that suggests he is usually very much attentive when he is not so burdened. Because maybe he is just distant and nothing is going to change that.

I said that I am good at seeing patterns. And I am. But sometimes in my own life, I cannot see as clearly. I am going to counseling for this reason. I keep journals and reread them so I can better see the patterns in my life. I also get an earful of it from my friends. When several friends offer the same criticism or advice, I begin to see a pattern in their concern, a concern that might be worth noticing. Right now, their concerns seem to revolve around the same thing: my stubborn blindness toward certain patterns in others.

to be continued...

i hate

• the glamorization that commitment-phobic, womanizing megalomaniacs receive in chick-flicks
• being in limbo
• the idea that the best laid plans are wrong
• not having a plan
• not being able to just take the life I want
• nightmares
• having slow people start walking in front of me when I have to be somewhere
• failing
• not having the guts to try when I think I'm going to fail
• settling
• the way chick-flicks show a complete turn-around at the end that goes against the premise
• sitting through stupid classes
• not being able to write even though that is the thing I most want to do
• money
• having to tell myself that my dreams are not likely to come true
• the scars on my elbows
• spending hours on my hair and having it look terrible
• first semester freshmen
• walking through Target and putting things back that I can't afford to buy
• wearing glasses
  
• the drive to have more stuff as if stuff makes life better
• working out
  
• the ten pounds I've gained this year
• waiting
• not being able to say things they way I had it planned in my head
• secrets
• that getting better makes me fall apart along the way
• my walls
• the go-go-go mentality that makes life crowded and frustrating
• watching tv
• feeling like I will only be worth something when I have a degree
• comparing myself with others
• having to get a grown-up job once I graduate
• debt
• being angry all the damn time
• swearing
  
• people
• Nazis
  

my rendering of aslan

In art class today, we went to the Bean Museum and drew animals. We had to do sketches and then one final picture. I felt no passion for antelopes or beavers, and I wanted to enjoy the project; so, I sat myself in front of a lion--not an eating or pouncing lion, but a stately lion, looking proudly and serenely down over his nose at me. I couldn't use charcoal or graphite for him, heaven forbid, so I used a clay-colored crayon. I fell in love with him as I drew. I felt worshipful of the subject and careful with my copy. I thought of CS Lewis. Families came through and many stopped and watched me work. One little boy told me that I "drew that nice." A little girl informed her mother that she "wants to draw one of those." Mothers told their children to practice so they could draw like that one day. One woman told me that my work was beautiful; another said it was stunning. I felt gratified by these compliments, of course. But I was most pleased that in the end it came out exactly as I pictured it. He looks like a King.

fiction: an exercise in creation

I have cried my way through the last five episodes of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip and then the movie The Family Stone. But it was especially during the former that I felt truly attached to the individuals and invested in the unfolding events. When the characters were praying, I felt like I ought to pray too, for their benefit. It was then that I had an epiphany.

I want to write fiction. I know, big surprise, right? But I want it more than I want almost any of my goals in my life. I want to be able to mold universes and characters, to draw people in and convince my readers that this world really exists. I want to use fiction to persuade and teach and inspire. In pursuing this thought, I wondered whether I have a theme or pattern to my writing--you know, the purpose that is driving me. For Ayn Rand it was the proselytizing of capitalism; for Tolkien and Lewis, Christianity; for Pullman, atheism; for Austen, gender-equality; and for Danielle Steele, sex. So I thought about my projects, and asked about each one, what is the theme?

I have six novels simmering in my brain, each ready to be written, were I to take the time to put pen to paper. (Like I have that time!) In each and every book, my theme is redemption--redemption of self, of relationships and of society. The characters in my book all purposefully shape the world they are in, constructing it consciously, in an effort to make it better. They build society, their relationships and themselves as they want them to be, with the underlying value of redeeming the past by creating a better future. There is also a personal redemption for the main character, as there must be, wherein grace enters and blesses his or her undertakings.

