mirth and matter

sigh not so ladies,
sigh not so.
men were decievers ever.
one foot in sea
and one on shore
to one thing constant never.
then sigh not so
but let them go
and be you blithe and bonny,
converting all your sounds of woe
into hey, nonny, nonny!

D&C 104:10 And I now give unto you power from this very hour, that if any man among you, of the order, is found a transgressor and repenteth not of the evil, that ye shall deliver him over unto the buffetings of Satan; and he shall not have power to bring evil upon you.

my tree of life

If someone were to tell me that the little white tree, standing firmly and delicately in the middle of those tall wild things near which it is growing, had been planted only this morning by the hand of God just for me, I would not doubt him.

friendship

Hope, trapped in the box
Pandora opened for us,
Came when you called her

I came too. We lay
Our heads together touching
Hearts, hands, tear-stained cheeks

You gave me your strength
And I gave you my sorrow
Then you let me sleep

little

An acquaintance came over to my apartment yesterday as I sat with my laptop, writing. I gave a distracted answer to his questions after my well-being. At least I think that is what he meant by, "wuz-up," in this case. Oh, are you writing in your little blog?

Oh how I wish Tarythe or Ted had been there for my facial expression, because I am sure only they would have seen my reaction. Debby might have picked up on it; she and Spencer sat on the other couch.

I turned my head and smiled at this visitor. How charmingly condescending of you. But, no, I am not writing in my little blog. I am in the process of writing a little story that I hope someday to turn into a little novel. And how are you? I wanted to add. Did you receive your little rejection letter from that little university you wanted into?

Debby and Spencer squirmed in the background. I smiled again and went back to dreaming my little dreams of being a little writer.

perry como, quoted by russel m nelson

Because you come to me,
with naught save love,
and hold my hand and lift my eyes above,
a wider world of hope and joy I see,
because you come to me!

Because you speak to me in accent sweet,
I find the roses walking 'round my feet,
and I am led through tears and joy to thee,
because you speak to me!

Because God made thee mine,
I'll cherish thee,
through light and darkness, through all time to be,
and pray His love may make our love divine,
because God made thee mine!

foolish

This is not an entry dedicated to the stupidity of this holiday. The only thing I can say is that the French got something right; they took the day a step further and involved fish. Poisson D'Avril. Nice. But, back to my point...this is just about one of those stupid things I have learned to do as part of my daily routine.

On Monday I gave my blog address to Kevin. I know this blog, so while I knew there were rather exposing statements I felt vulnerable letting him read, I also saw how much more there was here. I felt safe. I got his email Thursday morning. He had read the entire thing--all 100 plus entries! And his focus was on finding himself in the paragraphs. His email told me just how much he had found, and I blushed with discomfort wondering what in the world he must think of me. I tried to remember everything I had said about him. I ran distracted. I tried eating soup with a fork.

Ted laughed at me when I told him; if you didn't see this coming then you don't know Kevin. I know! I cried. I just didn't think I would be this awkward about it. I don't wish it back. I do wish I had been more prepared for having him comment on my words--you know, he didn't even say anything mean or embarrassing or revealing. I'm just being overly-sensitive about my blog, as always.

The problem is, any mention of my writing and I feel completely mocked and a little foolish--like when I got caught playing "make-believe" when I was little. Utter humiliation. I didn't even let Ted read my blog for the longest time. I didn't share my writing until only a few months ago, so I am still not very good at handling response. Oh well, I guess I can chalk up my over-reaction to one more foolish thing I've done regarding him.

marriage hungry

Momma Gardner is in town visiting her two--nay, three--daughters. I've been looking forward to her visit as if my own mother were coming, and when I was told that she had arrived, I bounded into Caitie's room and smothered mom with my hugs. Then Cassidy, Caitie and I perched on the bed and talked with her. Perched is perhaps the wrong word; we were all knotted together inextricably. Mom asked after our well being, if we ate right, slept enough, etc. Then she turned to me. How is everything going? she asked. I smiled. How are things going?! I had a list prepared of all the marvelous things I had accomplished in the last week alone. Look, I cried, at how amazing I am. She smiled supportively and then said, no, really...how are things? I'm not sure if I could describe my reaction to those words. I knew what she meant. I know her daughters.

