job interview

I had a job interview today. The first in this round of job hunting. I hope that it went well. I'd feel better about it if a button on my blouse, which has shown no tendency for this in the past, hadn't popped open mid-interview. I will find out tonight for better or for worse. The next time you hear from me, I will either be horribly and irrevocably crushed, or I will be planning how to spend my first paycheck.

sick day

I called in sick this morning to work. And by work, I mean the lack of work that I do while temping at the Co-op. I don't know how sick I really am. I haven't coughed since I woke up, but I felt an uncomfortable tightness in my throat. It even kind of itches. Mostly, I didn't want to stand behind a cash register, staring stupidly at the Disney Channel, waiting in vain to be useful. So I took the day. Partly because I wanted to make sure this tickle in my throat doesn't become something more. I have a job interview tomorrow, and I would rather not have to clear my throat every few seconds. It makes a bad impression. I also wanted to use the Internet, which is available to me only during business hours, in order to plan my route to the aforementioned interview. I also plan to find a lost sweater, write some fiction and watch a movie. Maybe I'll even eat some soup so that I feel better about being sick.

burned

I had a dream a few weeks ago that my apartment burned down. I lost everything, despite my attempts to run back into the building. Afterward, as I stood in my ball gown (I don't know why I was in formal wear) next to Kevin, looking at the ruins of my building, I felt a hollow place inside me. I did not mind the loss of my clothes, long since reduced to ash. I mourned my books, and I felt real grief for the loss of my USB device, complete with all of my writing. It was for this last thing that I had been willing to brave the flames. I wept over that loss. Yet, that was not the worst pain of the night. The hardest part was discovering that I owned nothing more than the clothes on my back, a brown hoodie in the mailbox, and the furniture that I had in my mom's storage. I felt so small, knowing that I had nothing to offer to anybody. I don't remember telling Kevin about my furniture, but I remember him telling me that he didn't like it and he didn't want it. The only thing that I had to give him and he didn't want it! I felt crushed, devastated. I knew then that I couldn't marry him because I had nothing to offer. I took off his suit coat, which he had gallantly lent me, and stumbled to my mailbox, where I retrieved my fleece hoodie. I think the dream ended very Incredible Hulk-esque, with me walking off alone, but without the theme music. I kept crying all day as images bombarded my waking mind. This nightmare, though less violent than many, pierced all of my insecurities. The fire in the dream just made more apparent that which is. I fear that someday others will see what I saw in the flames there: that I have nothing to give in return for all that is given to me.

finals nightmare

My finals nightmare took a different twist than usual. I showed up for a test, and I kept calling a girl from my class by the wrong name. I first called her Jody, then Josey and finally Judy. Her name is Erin. Jody and Josey are also in that class. The dream made me afraid that I really hadn't learned anything in there, not even Erin's name.

at the end of my rope

I am going to SCREAM!

First, my house was taken over by velcro-pulling, cane-thumping, alarm-setting, mess-making loud mouth cattle.

And NOW the damned cleaning crew in the library are THUMPING! Over and over and never in any sort of rhythm.

I. am. losing. my. sanity...

to dye a virgin

I really did think that I would never, ever dye my hair. I was proud of that fact. I prefer things low maintenance, so I knew I would never keep up my hair color, and I am not afraid of growing old; in fact, I rather like my gray hair.

But, I was bored. I wanted a change, the kind of change that requires new clothes, new makeup, contacts or a new haircut. I have completely chopped my hair four times in my life and spent years growing it back each time. My hair is now the longest it's ever been. So, to stop myself from a regrettable move, I pounced on the opportunity my sisters offered of dyeing my hair with them.

The color they chose is practically identical to my natural hue. Joyce helped me through the actual process, since it was my first time and I have a lot of hair. And I had a lot of fun doing it. I felt adventurous, believe it or not, dyeing my hair. And, weirdly, I really like the new color. It is a little nuttier than my natural color, and now the gray doesn't show. In fact, my hair is incredibly shiny and healthy-looking (though considerably more damaged in actuality) all over.