The personal ability to shape the world, to manufacture of it what one wants it to be, this is the common thread in all of my stories, and it is also the reason that I want to write. When I write, I control the character's growth, the relationships' progression and the shape of their world. I make life into whatever I want it to be. I can ensure that everything works out as it should: there is justice where none was before, hope, happy endings. My writing is my way of using this creative power, to make things better, and the way I make things better is by empowering individuals in my story, and perhaps someday out of it.

So this is my ambition, my long-cherished wish. I want to write.

There are, of course, obstacles in my way. The first being that I am not published. This makes it difficult to finance sitting at home and writing. It is not profitable to spend one's time that way until it is lucrative...which of course it cannot be until one has written. So, there it is: I will grow old stealing minutes at an ancient lap top, until I can finish a single project, whereby I may be judged and deemed worthy of writing openly.

art for communism's sake

Maybe I was overreacting, but I was very offended by an art project that I had to do recently. I knew beforehand that I would find it distasteful, because my teacher said we'd be doing something fun. She first had us each draw various body parts, enough for anatomical correctness but still separate images. Then she had us pool all of our work, which she doled out randomly. We each ended up with the correct number of each feature or appendage, but none of them matched and none of them belonged to the original artist. We then had to make a picture using our new pieces by cutting, pasting and drawing in the missing body structure. If you think this sounds like fun, then we cannot be friends.

I object to the project on principle.

I drew well. My pieces looked good. But the pieces I had to use for my project looked like crap. The legs especially: I had to replace my Princess Diana shapely heel-clad leg with something that resembled a four-year-old's interpretation of a tree. And the dim-wits who produced such atrocities received my carefully shaped and shaded features. Yes, I was angry that I had put in so much effort in return for crap. I am angry that I had to put my name on their work and that they could put theirs on mine. I feel that I got punished for doing my best. This is more than a dumb art project. This is communism in practice: from each according to his ability, to each according to his need. Am I overreacting? Is it "just an art assignment"? Evil on any level, macro or the very insignificant micro, is still evil and must be resisted as such. To punish virtue and reward vice is corrupt and immoral.

Another immorality she supported is putting one's name on another's work. I believe that is called cheating and is frowned upon by the Honor Code.

In addition, the final product looked terrible. Every single one of them. Granted, I put no effort into improving the failures of others, but some people tried very hard to correct the mess they were give to work with. None of them looked at all good. My teacher thought this was funny. I thought it was a sacrilege, a blasphemy to the name of art. We didn't start with a blank canvas to be shaped by our skill. We were given a chaotic muck and held to the same standard of creative production. Our only options were to accept a poor product by doing no work or twice the work, but the end result was ugly, no matter what we did. It wasn't even art for art's sake, because we wasted talent on carnage, the murder of art. Calling such ugliness art is a crime.

I really think that the project was an exercise in communism. So just remember kids: communism results in ugly misshapen people.

dispassion

I am trying desperately to maintain a facade of dispassion this week. The difficulty arises that my own nature fights against it. I heal too well.

Last week, disinterest hung around me like a cloud. It was my shield, my armor. It worked a little like shark armor: I could still get crushed but not ripped apart. I made it through the week, and I can give my shield no higher praise than that. On Sunday, I made a full 24-hour fast just asking for strength to get through one more week.

I have handled my responsibilities with admirable efficiency. I was disciplined and focused. I just had to shut off my emotions to do so. I couldn't fight a two-front war. I'm not going to repeat Germany's errors. My detached attitude allows me to focus, to use my strength where it is needed. My strength really is quite priceless lately. It runs out as evening sets in, and doesn't stretch far enough for trivialities. Nora is annoyed, I think, that I attend fewer social activities. I still go to things, but I cannot go to everything. I need my evenings in order to reboot. Sleeping does not do it. Eating does not do it. Careful destruction and reconstruction in a quiet environment, that's what does it.

