Thursday, March 06, 2008
Monday, March 03, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, February 11, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
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!
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!
Thursday, December 13, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
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!
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!
Monday, October 15, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Friday, October 12, 2007
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.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
blond
I automatically compare myself to other people. I do it with friends, strangers, co-workers. And I tend to judge people by our differences. If in a situation a friend does something that I would never do, I use that instance to decide if the friend is better or worse than I. I would never steal, therefore in this instance I am better. I would never help that person, therefore I am worse. Similarities are above judgment, simply because I don't feel justified in condemning or praising someone for something I do too.
I first saw her a week ago. I haven't met her, so my analysis is strictly by distant observation. But that didn't stop me from drawing conclusions and making comparisons. For all the qualities that we possessed in common I felt vindicated, consoled even. Yes, of course she's intelligent, he'd only date someone intelligent, he thought I was intelligent. And if I made more comments in class, so much the better. But again, it was the differences that struck me.
I found myself asking, who's better here, is this what I was missing, is he glad that she is...? She's shorter than I am, and I can confidently say that he liked me for being tall. She's so put together in a way that looks like she irons her underwear that I felt suddenly sloppy. She's graceful and soft-spoken and well-educated and professional. I am none of those things, but if I ever desire those qualities, I know I can obtain them. If I find myself wanting (this isn't about his judgment, honest) then I can put forth the effort to change. Maybe I'm not patient yet, but I will be, sooner or later. Maybe I don't have a degree right now, but come Hell or high water I will get it! She probably doesn't swear either. Shit. She also doesn't touch him (at least in public) and while she may be very finished she is lacking in impetuosity and fun. Did I see her smile once? In these areas, in the raw material I feel I am better. Please, oh please, let her be judgmental too!
There is one issue, however. One area when I feel I've hit a brick wall in my Holier-than-her analysis. She's blond. And I can't even begin to judge her for this, because her differences are such that I cannot look at them and say which is better. I could never aspire to be blond the way I might try to achieve patience, and I could never criticize her for failing to have dark hair. I would not be me if I had golden hair. The concept it too foreign. So why does this trait hurt me more than any of the others? First, because for four years I have heard my friend say he doesn't like blonds. Secondly, a blond is my antithesis, the anti-Audrey. And the fact that she is one feels like a complete rejection of all that I am. It is enough that it is different without being better or worse, because it is what he has chosen and not what I am, and therefore worth envying.
I first saw her a week ago. I haven't met her, so my analysis is strictly by distant observation. But that didn't stop me from drawing conclusions and making comparisons. For all the qualities that we possessed in common I felt vindicated, consoled even. Yes, of course she's intelligent, he'd only date someone intelligent, he thought I was intelligent. And if I made more comments in class, so much the better. But again, it was the differences that struck me.
I found myself asking, who's better here, is this what I was missing, is he glad that she is...? She's shorter than I am, and I can confidently say that he liked me for being tall. She's so put together in a way that looks like she irons her underwear that I felt suddenly sloppy. She's graceful and soft-spoken and well-educated and professional. I am none of those things, but if I ever desire those qualities, I know I can obtain them. If I find myself wanting (this isn't about his judgment, honest) then I can put forth the effort to change. Maybe I'm not patient yet, but I will be, sooner or later. Maybe I don't have a degree right now, but come Hell or high water I will get it! She probably doesn't swear either. Shit. She also doesn't touch him (at least in public) and while she may be very finished she is lacking in impetuosity and fun. Did I see her smile once? In these areas, in the raw material I feel I am better. Please, oh please, let her be judgmental too!
There is one issue, however. One area when I feel I've hit a brick wall in my Holier-than-her analysis. She's blond. And I can't even begin to judge her for this, because her differences are such that I cannot look at them and say which is better. I could never aspire to be blond the way I might try to achieve patience, and I could never criticize her for failing to have dark hair. I would not be me if I had golden hair. The concept it too foreign. So why does this trait hurt me more than any of the others? First, because for four years I have heard my friend say he doesn't like blonds. Secondly, a blond is my antithesis, the anti-Audrey. And the fact that she is one feels like a complete rejection of all that I am. It is enough that it is different without being better or worse, because it is what he has chosen and not what I am, and therefore worth envying.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
the price of eggs
The cake ended up using fifteen eggs. Oh no, that's not in the recipe, but by the time I had started over--again--I had to dip into my new roommate's stores. I don't know why the first cake came out as flat as a pancake, but I do know why my egg whites wouldn't stiffen the second time around. You'd have thought I was a baking novice! I ended up with a splendid dessert at the last, glad that eggs were a dime a dozen, even if I did have too much ganache and whipped cream left over and clogging the limited freezer space. Finally came time to eat.