For those of you who don't understand Gardner talk, this meant, how is your love-life?

The Gardner family are the most marriage-hungry people I have ever known, and most are happily married. That, I suppose, is the problem. If any had one ounce of regret about having entered into the state of matrimony, they might be less enthusiastic about persuading others to follow in the same path. Poor Emilie gets set up on more blind dates than anyone I know. What's more weird to me is that she enjoys it!

After her concert Tuesday night (shameless plug for Emilie: you should have gone because it was fabulous!) the sisters, mom, Cassidy and I all went to Grandpa's house to visit with the family. I was assured that the stay would not exceed half an hour. I should have known better. Anyway, the time was well spent. Cassidy and I had our ears full of secret behind-the-scenes Gardner affairs. And you know what? they're exactly the same as when they're in public. The puns fluttered in the air like moths near a porch light. Cass swatted them away as much as she was able, but I found I liked their mellow presence. What I spent my focus on was this: the matchmaking. Poor Cousin Gardner came over and brought his girl friend. As soon as they were out of ear shot (hopefully) getting food, Christie (that's mom) started in. They're so cute. She's the one. I laughed and added my hopes to their future felicity. The conversation rarely swayed from talk of coupling. Even when Cousin was talking about landscape architecture we were all listening to love connection. That's how it's been all week.

The Sisters are just like Mom. Five of us took a nap on Caitie and Emilie's bed on Sunday. We told our own bedtime stories. Starting with Debby on the far end, each girl told about the boys she likes, those who like her, and what is happening with each. Deb has unwelcome admirers. As does Caitie. After Cassidy and Emilie also admitted to liking no one, Cass remarked, I'm glad we saved the best for last. I rolled my eyes. When it came to me, I grinned. Let's make this painful, I thought. I have nothing to talk about. In my head I heard Marianne, "Neither of us has anything to say--I because I conceal nothing and you because you communicate nothing." Let's just say, I didn't get away with that.

Nor did I two days later when lying on the same bed, this time with Mom. Following her question, my face both fell with disappointment and lit up with amusement. I told her I had nothing to share. Cassidy laughed, and she and Caitie began telling my stories for me. To mom and others it must look as though I am being naturally modest. That, however, contradicts my nature, and contradictions do not exist. Check your premise. Those who know me know that yes, I am awkward about telling such things, but with the environment of close friends, a mom and a bed, even I would have shared had there been aught to share. Instead I just listened to their interpretations, which have been different than mine since the beginning.

Later, Cassidy ran the gauntlet. It was painless. Afterward, Mom plotted how best to get her to marry Steve. Everyone smiled. I object, I cried. I thought I got to marry him. Cassidy can have Nathaniel; he's closer to her age, and taller! But Audrey, smirked Cassidy, you've already got someone. Yes, nodded Mom, he-who-must-not-be-named (I swear, that's really what she said). I lamented, because I was supposed to end up her daughter. Oh, she comforted, you will be anyway... And his parents are so nice!

Mom has asked me if she might attend my wedding. I was overjoyed with the possibility. I will have someone to play mother of the bride. It was Cassidy that made me cynical. I've decided, she announced, that she's getting married in November! It seems that mindless giddiness is a much stronger force than cool reasoning. Evil is often like that. I'm not even dating anyone, I cried into the din. Marriage is not on my to-do list this year. Apparently in this instance--in my love-life--my opinion does not count. When I told them that Danny asked me out again, this time for next Friday's Men's Chorus choir concert, they all gave that knowing motherly look, which I need to add to my repetoire of belittling facial expression, and I knew that I had lost. Ooh, squealed Mom, Audrey Nelson. It's such a sweet name.

procrastinated works of genuis

I finished the paper for anthropology. Ha, to those who thought I couldn't do it on time. It took less than an hour to do five pages. I shouldn't be surprised, since it was a topic I am most loquacious on--my roommates. It's done now, and I am free to blog. Maybe I am procrastinating another paper, and I know that by posting I am helping Ted procrastinate his papers, but I don't care. I'm in the zone.
* * *
My professor loved my concept for my anthropology paper. Apparently my focus was narrow enough and full of implications regarding this social interaction I observed. By the way, I wrote it on the Kitchen Practices of Apartment 99. I was very amused with my own interpretations. I used myself as a character and an observer, so while I felt a little bit DID (disociative identity disorder, means multiple personalities) I had a fun story to work with. I'll share it later, once it's polished a bit more creatively.