I'm worried, however, this morning by my almost cheery attitude. Usually, I cannot be unhappy for long (There have been exceptions, and I was beginning to think this was one). I'm annoyed, because it's a wasteful use of my energy. I am still remarkably un-invested emotionally. I don't care for the most part, but rays are peeking out around the clouds. In other words, I am not being dispassionate. There are chinks in my armor, and the sharks are still about.

rejection

I rarely check my Gmail account, because I have only sent three emails with it. They were three submissions to literary journals. I have received two rejections, and I keep waiting for the third. I wonder when I'll finally get it so I can stop waiting. I think receiving bad news is better than anticipating it.

dances with wolves

I had a nightmare Wednesday night that left me shaken and depressed all day Thursday. I had more energy for hiking because of the fierce self-destructive drive pushing me forward. I had no appetite when I got home, and I preferred laying in bed to doing anything. I kept my mind away from replays of the dream by reciting poetry, scripture and song lyrics. When I finally went to bed, I felt calm, if not happy. Then a random scene from Dances with Wolves popped into my brain (the scene where the soldiers shoot the wolf) and I sprang up in my bed and began sobbing, bawling hysterically over a fictional even that I wasn't even witnessing. I finally hushed myself and lulled myself to sleep by imagining that my bed was rocking in a breeze. I think I'm cracking up.

wednesday's dream

I dreamed a dream
that changed my life,
not a vision but a sight.
I woke convinced
my mind had shown
truth that needed to be known.
His face with hers,
how they touched hands,
shattering well-cherished plans.

How does one continue on,
not knowing if all hope is gone?

homesick

A week or so ago, looking up an Austin zip code, I went to Google Maps and typed in my old address. Not only did the map pop up, complete with missing zip, but so did a picture, panoramic, obviously taken from the median of my street. I had a full view of my apartment, the parking lot, my bus stop. I felt a wave of nostalgia. I could practically see myself waiting at that bus stop, reading a book and constantly checking and rechecking the bus numbers as they drove past. I can see me confidently and tiredly dismounting the bus at the end of the day. I could see myself skipping across the parking lot to visit Vivian. From that picture on Google, I saw my life there in Austin, and I missed it with a throbbing pain.

I will be visiting in August, and I keep dreaming in anticipation of seeing everything again. One disappointment is that Elizabeth will not be there. She will be in Provo. While I am glad to live in the same city for a semester, I still wish she would be in Austin for that week. Elizabeth is part of my love of Austin, a very strong draw for that place.

Another force pulling me there is Vivian. Only, I just found out that Elizabeth is selfishly trying to convince Vivian to move to Provo too! I'm outraged. They and Jared are my staples. They cannot leave me. The city would regress to the strange town it was when I moved there the first time around. There would be no inviting warmth. I could grow to love it again, but it would not be like returning home, as I have so long anticipated. Nothing has been decided by any of them, but already I am feeling torn in two. Provo is digging in its heels to get me to stay and Austin is giving up the fight.

cell discretion

I have decided that there is one very nice thing about cell phones: nobody knows when you are obsessively waiting for a call, because you, like everyone around you, have your phone on your person constantly. It helps a girl retain some pride.

under my umbrella

I have taken to walking to and from school with an umbrella. I carry it rain or shine, most especially shine. I got really sick of the perpetual sunburn on my arms, neck, ears and nose. Not only do I hate my nose being red, but also with the red comes the pain. My skin constantly hurt. And no, it does not turn into a tan. Ever. It stays burned. So I am taking a page out of Scarlet O'Hara's book and carrying what my friend John calls a parasol. I call it an umbrella. It's a plain black, no nonsense, umbrella that certainly doesn't fit the description of anything so feminine and decorative as a parasol. I like it because it looks functional. I'm not trying to make a fashion statement, or to draw attention to myself; I am trying to be comfortable.

One of my biggest fears, no joke, is sunburn. It's right up there with fears of abandonment and failure. I get physically ill when I see a sunburn, and I cringe in direct sunlight. I have been traumatized by sunlight.