At church I had told Jared that I'd be making a cake, to which he replied, "Look at that! All of a sudden, we're friends again!" So he came Sunday bringing Dan, and the four of us--Holly, my new roommate, completing the circle--began to feast. We hung out until both Jared and I felt it was time for bed (a ridiculously early 9:30pm).
The next night I brought home Vivian and Elizabeth for cake (this was--is--a very large cake), joined once more by Holly who has insinuated herself beautifully into the group. Jared showed up uninvited, asking without preamble as he crossed the threshold, "Where's the chocolate?" and helping himself to the contents of my fridge.
It was then, sitting in the corner of my dining/living room, watching those I've wanted for friends eat my baking, that I realized my happiness. I have no greater joy than being with those I love, enjoying laughs, conversation and comfortable silences, depending. The only thing to increase that joy is if I have contributed to it. Perhaps that is why I adore feeding people. My happiness in cooking triples when someone else partakes, increasing exponentially with their reactions. Praise me obscenely for cooking and you will have no more loyal, grateful friend than I.
The world was full of goodwill last night, as the yellow glow of my lamp lit faces filled with laughter. We lounged on couches, my couches, as Elizabeth planned and Vivian bemoaned blind dates. I knew the stories and jokes and suckings of the last bit of chocolate off forks had to end eventually, though I felt loathe for it to do so. Jared put in the movie, quite unceremoniously, as though mi casa era su casa. My 13'' TV didn't feel too small with 5 of us kipped on the floor around it to watch the Wedding Planner. We trickled to bed one at a time until I was left asleep on the floor. It was the first time in over three weeks that I had fallen asleep easily and without pain.
I awoke this morning to a day off, filled with leftover euphoria. I walked to the kitchen, noticing that Vivian had reassembled my red love seat before she left. And while I laugh at Jared's level of comfort in my home, I noticed as I grabbed a bowl for cereal that he had done my dishes of the night before. I felt almost sad that the night had ended, wishing that I could be certain I'd have another like it. When I opened the refrigerator, I saw a good third of the cake still left. I looked at it for a moment, still beautiful with its fresh berries on top, and wondered if its marvelous powers stemmed from the unorthodox amount of eggs that went into its making. It was worth every one of the fifteen. I think I'll officially change the recipe.
At church I had told Jared that I'd be making a cake, to which he replied, "Look at that! All of a sudden, we're friends again!" So he came Sunday bringing Dan, and the four of us--Holly, my new roommate, completing the circle--began to feast. We hung out until both Jared and I felt it was time for bed (a ridiculously early 9:30pm).
The next night I brought home Vivian and Elizabeth for cake (this was--is--a very large cake), joined once more by Holly who has insinuated herself beautifully into the group. Jared showed up uninvited, asking without preamble as he crossed the threshold, "Where's the chocolate?" and helping himself to the contents of my fridge.
It was then, sitting in the corner of my dining/living room, watching those I've wanted for friends eat my baking, that I realized my happiness. I have no greater joy than being with those I love, enjoying laughs, conversation and comfortable silences, depending. The only thing to increase that joy is if I have contributed to it. Perhaps that is why I adore feeding people. My happiness in cooking triples when someone else partakes, increasing exponentially with their reactions. Praise me obscenely for cooking and you will have no more loyal, grateful friend than I.
The world was full of goodwill last night, as the yellow glow of my lamp lit faces filled with laughter. We lounged on couches, my couches, as Elizabeth planned and Vivian bemoaned blind dates. I knew the stories and jokes and suckings of the last bit of chocolate off forks had to end eventually, though I felt loathe for it to do so. Jared put in the movie, quite unceremoniously, as though mi casa era su casa. My 13'' TV didn't feel too small with 5 of us kipped on the floor around it to watch the Wedding Planner. We trickled to bed one at a time until I was left asleep on the floor. It was the first time in over three weeks that I had fallen asleep easily and without pain.
