nra leader dies

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

shrouded gem

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

sonnet, take one

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

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

sick

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

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

bragging

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

haiku of we

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

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

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

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

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

teatime

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

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

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

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

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

cinderella ball with the roomies

purse contents, a collections essay

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

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

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

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

on toilets

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

random rewards

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

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

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

idle minds

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

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

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

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

on being shallow

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

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

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

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

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

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

inspired by a devotional on modesty

keeping up

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

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

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

I don't know what to do!

pain in the throat

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

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

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

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

the second time around

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

This time, however, it was all different.

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

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

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

I got in!

epiphanies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All of this ties together.

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

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

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

red dress

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

But I love my new red dress.

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

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

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

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

home

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