When I was little, the rule about swimming was that I had to wear spf 50 sunscreen and a tee-shirt, or I had to stay in the shade. Even then, I always came away burned and often carried blisters for days. These were not innocuous blisters but mean inch-long pulsing beasts raised half an inch off of my skin, covering my shoulders and back. I've sat in baths of ice to ease the burning, which continued from the inside out, cooking my legs after a day at the lake. I needed blessings for healing after an afternoon at the pool. I've borne scars for months, delineating exactly where my shirt ended and my neck began.

That's not the worst I've ever experienced, however.

In August of 2003, I went on a road trip to California with Alyessa. We spent three hours on the beach, applying and reapplying sunscreen often. To be safe, I donned jeans after an hour to further protect my legs. It didn't help. The next day I woke up paralyzed, my legs bent at the knee as though I were crouching. The skin looked like maroon leather and the muscles underneath formed strange hard lumps, shriveled up from the heat. Alyessa had to physically stretch out my legs, a little at a time, until I could stand. The pain was horrendous, the tearing and burning that no medication could mask fully. We had to repeat this process every time I needed to walk. On the two-day drive home, I shuffled with my legs crouched under me, in the same position they had been in as I sat, whenever we stopped at a gas station. At home, I had to remain in bed, face down, while antibiotic cream and aloe were applied to the wound. My legs swelled to a uniform cylindrical shape. Joyce said I had "thankles" (thigh-ankles). When I began walking, I used my dad's cane and crouched, so as not to tear the shriveled muscles. I began to stretch them slowly, but two weeks later I still had to use the cane and walk very slowly.

My roommates don't remember my first three days in our apartment when I used a cane, and they never saw the scars. But anyone I have lived with knows my rather extreme reactions to witnessing sunburns. I preached sunscreen and deplored tanning. I kept aloe on hand, ready to dole out at any provocation. I never swam in daylight, though I had no issue with wearing swimming suits. I wore jeans no matter how hot it got.

Some of these things have changed. I still think tanning is stupid, and I advocate use of aloe. But I do wear shorts now, and skirts, quite often. It's the only thing that makes the heat bearable. But I haven't lost the fear of the sun. To compensate I carry my little black umbrella, and I smile at the sideways glances tossed my way. I don't mind looking foolish: I'd rather be practical and appear foolish than vice versa. And while a parasol may be a little silly, my umbrella is nothing if not practical.

tact

The following is a true story told by my professor about his friend.

A young woman and her date arrived at a formal ball, the entrance of which required the descent of a long flight of stairs into the middle of the room. Her date wore a tux and she wore a gown and together they prepared to make a graceful appearance. At the top, the girl extended her foot to take a step, but she snagged her shoe in the front hem of her dress. She tumbled head over heels the entire way down the curving staircase, her date running beside her, futilely trying to catch her. When she landed at the bottom, she rose immediately to her feet, uninjured but extremely embarrassed. All eyes were on her. Before she could recover herself, her date fished for his wallet and pulled from it a twenty-dollar bill. Handing it to her, he said casually, "Well, I admit, I didn't think you had the guts to do it."

My professor told this story to demonstrate the idea that interpretation of a situation changes its meaning, as well as Goffman's definition that tact is the protection of another's performance.

Bravo, to the stud in the tux!

man of my nightmares

I had a nightmare last night unlike I have ever known, different not in form so much as in the experience of it. There was violence, danger, frustration. I was only blocks from my McKinney home but couldn't get there. I couldn't rescue friends from impending drawn-out death. Even petty aspects of nightmares, awkward social situations, assailed me. But I felt calm. As long as he was there, I felt calm, beyond the reach of the pain, fear and frustration.

I don't know who he is. In my dreams, people remain faceless, but still I can discern their identity. For instance, though I never saw the details of them, I knew that Kevin and my high school friend Angelica were there. This man's identity was as shadowed as his face, yet I felt more familiar with him than anyone I have ever known. I was as much myself with him as I have ever been alone; no, I was more natural with him than without.