I awoke this morning to a day off, filled with leftover euphoria. I walked to the kitchen, noticing that Vivian had reassembled my red love seat before she left. And while I laugh at Jared's level of comfort in my home, I noticed as I grabbed a bowl for cereal that he had done my dishes of the night before. I felt almost sad that the night had ended, wishing that I could be certain I'd have another like it. When I opened the refrigerator, I saw a good third of the cake still left. I looked at it for a moment, still beautiful with its fresh berries on top, and wondered if its marvelous powers stemmed from the unorthodox amount of eggs that went into its making. It was worth every one of the fifteen. I think I'll officially change the recipe.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
playful
I feel like swinging or climbing trees or jumping on a trampoline. Alas that I must pack instead!
Monday, July 30, 2007
mortification
Charmin toilet paper is true to its word. It is soft and absorbent. It is also cuddly and accepting. This I discovered last night. But perhaps I am starting at the wrong end of the story.
Mrs. Chandler, my High School Sophomore English, once engaged us in a debate: what is the greater fear--fear of failure or fear of embarrassment? To this question I have a simple and correct answer: yes.
I don't know what in me broke first, but I'm thoroughly convinced that it didn't have to do with Kevin. It didn't start out about him, and it didn't end about him, but somewhere in the middle my finger hit the number five on my phone and speed dial took over before I could recover my digit. I couldn't hang up at that point, not by the time Caller ID had betrayed me. How I long for the days before that blasted invention when a girl could call a boy and hang up in peace!
"Why won't you talk to me?" I asked. The very first words out of my mouth. I had meant them to sound righteously angry, but they came out a little whiney and needy. I had meant to vent anger. I had planned to demand answers, to force him to say he didn't want to talk to me and why. Why didn't he even call to get April's number! I was furious on her behalf, and I have been frustrated since. I felt like I was beating my head against a brick wall trying to make it possible for us to be friends. Kevin has said it too, that I am the peacemaker with us. I'm just better at it than he is. So I tried, Heaven knows, I tried. I sent innocuous text-messages that were friendly and forgettable. And he responded civilly. CIVILLY! Of all the insulting behaviors in the word, civility is the worst. It is indifference magnified. And each week as I sent a line or two my pride pained me a little more. And my heart, which had been doing so wonderfully, ached just a little bit.
And then I talked to Ted. I told him I was hurt and angry at Kevin, Kevin who said he loved me but then never called, Kevin who says I am his best friend but never in six weeks tried to talk to me, Kevin who obviously doesn't give a damn. And Ted, always oh-so-gentle, said it simply: maybe he doesn't want to talk to you and you should stop trying to be his friend.
Stop being his friend? I felt an awful mutinous numbness at that thought. That was not what I signed up for when I first voiced the idea of us dating other people. Not be his friend. I remember us agreeing to still date, to still be friends, to see if we could find a way through this next year. But then again, who's to say my memory is accurate or that what we had intended has anything to do with the actual consequences. Could I not be his friend? Probably. I haven't talked to him in six weeks. Of course, the last week of that included an almost constant feeling of betrayal. For the love of Dumbledore! Harry Potter was out and Kevin and I have a year-long wager on its outcome. I talked to other people about the book's content, but these conversations were meant for him, I was supposed to be talking to him. We had a bet! He's still the first person I think of when I have a thought that needs expressing. I have been so quiet these last weeks. I wonder if my thoughts are getting lost, because they don't fall upon his ears.
But like I said, last night wasn't about him. It was sparked by the unastonishing realization that I am once again playing the role of "safe girl" to a guy. Always, always, am I found in the part of kid sister/platonic friend. And every so often, that is a disappointment. I tend to feel a little bit undesirable. I tend to wonder, what is it about me that is so unkissable? It's part of a thought that has haunted me for years, a feeling of inadequacy that has been present since the first great disappointment of my life. When I told myself with all the self-esteem I could muster that there is everything lovable about me, I reached the conclusion that if it's not me, then the blame rests on someone else. That's the point where I found it easy to be mad at Kevin for not wanting me. About the time my first sentence had ended and he began to sigh, I didn't find it easy anymore to be mad at anyone but myself. I ended the phone call quickly, and who can say who was more relieved at its untimely demise? I didn't even get to tell him that I'm moving. In two days he won't even know anymore where I live. I tried not to worry how he'd find me. He doesn't want to find me.