foiled

"Whenever I marry," [Blanche] continued after a pause which none interrupted, "I am resolved that my husband shall not be a rival but a foil to me. I will suffer not competitor near the throne; I shall exact an undivided homage: his devotion shall not be shared between me and the shape he sees in his mirror."

Sometimes guys have this remarkable way of making me feel beautiful. Sometimes it is what they say, while at others it is that extra special look they have on their faces. I have known guys, some only ever friends, who paraded me and treated me like a queen. And then there have been those who have obviously liked me with the whole of their minds, but not their eyes; and while I felt smart and funny and possessed of every imaginable virtue, I did not feel pretty. Perhaps it is such a shallow thing to desire. In high school, after all, I went out of my way to deprive myself of a pleasant exterior, wishing to be desired for my other traits. I have changed my mind, however. I want to feel -to be told- that I am beautiful. Because, you know what? I am.

one of these things

I went back today and published an old blog entry I had never finished writing. It's like a treasure hunt; try to find which one wasn't there before, which one just doesn't belong.

sociology

It only took six semesters, but I finally did it. You can see for yourself. Wherever I go, I am heralded by this great accomplishment. Wherever my name appears so does this title, like a badge of courage or a degree (heaven forbid I ever get one of those). Yes, boys and girls of all ages, I have declared a major. Let it be shouted from the roof tops, Audrey is not undecided anymore.

i'm hungry!

For once there is something I would rather be doing than spending my time in the LRC writing. I had less than six hours of sleep and I ate only two bites of yogurt for breakfast. This has been an amazing day, but the tootiredandhungry headache is starting to bother me just a little. Alas that the Wilk had to be abandoned when the fire alarm went off. Is a little food too much to ask?! Poor me; poor, poor me.

exactly four units of distance

Have I been distant lately? I asked Emilie. She responded to the negative. She hadn't noticed anything, at least. I asked her because I knew by the way that Ted wanted to take me walking in the sleet that I was being obvious about holding something back. Subtlety, thy name is most certainly not Audrey.

Oh no! replied Emilie. Maybe I'm being distant, and that's why I didn't notice. I'm so sorry.

I asked the others. Without hesitation, not even a beat missed, they confirmed my reclusiveness. It's been two weeks, noted Caitie. Always after work, added Cassidy. You're in your room a lot more, confirmed Tarythe. But, they agreed, you're not distant with Emilie.

Perhaps they are offended if Emilie seems closer to me. Ted and Caitie certainly thought she knew what's been going on. The truth is, she's as much in the dark as anyone. It's not mine to tell, I have repeated to their kind offers of help and listening ears. But at least it's been said; that helps in a way. I apologized for my distance, really just taking note of the fact that I need to develop a better facade.

It wasn't until I sat on my bed waiting for sleep that I mentally slapped myself and decided that what needed to be done was not more cover-up, but closer relations with the girls. Sure I can't tell them everything, but I can trust them. I hopped off my bed and ran to the front room. Apartment prayer? I begged. Cassidy covered for me when I couldn't speak the words to Heavenly Father. She asked Him, if any of us is struggling please help her to be at peace.

So now, the next step is to let go of the brooding and be happy with the life I am living with them.

my new favorite recording artist

I woke up at seven thirty this morning listening to the soft sounds of the radio being played in the hall. This is not unusual, nor that I find myself mentally singing along as I reach consciousness. This morning, however, I got a pleasant surprise. Hey, wait! I said to myself as we sat up in bed. I know this song! I stumbled from my room, eyes blurred, face swollen, and hair--well for those who have seen my hair, you know there is no describing it. Emilie stood before the mirror curling her rather more tame tresses. So, you and Ted recorded his song last night. It was not a question. We started the CD over and listened again. The song has been stuck in my head all morning.