The times in my dream when I could no longer distance myself from the events of the nightmare were when his fingers slipped from mine. When we struggled through the collapsing building to save the wounded woman, he pushed me to safety. Away from danger and without him, in the moments it took for him to follow, I gasped with the most personal fear I've known. The second he touched my fingers again I felt as though no fear had ever existed .

Even though I never saw his face, I felt certain that he was someone I knew, loved and trusted. What's more, I felt the same emotions coming from him in regard to me. I didn't --couldn't-- question his love for me. Even when impediments arose and reason argued for us to part, he didn't leave me. Staying together felt right, like the rational solution to a logical problem.

The moment I woke, the first thought to assail me was the only important question, which had been so ridiculously unimportant while I slept: "who is he?"

I am still certain that he is someone I know, though obviously not in the same capacity as in the dream. Maybe he is a fictional character, perhaps even one of mine, that I know well. I just cannot put my finger on it. I have been trying to reason through all of the hints I have of his identity. He was dark --swarthy-- and well-groomed. His shadowed head bent solicitously over mine, making him 6 to 8 inches taller. He is broader than I, naturally strong through habitual activeness but with a layer of softness, as though disinterested in purposefully sculpting his body. He took commitments seriously and so hesitated to commit. He was almost carelessly loyal, indifferently moral and lazily graceful. I don't know which parts of him were fictionalized by my brain: perhaps his character is real but the figure of my invention, or vice versa. I'm still tied too firmly to the dream: I still feel certain that finding him will make things right.

I am waiting to wake up.

weighty

At the dinosaur museum I played with childlike abandonment in sandboxes and hands-on displays. I wasn't in the proper insecure-adult-female frame of mind when I jumped on the scale without my defenses in place. Due to this, the numbers struck me like a back-handed slap to the face. My jaw dropped. When Dad's turn came, he pronounced the scale accurate. I groaned with disappointment:

I am heavier than I have ever been. I know that it is completely unfeminine to discuss one's weight. So sue me. I weigh 162 lbs. I once vowed never to weigh more than 155 lbs, the weight at which I began my college career. Even 150 makes me cringe when the little red needle on the scale swings that high.

My senior year in high school was a miserable experience by and large. One part of it was the insecurity I felt about my body. I had gained ten pounds the previous summer, and I was just generally awkward. Instead of wrestling my body into submission, I accepted my feelings of inferiority. Part of the reason was Joyce's clandestine bulimia. I couldn't be the victim in a war with my body.

I lost the weight naturally the first semester of my freshman year. The ten pounds faded gradually as I walked around campus daily and as poverty limited my consumption. I've maintained a fairly steady weight with brief fluctuations of up to five pounds as holidays come and go; my body perpetuates the status quo without too much difficulty. I have typically worked on my feet, walked about town and spent little on food.

But now the driving, studying and Cafe Rio of the past six months have added up. The sum: approximately fifteen pounds. I am appalled.

The weight gain is unprecedented, and so must the reaction be. Heaven help me, I will diet and exercise. I commit myself to it here in writing. I give myself to the end of the term, 50 days hence, to lose fifteen pounds. Wait, on second thought let's make it ten: I'm new at this. That comes out to a pound every five days. Is that doable? I don't even know. Physically, I am sure I can make it, if I can discover any shred of self-discipline among my limited virtues. But I am rather interested in the emotional toll. Cognitive dissonance is practically a guarantee. I have prided myself on my amity with my body (see blog entry "self") and now I must focus on disliking my current shape and appearance. I must grant attention to my failures and insecurities. I chose to limit my diet to 50 days for this reason, and I intend to approach the experience as a scientific observation. We'll see how it goes.