Hanging up the phone, I was swallowed by utter humiliation. I can't believe you just sunk that low, I lectured myself. I felt I deserved to unleash my inner judge on myself. Oh what a fool I am! But I didn't deserve to hear what I told myself later. Here it is, the thought that haunts me and eats my very soul: that there is pain because I was not good enough. If I had just been a bit better...
If I had been better--more open maybe, or made better grades, or been a bigger help around the house--then maybe I could have saved my parents' marriage. If I just exercised a little more discipline, I could have my degree by now. If I had just been stronger, more faithful, maybe Mom wouldn't be so lost right now. Dear God, could I have prevented my dad from feeling as much pain, if I had been a better listener? If I had been more patient, would Kevin have wanted me? If I had been a little less selfish would I have been able to help Joyce?
This is where I broke, all the old fault-lines rupturing. This was the pain I had been feeling and that I hadn't found a voice for. But I heard her again, crying on the phone. Joyce who storms and rages and laughs, reduced to weeping weakly? I listened to the memory of her sorrow and realized that I was hearing it from my own mouth. Weeping became sobbing and I drowned in grief.
I inched my way to the edge of the bed, because even in the worst crises I am aware that I need a tissue. I stumbled to the bathroom, where I relieved the rack of a fresh roll of Charmin. I stood shakily against the door frame and blew my nose. But I couldn't stem the flow of tears, I couldn't dam the flood of sadness. I thought of my Father in Heaven, who was watching me with painful compassion. I turned my face away, tried to hide my whole body in the corner. Don't look at me, I prayed. I'm not good enough to be your daughter. I slid to the floor, wretched and broken, until I lay sobbing on the cold linoleum, fighting for air, demanding of myself a calm which neared impossibility. I'm sorry, I wept. I'm sorry I wasn't good enough. My fingers clutched at the bouncy white cylinder. After a while I battled myself onto hands and knees and moved to the shadowed mass that was my bed. I managed to stand and walk the last few steps, before climbing under the covers. I don't remember my crying slowing, but I do remember clutching as a lifeline the roll of Charmin. I woke up a few times in the night, each time holding it close like an old beloved teddy bear.
There are three definitions to the word mortify:
The first means to humiliate or embarrass.
The second means to have a part of the body die, while the rest goes on living.
And the third means to subjugate the passions by abstinence, ascetic discipline and or self-inflicted suffering.
This morning my tears were gone, absorbed by the inanimate toilet paper. I didn't feel worn out from the breakdown the night before, but physically refreshed by the night's sleep. I still feel embarrassed that I called him and foolish for letting myself come unglued. Charmin told me that he'd keep my weakness a secret, lover-like, but as I glued myself together I knew I wouldn't be able to hide the shoddy repair job. But I resolved not to fall apart again. This time, I'll be better.
Mrs. Chandler, my High School Sophomore English, once engaged us in a debate: what is the greater fear--fear of failure or fear of embarrassment? To this question I have a simple and correct answer: yes.
I don't know what in me broke first, but I'm thoroughly convinced that it didn't have to do with Kevin. It didn't start out about him, and it didn't end about him, but somewhere in the middle my finger hit the number five on my phone and speed dial took over before I could recover my digit. I couldn't hang up at that point, not by the time Caller ID had betrayed me. How I long for the days before that blasted invention when a girl could call a boy and hang up in peace!
"Why won't you talk to me?" I asked. The very first words out of my mouth. I had meant them to sound righteously angry, but they came out a little whiney and needy. I had meant to vent anger. I had planned to demand answers, to force him to say he didn't want to talk to me and why. Why didn't he even call to get April's number! I was furious on her behalf, and I have been frustrated since. I felt like I was beating my head against a brick wall trying to make it possible for us to be friends. Kevin has said it too, that I am the peacemaker with us. I'm just better at it than he is. So I tried, Heaven knows, I tried. I sent innocuous text-messages that were friendly and forgettable. And he responded civilly. CIVILLY! Of all the insulting behaviors in the word, civility is the worst. It is indifference magnified. And each week as I sent a line or two my pride pained me a little more. And my heart, which had been doing so wonderfully, ached just a little bit.