The best thing about the dyeing process was really that it alleviated the boredom I had been feeling with myself. I still want jeans that aren't so old that they look white-washed. If I could, I would even own that turquoise corduroy coat from Target. And I definitely still want contacts, for a variety of reasons, including that glasses get in the way of some expressions of affection. But at least I no longer want to cut my hair off.

group paper

When we started the damn project, I apologized that, with my schedule and upcoming GRE, I would be the worst person to count on for this paper. I did my part, but I was the slacker. Or so I thought. I mean, I didn't do my section until a week after we had agreed to turn them into each other. It turns out that once again, I am the one doing the work and doing it well. The final paper is due today. The conclusion hasn't been written, and I am trying to edit the introduction that, no joke, includes the line "This is called the American Dream." Only some of my freshmen write worse than this. I'm planning on printing the paper sans ending, because at this point, I cannot do any more work. I've done it all already. My group will have to live with the C that they've earned.

* * *

Okay, make that a D. The grades just went up. This sucks.

worst song ever

Window to His Love is meant to be spiritual and inspiring. It is in fact doctrinally unsound, belittling and nauseating. I was disgusted.

spring onion

I originally wrote this 9/25/07, but hadn't yet added any of my thoughts. I still haven't, but I want to post it.

In the book the Karamazov Brothers (or Brothers Karamazov, depending on your translation), Grushenka, the town's whore, tries to seduce a young monk, but stops herself when she hears he is in mourning for his mentor. He praises her virtue and in return she tells him this story:

"You see, Alyosha," Grushenka turned to him with a nervous laugh. "I was boasting when I told Rakitin I had given away an onion, but it's not to boast I tell you about it. It's only a story, but it's a nice story. I used to hear it when I was a child from Matryona, my cook, who is still with me. It's like this. Once upon a time there was a peasant woman and a very wicked woman she was. And she died and did not leave a single good deed behind. The devils caught her and plunged her into the lake of fire. So her guardian angel stood and wondered what good deed of hers he could remember to tell to God; 'She once pulled up an onion in her garden,' said he, 'and gave it to a beggar woman.' And God answered: 'You take that onion then, hold it out to her in the lake, and let her take hold and be pulled out. And if you can pull her out of the lake, let her come to Paradise, but if the onion breaks, then the woman must stay where she is.' The angel ran to the woman and held out the onion to her. 'Come,' said he, 'catch hold and I'll pull you out.' he began cautiously pulling her out. He had just pulled her right out, when the other sinners in the lake, seeing how she was being drawn out, began catching hold of her so as to be pulled out with her. But she was a very wicked woman and she began kicking them. 'I'm to be pulled out, not you. It's my onion, not yours.' As soon as she said that, the onion broke. And the woman fell into the lake and she is burning there to this day. So the angel wept and went away. So that's the story, Alyosha; I know it by heart, for I am that wicked woman myself. I boasted to Rakitin that I had given away an onion, but to you I'll say: 'I've done nothing but give away one onion all my life, that's the only good deed I've done.' "

recent sountrack to me

Recently some songs have struck a chord with me.

Billy Joel- "She's Always a Woman"
Dashboard Confessional - "The Places You Have Come to Fear the Most"
Ben Fold and Regina Spektor - "You Don't Know Me"
Vivaldi - "Winter from the Four Seasons"
Simon and Garfunkel - "I am a Rock"



These are songs from earlier eras of my life. They are not necessarily favorites, or even ones around which there are many memories. These are simply songs that explained at some time or another exactly how I felt. The list is not exhaustive.

Billy Joel - "For the Longest Time"
Dashboard Confessional - "Hands Down"
Jewel - "You Were Meant for Me"
Celine Dion - "It's All Coming Back to Me"
Lucky Boys Confusion - "Fred Astaire"
Wicked soundtrack - "For Good"
Death Cab for Cutie - "The Sound of Settling"
Avril Lavigne - "I'm with You"
Cranberries - "Dreams"

sometimes a limerick suffices

I'm tired of being invisible.
Your affections are far too divisible.
What can I do,
to get through to you,
and convince you that I am quite miss-able?

my nephew

This is my first ever nephew, Owen Hunter Clement, and he is beautiful.

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.