I'm just a little sad that the numbers written across my mirror are counting down in reference to a diet and not for something to which I am looking forward.

ode to joyce

Joyce is home! She arrived back in town yesterday, and I wanted to squeeze her until she popped, which isn't entirely out of the question, given her condition. Her softly rounded tummy is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Unless she think that I love unborn Owen more than her, I'll say my favorite part of having her back is her hugs. It's true, too. Talking to Joyce is never uninteresting. She has a million things to say and most of them are quirky enough that no one else will ever think them, much less say them. It leaves her listeners with the distinct impression that she is irreplaceable. She's tons of fun. She is going to come to the dinosaur museum next week, and she always knows the weirdest movies. She's beautiful too. Her gentle sprinkling of freckles across her face makes her look vulnerable, even when paired with the piercings. Her hair is always the height of fashion, and I have wished before to be as cool as she is; but even if I had the clothes, the makeup and the haircut, I would not know how to use them the way she does. Joyce is a strange combination of punk kid and a mother. This was true even before Owen was a twinkle in her eye. Joyce takes care of people: she brings soup or ice cream as situations dictate. She has always been the mother figure to her weird friends, and I know she shielded me many times as we grew up, though I was the older of the two. She's going to be a wonderful mother come November. She's already making baby blankets and buying onesies. I can't wait to be an aunt. And in the meanwhile, I am very excited to be a sister.

dreams

I have simple daydreams. I envision them again and again as I fall asleep in all their intricate detail, but they are simple. Humble. I do not want palaces. I don’t even picture myself being rich and famous. I don’t want power or prestige or ease.

I imagine children and books, kitchens and gardens, and a husband.

I want to play with my children, skip rope with them, color in coloring books. I will read aloud with all the proper voices, and we will experiment with recipes. I will cuddle them and tell them I love them, and I will panic that I am failing. I want my home to be full of loving chaos: too many faces in and out, too many bicycles on the lawn and too many shoes at the bottom of the stairs. They’ll bring their friends over for rowdy games and family dinner. I want to hear first words amid indecipherable gurgling. I want to smell them after baths. I want to take too many pictures and watch them sleep on nights when I’m restless. I want to teach them to waltz, to take them hiking and to cry at their baptisms, weddings, or graduations. I want to be a mother.

My home will burst at the seams with books. In my lavish dreams, I have a real library with a dark leather sofa and dim lighting except for the lamp. I could retreat there to gorge myself on books. I’d go back again and again to beloved classics, and I will buy books because of their cover art. The room will get a little dusty, but it will be quiet—the only quiet room in the house. Maybe I won’t have a library. Instead, books will pile toward the ceiling, some laying sideways on top of others on random shelves around the house. And I will write my own books, wedging myself in whatever available corners to type out the stories parading in my head. Characters will come alive through my words, words that will likely remain forever in the dark of my personal scribbles. That will be enough for me: knowing these worlds intimately, even if no one else every will.

I want to cook, to make my kitchen a central place for family gathering, not a secreted corner of utility, but a vibrant heart of the home. I will bake. If I am poor, I will discover ever new and ever more-creative uses of pastas and beans. I can make casseroles. I will make sandwiches and cut off crusts. I want to monitor the health of my family and fool them into eating what they need.

I want to dig in the dirt. Weed, water, trim, transplant. Surround myself with life.

I want to marry, to be a wife, to belong to someone. The faceless man I picture in my future is my best friend. He and I talk about things: sad things, happy things, serious lets-make-plans things, and goofy I-overheard-this-today things. We’ll be partners. I want him to value what I do during the day, what I think about the books I read, my opinions on joint decisions. I hope he thinks I am beautiful and sometimes can’t keep his hands off me. Our children will be embarrassed by our kissing. When we fight, I hope I want to be the first to make it up. I want him to be dedicated to God first, me second, the family third—those above all else. I want him to remember little things, just to reassure me. I need reassurance sometimes, and I don’t expect that will change. I want to remind him why I love him. I want to pray together.

I don’t know if I will ever have any of these dreams. The crossroad I face at graduation is unrelated to my ultimate hopes. But how can I say aloud what I want next, when saying makes me so vulnerable? I must make plans with the options presented to me .I may get a job, or go to graduate school. I hope to do the latter, to study a subject I continue to love. And I will get fulfillment out of personal growth, while I wait and work to make my real dreams come true.

letting go

I read a line in a book once that went something like this: it is not comfortable being a bridge. (Ten points to Ted if he can name the book!)