And then I talked to Ted. I told him I was hurt and angry at Kevin, Kevin who said he loved me but then never called, Kevin who says I am his best friend but never in six weeks tried to talk to me, Kevin who obviously doesn't give a damn. And Ted, always oh-so-gentle, said it simply: maybe he doesn't want to talk to you and you should stop trying to be his friend.
Stop being his friend? I felt an awful mutinous numbness at that thought. That was not what I signed up for when I first voiced the idea of us dating other people. Not be his friend. I remember us agreeing to still date, to still be friends, to see if we could find a way through this next year. But then again, who's to say my memory is accurate or that what we had intended has anything to do with the actual consequences. Could I not be his friend? Probably. I haven't talked to him in six weeks. Of course, the last week of that included an almost constant feeling of betrayal. For the love of Dumbledore! Harry Potter was out and Kevin and I have a year-long wager on its outcome. I talked to other people about the book's content, but these conversations were meant for him, I was supposed to be talking to him. We had a bet! He's still the first person I think of when I have a thought that needs expressing. I have been so quiet these last weeks. I wonder if my thoughts are getting lost, because they don't fall upon his ears.
But like I said, last night wasn't about him. It was sparked by the unastonishing realization that I am once again playing the role of "safe girl" to a guy. Always, always, am I found in the part of kid sister/platonic friend. And every so often, that is a disappointment. I tend to feel a little bit undesirable. I tend to wonder, what is it about me that is so unkissable? It's part of a thought that has haunted me for years, a feeling of inadequacy that has been present since the first great disappointment of my life. When I told myself with all the self-esteem I could muster that there is everything lovable about me, I reached the conclusion that if it's not me, then the blame rests on someone else. That's the point where I found it easy to be mad at Kevin for not wanting me. About the time my first sentence had ended and he began to sigh, I didn't find it easy anymore to be mad at anyone but myself. I ended the phone call quickly, and who can say who was more relieved at its untimely demise? I didn't even get to tell him that I'm moving. In two days he won't even know anymore where I live. I tried not to worry how he'd find me. He doesn't want to find me.
Hanging up the phone, I was swallowed by utter humiliation. I can't believe you just sunk that low, I lectured myself. I felt I deserved to unleash my inner judge on myself. Oh what a fool I am! But I didn't deserve to hear what I told myself later. Here it is, the thought that haunts me and eats my very soul: that there is pain because I was not good enough. If I had just been a bit better...
If I had been better--more open maybe, or made better grades, or been a bigger help around the house--then maybe I could have saved my parents' marriage. If I just exercised a little more discipline, I could have my degree by now. If I had just been stronger, more faithful, maybe Mom wouldn't be so lost right now. Dear God, could I have prevented my dad from feeling as much pain, if I had been a better listener? If I had been more patient, would Kevin have wanted me? If I had been a little less selfish would I have been able to help Joyce?
This is where I broke, all the old fault-lines rupturing. This was the pain I had been feeling and that I hadn't found a voice for. But I heard her again, crying on the phone. Joyce who storms and rages and laughs, reduced to weeping weakly? I listened to the memory of her sorrow and realized that I was hearing it from my own mouth. Weeping became sobbing and I drowned in grief.
I inched my way to the edge of the bed, because even in the worst crises I am aware that I need a tissue. I stumbled to the bathroom, where I relieved the rack of a fresh roll of Charmin. I stood shakily against the door frame and blew my nose. But I couldn't stem the flow of tears, I couldn't dam the flood of sadness. I thought of my Father in Heaven, who was watching me with painful compassion. I turned my face away, tried to hide my whole body in the corner. Don't look at me, I prayed. I'm not good enough to be your daughter. I slid to the floor, wretched and broken, until I lay sobbing on the cold linoleum, fighting for air, demanding of myself a calm which neared impossibility. I'm sorry, I wept. I'm sorry I wasn't good enough. My fingers clutched at the bouncy white cylinder. After a while I battled myself onto hands and knees and moved to the shadowed mass that was my bed. I managed to stand and walk the last few steps, before climbing under the covers. I don't remember my crying slowing, but I do remember clutching as a lifeline the roll of Charmin. I woke up a few times in the night, each time holding it close like an old beloved teddy bear.