I want my own copy, sir, as well as one of your other song.

standing on the edge

A girl reached a crossroad where an infinite number of paths spread before her waiting her whim. A wise man pointed to the path furthest to her left and told her that down this path lay a chasm too wide to jump and too dark for any mortal to know where the bottom was, if indeed it had a bottom. The image scared the girl. She was afraid of the place in her mind that showed her the dark, deep, steep pit; and she couldn't decide what she feared most, the idea of hitting its bottom or of never reaching it. The choice was hers, said the man, she didn't have to jump. So she looked at the other trails before her. Some made her sad, disgusted or hurt, and she vowed not to take those paths. Some led to complacent but guaranteed happiness, while others intrigued her with their challenging climbs and veiled destinations. But even as she looked at all these other options the girl's fear grew. She feared because she knew which path she was going to take, had known it before she even reached the crossroads, and what's more, that the man had known it too. She knew that she would jump.

editing

I must correct the below entry. I wrote it in haste for a class assignment, with the prompt of telling a memory disputed by another. Fittingly I had remembered Nora not recalling this story. She remembers it. She also remembers what I said. My great articulate attack ended with my own F-bomb. That's why Heather and Nora were so proud, and probably why I felt so ashamed. Now, I laugh a little, but the memory is still not my favorite.

another class assignment

I always thought that selective memory was something that I had better than anyone else, excluding my father, in my family. After all, I am the only one who has an unadulterated view of my childhood, who believed my parents were happily married at one point, and who doesn’t remember carving her initials into the dryer when my parents brought it home from Sears. However, there is one memory that I have in vivid detail that others present have forgotten. Maybe it is that this moment holds in it my deepest regrets that I have not been able to look past it, as my sisters and father have.

Mom was in London; more importantly, she had been in London for nearly five months. Even Dad, who had two deaf ears and two blind eyes when it came to the real world, had begun to suspect that something wasn’t right with their marriage. I had escaped the brunt of it by running away to “I-want-to-be-a-senator-when-I-grow-up camp”, as Heather called it. Someday I won’t even remember that it was called Junior Statesmen of America. All that mattered was that I lived in my own world of political science nerds and Starbucks. Nora and Heather, who lived in Boston, drove out to see me at Yale. Joyce had been abandoned at home. She saw the liquor bottles in the fridge, and she saw the websites listed on our computer’s history.

That is what the fight was about, though even that may have been a surface reason. I got home from Yale, and Nora from Boston; and Dad still waited for Mom with growing despair. We had visited her in England with possibly the worst results of a family vacation to date. The cords had to snap. Naturally, the breaking began on the side of Joyce. Dad yelled about something—he often yelled about nothing—and Joyce no longer felt the need to take it, not when she felt so much disgust for him. The two yelled, which shouldn’t have surprised anyone. That’s how they communicated.

Nora, on the other hand, likes the world to be fluffy pink and blue, perhaps out of unwillingness to give in to her manic depression the way Dad and Joyce have. She began to intercede on Joyce’s behalf, to try to calm Dad down and stop the hurt. I was in the room the whole time, listening with the practiced passivity I have developed in a family of high-strung individuals. I determined not to be a part of that stupid anger; until, that is, Dad yelled at Nora. Her eyes brimmed with tears, and my heart filled with very articulate rage. I stepped up.

I don’t remember the exact words he said to Nora, except that it ended with “I’m just so damned depressed.” Those words, that phrase, held no meaning to us anymore after having heard them so many times—like PTSD, a hiss and a by-word, the phrase used to caricature Dad. No more would he get away with the pouting routine! “Everyone gets depressed, Dad, but that is no excuse to abandon moral and parental responsibilities.” I went on, systematically naming all his shortcomings in perfect destroying diction. “F— you!” he bellowed. “I hate you!” I screamed back, throwing a tantrum like I had never done as a child. I ran to my room, literally throwing myself in my closet. I landed hard on top of my shoes and cried until Nora came in. She kept him away from me until I chose to see him. Nora always has stood up for others better than she has for herself.