Human beings were not designed to be bridges. We cannot live in two worlds at once. We cannot believe two contradictory truths. Sometimes we have to choose, and then we have to let go.

Often this comes with inevitable mourning. We would rather tear ourselves in two then let go of what we've long held: it amounts to the same thing.

I imagine it's how I'll feel if Brad and Angelina ever break up.

Nothing remains in the end. Especially not if we don't make a conscious effort to carry it with us.

I have had to let go of many things in my life. Difficult things. Sometimes it required a paradigm shift, of which I was only capable after many years of work. Letting go of anger hurts like that. Long-held hurt feels good in a way, and removing it is like amputating a limb. It saves your life, you're better without it, but damn it is painful!

Letting go of love is harder. I've lost friends and romance. The times that I struggled to let go were infused with self-narcotization and despair. For a time, about four months in duration, I slept too much, ate too little and prayed in tears. I never wrote about it in my blog. Those months are relatively bare, and looking back the emptiness strikes me first. It reduces me to tears, although the words are not sad. I simply remember how I felt then, why I didn't -couldn't- write. I realize that I received a reprieve, and I understand if you think that means I had it easy. But never during a single moment did I foresee that respite, that clemency. For me, the darkness of the moment was real, and I can sympathize.

I know what it is to cling to the past like a breath, knowing that to turn my back on it would be to suffocate myself. I have deleted phone numbers from speed-dial,and destroyed letters at various times in my life. But it's not the release that hurts; it's the constant tug of war that comes before, like trying to bridge two ever-dividing shores.

I know that in the future I will again be forced to let go, and the mere prospect leaves me clinging tighter to those things I love. I would rather be stretched beyond my endurance, drawn until there is no semblance of form anymore; I would rather do that than to systematically cut away a piece of myself. Perhaps that is only because I lack inurement and proper foresight.

We were meant to be whole, not divided. So, be whole.

hatred

Last Saturday I woke up feeling angry, bitter that the sun should be shining and displaying no sympathy for me. In books and movies, the weather always reflects the mood of the protagonist in a satisfying symmetry. Perhaps I am not the protagonist of my story. Perhaps I am the villain. That is certainly how I felt Saturday, and that may explain why my designs were thwarted. Protagonists never get thwarted. But that's not this story.

I sat at my computer in the library, glaring at the screen and mentally demanding my paper write itself. I felt grumpy, the kind of grumpy where I have nothing good to say and I just want to be around others who accept that grumpiness and cater to it. Grumpy and entitled.

I looked to Facebook chat for friendly sympathy, but all I saw were the people to whom I usually talked, the people with whom I spend all of my time. My friends, for all intents and purposes. Right away I felt an overwhelming loathing for them. The idea of talking to a single one left me squirming with boiling anger. A chat popped up on my screen and I instantly killed it, like slamming a door in my petulance. I blinked a little at the intriguing reaction. Then I called Emilie.

I had only seen Emilie a couple of times since I moved back here. There's really no excuse for it. Sure, I was busy and she was busy, but I managed to hang out with other people once or twice a week. Somehow, I just never thought about any of my old friends. Moving back felt more like starting at a new place. It just never occurred to me to resume my old life.

But on Saturday I spend hours with her and Caitie. And they were wonderful! I never knew so many comfort foods existed until the sisters heaped them in dishes for me. We talked and caught up and commiserated over our recent misfortunes. When Emilie asked me about my friends in my new ward, I answered: I hate them. She met them that night as we played croquet and ate marshmallows up in the canyon, and she says she can see why I don't like them.

I guess what I really got thinking about is the nature of hatred, and the things with which we (generalized we) fill our lives.