There are three definitions to the word mortify:
The first means to humiliate or embarrass.
The second means to have a part of the body die, while the rest goes on living.
And the third means to subjugate the passions by abstinence, ascetic discipline and or self-inflicted suffering.
This morning my tears were gone, absorbed by the inanimate toilet paper. I didn't feel worn out from the breakdown the night before, but physically refreshed by the night's sleep. I still feel embarrassed that I called him and foolish for letting myself come unglued. Charmin told me that he'd keep my weakness a secret, lover-like, but as I glued myself together I knew I wouldn't be able to hide the shoddy repair job. But I resolved not to fall apart again. This time, I'll be better.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
When recently I had a choice to remain here or to return to Utah to finish school, I admit I found myself defeated and unequal to the task. My two highest goals were at odds with one another, battling for supremacy. Goal number one: to finish school. Goal number two: to get out of debt. To stay meant keeping my job, thus enabling me to quickly end my debt, though protracting the whole school thing. To leave meant returning to school and lengthening the time in-debt an immeasurable amount. I could not choose, because to think about the issue at all left me wallowing in shame, self-pity and remorse. I grieved. The two things I hate most about myself are that I am in debt and that I am out of school. And no amount of repenting could erase those two facts. All my decision did was throw those truths in my face and demand that I pick between my two biggest failures to crawl back to and try a second time to defeat.
I couldn't choose. So, I looked to what I hated third about my life. Always, always I hate failure. I do not try for fear I will fail to measure up. I am embarrassed to the point of snapping annoyance when I am having to learn something new. I cannot laugh at my failures, or if I do it is with certain hysterical mania that leaves no room for humor. My third greatest failure was to my own headstrong determination. Money beat me. School beat me. Then spreadsheets printed with daydreams beat me. The reason I came to Austin failed. My number one goal, to be a wife, did not work out the way I planned it. I haven't failed yet, but I let my set-back label my entire sojourn here in Austin a failure. So I snatched my move back from the mouth of self-condemnation. I decided that I would make Austin the right decision for me, to redeem my actions prior by my choices subsequent. Thus I stayed--to avoid failure.
Part of my succeeding here means beating my other demons. I try to reply with uplifted head that I have not finished school yet. I try not to cry when I cannot pay as much toward my credit cards this month due to moving, and tell myself that extending my debt to January still means it's diminishing (after all a new year is only symbolic, not concrete). I try to make good what has haunted me and made me feel of less worth.
Then today in institute we had a substitute teacher who talked like a televangelist/used car salesmen. We talked about finances. I felt myself shrinking. Oh please, Father, not about money, I begged. Then he talked about debt, and how the only good reasons to go into debt were for eventual gains (education, house, business, etc.) So came investing. So came education. Please, Father, please Oh God, not school, please not about school. And when he began to mock, to openly ridicule, those who foolishly pursue majors that will not translate into a lucrative job I stood in the middle of the room and walked out.
I rode home on the bus, cried a little and then ran until I sweat away the water I would otherwise have used for tears. To get myself to speed I let the anger flow freely, pushing my legs and lungs with power. I am not a failure, my mind stated. I am not a failure, it yawped. I am not a failure! I screamed in my head. Until I realized that no one had called me a failure but myself. I pursued a subject I loved because it made my life richer. I learned from my mistakes. I work hard at a fantastic job full of opportunities for self-fulfillment. I did something brave and took a leap, because when I am old I want to be able to say I was the type of girl who would move across the country for love. And I am the type of girl who can rebound when life takes a twist. I am not a failure.
I couldn't choose. So, I looked to what I hated third about my life. Always, always I hate failure. I do not try for fear I will fail to measure up. I am embarrassed to the point of snapping annoyance when I am having to learn something new. I cannot laugh at my failures, or if I do it is with certain hysterical mania that leaves no room for humor. My third greatest failure was to my own headstrong determination. Money beat me. School beat me. Then spreadsheets printed with daydreams beat me. The reason I came to Austin failed. My number one goal, to be a wife, did not work out the way I planned it. I haven't failed yet, but I let my set-back label my entire sojourn here in Austin a failure. So I snatched my move back from the mouth of self-condemnation. I decided that I would make Austin the right decision for me, to redeem my actions prior by my choices subsequent. Thus I stayed--to avoid failure.