Nora told the story to Heather, the sardonic hard case of the family, who praised my performance. Now, however, Nora does not remember the event ever occurring. For Joyce it is a vague recollection of one of the times she and Dad fought. I haven’t asked Dad if he remembers it. I finally understand why Nora chose to let it go. Her “la vie en rose” approach to life would be tainted by this ugly scene. She couldn’t have remembered it and forgiven any of us. To her, forgiveness means literally remembering it no more. Now I alone remember how awful that day was, what exactly everyone did that was unforgivable and how we all managed to forgive each other for it. For me, the fact that I remember serves as much of a lesson as what I remember. I just wish I could ask Nora for the details; because, like I said, I was pretty articulate.

inevitability

I have been asking my friends about fate. Do they believe in predestination? Emilie tried explaining foreordination, but that is not what I mean. I mean, have you ever been introduced to a situation and seen it, as if in retrospect, and known that you would be altered by it, that you would be involved in it? It's like looking back on a time in your life and understanding why you were there and seeing what you learned; only, instead, you are looking forward and the details are a little hazy. You know that for better or worse, you are tied irrevocably to this new event, or person. The best way it was described back to me was as the feeling of inevitability.

I have had this feeling come over me the last week or so, that I am bound to a certain fate. Almost like Frodo, only I do not bear the One Ring to its doom. Yet the prospect is just as daunting and just as inspiring. Although I do not feel able--allowed or capable--of explaining the path I see before my feet, I will say this, that if it is so that I must tread it, I will with all my strength, and that is not something I have given to anything before.

And it may be that I am wrong, that my path curves after all, just beyond my sight. So I guess, I keep going until I know. One step enough for me.

it seems i am doomed to blindness

I have experienced dramatic earth-rending paradigm shifts in my life before. People I knew turned out to be other than I had expected. The closets (one case in the typical way; that was awkward) out of which they have come varied in makeup and measurement. But one strength I possess, one for which I am too grateful even to be vain, is that I can rewire my thinking and take in this new world in place of my old, and I will still be who I always have been. I still love those I have loved before, often times more so. I come to love my Savior more as I understand why he loves us despite what we do. I adapt.

I am good at understanding people, sometimes better than they are themselves. Few people are introspective enough to beat out the degree to which I observe them. It's somewhat revelatory. I see things about people that there is no way to see. Perhaps I pick up on the things that they are not saying; but whatever it is I have learned before how important my sight is--and my discretion.

That's why I can't understand why I didn't see it before! Even those much more naive than I have seen it, though they are too innocent to know what they're seeing. The last few days I have listened to their comments, and for once I didn't rely on their judgment to tell me what mine ought to be. Nora's analysis made my eyes flinch open. And now I think she is right. And it takes a bit of a paradigm shift.

I laugh a little at myself, especially at my previous blogs. I cried a little where my roommates couldn't see. I realized I have been too focused on watching my own behavior. And I feel a little bit of an idiot. In the end, however, it doesn't change much; life was this way the whole time whether I knew it or not, so nothing, really, has happened to me at all. And that's always good to know.

If it follows that I am wrong, I will laugh even harder and then give up on being an observer of mankind; I'll move to the sudan and take my vows of hermitage

oh shmit

Nothing happened. Ted wagered it wouldn't, against the opinion of everyone, except me. Sure, I was hoping something would happen, but since when have hope and expectation been the same thing? Ted laughed at me when I told him my mind on the subject. I told him I expected failure, because I doubted that I recieved as much favor as I granted; but I also determined to try and to let myself see it through, because you never can tell with bees. At least my conveluded mix of cynicism and optimism entertained Ted. It frustrates me, but it's the sort of frustration that every girls feels as she drops face down onto her bed at the end of a night and despairs to her roommates that nothing has happened...yet. It's the tantalizing frustration that leaves a crack under the door for light to shine through, so I know I will continue frustrated until I can get to that light or know I've failed. If I had the guts I'd simply ask, but I lack the temerity.

To be more explicit, nothing happened during a movie last night with Danny. Did I flirt? So help me, did I flirt! Did he flirt back? Well, yeah, but like that means anything. I had a lot of fun, and he invited me to a movie again, but nothing happened. It's like pursuing Kevin all over again. I just hope that this time, it doesn't take five months.