Hatred and love are not opposites. You've heard this a thousand time. Apathy is the opposite of any emotion. You have to care about things in order to hate them. Yet love and hate cannot occupy the same point at the same time. Something may be stippled with both, allowing for general ambivalence of feeling, but somewhere, in some microscopic place, there is a line drawn. The way red and purple can flow into each other, but at some point the color ceases to be red.

Avoiding hatred requires only a blank indifference, and if there is one thing humanity is good at, it's indifference. But soon, proximity requires attention. You cannot see someone every day without eventually taking notice. Eventually, you will form an attachment, and then an opinion. Some things you can live with an exceptionally long time before you take notice. And then you begin to hate.

There are all sorts of reasons to hate something, though I am a bad Christian for saying so. But the reason I have found most satisfying for hating something is that it is similar to the thing I love and yet not near enough; the way hate is similar to love; the way red is similar to purple. That almost-ness wears on me, a little trickle at the time until a chasm opens up and roars for its devouring. The thing I hate most is disappointment. Dissatisfaction.

I hate movies and books that are wonderful the whole way through and then end badly. I hate spending time with people who mean nothing to me. I hate the things in my life that ought to be wonderful and are only mediocre. Those things that were born to be merely adequate, remain innocuously beneath my recognition, and I continue to take no notice. They fulfill their purpose, and in that way deserve infinitesimal love.

So why do I fill my life with these things? Because they are better than the alternative, which is having nothing. At first I even believe I can remain indifferent or come to love these situations. I certainly came to love Texas. New things take time. But sometimes the time grates without me noticing. And once I notice the abrasion, I am too attached to let it go. I have come to care about it. And then I always wonder if fighting back will make it better or worse.

I sort of talked about these things with Emilie. And I talked about them with Ted when I went hiking with him yesterday and then with Tarythe tonight. They think I lack assertiveness, which magical quality serves to dissolve hatred, returning it to unimportance or transforming it into love. In essence, it means not settling for the in-between. I am certain they are right about my passivity. But I hope they also understand my fear of inconsequentiality.

I was once asked if I would rather, after I died, be hated or forgotten.

I would rather be hated.

hades and persephone

Persephone in lighted meadows bred
Fair daughter of the Harvest Queen above
Lord Hades, midst the darkness of the dead,
On seeing good Persephone he loved.
Abducted from her world of golden light,
She feared the dark and Hades love denied.
He offered her his kingdom of the night,
With fruits of love wooed her to be his bride.
Redeemed from hell, she sat in fields of bloom
And tasted fruits devoid of nectar sweet,
While Hades, hunched upon his throne of gloom,
Found darkness for the first time incomplete.
Twixt Lord and Maid, a cherished wish: ere freed
Persephone had eaten every seed.

giant

Giant, above the crownéd temples stand,
Across thy brow flies Helios’ flamed chair,
Prometheus hath laid his flown torch there.
Bowed Atlas is not mighty as thy hand,
Which reins desire and wants no reprimand.
Avoid Pandora’s pain, and patience bear.
Thy valor, champion of virtue fair,
In battles win renown of Ares’ band.
Adonis and Apollo stand apart:
No demigod Olympians need I
When Paris’ gilded apple falls to thee.
Good Giant, pardon me my mortal heart,
If it like Icarus aspires too high,
Or waits like banishéd Persephone.

jerk-sitting

The other night, I sat up to ridiculously late hours commiserating with a friend on his recent girl trouble. I was magnanimous, as even he would attest. I let it slide when he made gender stereotypes and when he said I couldn't understand the depth of his pain because I was too young. I was the best sympathetic friend anybody could ask for. And how did he repay me? By going on to delineate why he didn't want to date me. I know he doesn't want me, else he would have persistently asked me out by now; and heaven knows my heart has not wept for him; but still! still you don't tell a girl how little you get excited about her. I don't know if I can make excuses for him. Sure, maybe it was the late hour, or his melancholy disposition, or the pain of recent rejection. Or maybe, he's just an arrogant jerk, who really does think only in terms of himself. Thank goodness I have a sense of humor about these things.

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.