Part of my succeeding here means beating my other demons. I try to reply with uplifted head that I have not finished school yet. I try not to cry when I cannot pay as much toward my credit cards this month due to moving, and tell myself that extending my debt to January still means it's diminishing (after all a new year is only symbolic, not concrete). I try to make good what has haunted me and made me feel of less worth.
Then today in institute we had a substitute teacher who talked like a televangelist/used car salesmen. We talked about finances. I felt myself shrinking. Oh please, Father, not about money, I begged. Then he talked about debt, and how the only good reasons to go into debt were for eventual gains (education, house, business, etc.) So came investing. So came education. Please, Father, please Oh God, not school, please not about school. And when he began to mock, to openly ridicule, those who foolishly pursue majors that will not translate into a lucrative job I stood in the middle of the room and walked out.
I rode home on the bus, cried a little and then ran until I sweat away the water I would otherwise have used for tears. To get myself to speed I let the anger flow freely, pushing my legs and lungs with power. I am not a failure, my mind stated. I am not a failure, it yawped. I am not a failure! I screamed in my head. Until I realized that no one had called me a failure but myself. I pursued a subject I loved because it made my life richer. I learned from my mistakes. I work hard at a fantastic job full of opportunities for self-fulfillment. I did something brave and took a leap, because when I am old I want to be able to say I was the type of girl who would move across the country for love. And I am the type of girl who can rebound when life takes a twist. I am not a failure.
Friday, July 06, 2007
i walked on the moon
I just bought the Brian Regan DVD! I now have the entertainment portion of my house-warming party taken care of. Now I just need my own place. In one month (roughly two weeks after the DVD arrives) I'll be able to open my home and kitchen to the new friends I made and introduce them to Cannon Ball Wound Ointment, Egg Areas and the Lunar Rover among many many other things. All hail Brian! He's an 8!
Sunday, July 01, 2007
ultimate
I. Played. Ultimate. Frisbee.
I did. You should believe me. I didn't believe me at first but I said it with such honest conviction that despite having the wrong number of fingers in the air for scout's honor, I eventually came to the realization that I was telling the truth. I played a sport. And I loved it. My weekend of activity began with volleyball the night before. I played long and hard (and terribly) until my arms were bright red and I could no longer see. I caught the bug.
So last night I changed from the dress I wore to the wedding reception, and with my hair still in a formal up-do I ran the length of a field about infinity times until I thought I would faint. I found it a much better release for aggression than immature swearing (and yes I tried really hard to make the swearing sound ridiculous so I'd quit). I played with those who unlike me have played before. Luckily they stacked the teams. The middle players were on one team, and the two best players were with the two worst. The two guys, instead of passing to one another to win, made sure that we girls were involved and encouraged. They played like Bryan Dunn, Matt Bushman or Ted Long: they played exceptionally well, with the intent to win, but also with the spirit of fun. Because they would pass to me even after I dropped the Frisbee, I eventually began to catch it. Soon I caught it often. By the end, I had it unless it went wild. Throwing is another thing. I'll work on that.
I did. You should believe me. I didn't believe me at first but I said it with such honest conviction that despite having the wrong number of fingers in the air for scout's honor, I eventually came to the realization that I was telling the truth. I played a sport. And I loved it. My weekend of activity began with volleyball the night before. I played long and hard (and terribly) until my arms were bright red and I could no longer see. I caught the bug.
So last night I changed from the dress I wore to the wedding reception, and with my hair still in a formal up-do I ran the length of a field about infinity times until I thought I would faint. I found it a much better release for aggression than immature swearing (and yes I tried really hard to make the swearing sound ridiculous so I'd quit). I played with those who unlike me have played before. Luckily they stacked the teams. The middle players were on one team, and the two best players were with the two worst. The two guys, instead of passing to one another to win, made sure that we girls were involved and encouraged. They played like Bryan Dunn, Matt Bushman or Ted Long: they played exceptionally well, with the intent to win, but also with the spirit of fun. Because they would pass to me even after I dropped the Frisbee, I eventually began to catch it. Soon I caught it often. By the end, I had it unless it went wild. Throwing is another thing. I'll work on that.
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