like this:
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
I have sand in my ears, already.
Me: Hello, Beach. I am Becky.
Beach: Welcome!
Me: I am very excited to live here, right on your sandy shores.
Beach: I'm excited to have you. Because I am so excited, I have prepared the perfect day. It is in the 90s and the water is just a little chilly, but perfect if you've been lying out in the sun.
Me: I have been lying out in the sun!
Beach: Perfect! Come on in!
Me: Yay!
Beach: Yay!
Beach: Welcome!
Me: I am very excited to live here, right on your sandy shores.
Beach: I'm excited to have you. Because I am so excited, I have prepared the perfect day. It is in the 90s and the water is just a little chilly, but perfect if you've been lying out in the sun.
Me: I have been lying out in the sun!
Beach: Perfect! Come on in!
Me: Yay!
Beach: Yay!
Monday, April 27, 2009
“Where’s home for you?”
It’s the first thing she’s said to me on the entire flight. The wheels touch down on to the runway.
“Here,” I say. That’s when I start to cry. I don’t cry for too long, either. Just a minute and just a little. I didn’t cry at all when we were losing altitude and I needed to pull out my journal to write down everything I saw.
Adventures in the Minneapolis Airport; Part One
Here’s what I wrote:
The clouds are all level, and it’s like looking down on a glass table top, with little piles of melting whipped cream sitting on top, or ice floating on a perfectly clear lake.
I notice the lakes; how could I not? They’re large and sprawling, strangely shaped, like half a muddy footprint filled in by the rain. Paul Bunyan was here for Lumberjack Day.
The horizon is blue, varying shades stacked on top of each other, uninterrupted by ugly, dirty mountains. The world goes on forever here, and I am not trapped in a right side up bowl.
Water towers. I see them before I notice anything else, and it brings me the closest to crying so far. After I see one, I see a dozen through the same small window. They stick up from the earth like squat skyscrapers, with bubbly heads, steely blue, or off-white, and I wonder for the first time where the rest of the world stores their water.
And baseball diamonds. They are everywhere. The reddish color of the dirt stands out from the greenish blue of everything else. They are everywhere; I count nine before I stop looking. I love baseball. I have always been only mediocre when playing, but if there is a place in America that loves its patriotic sport, it’s the Midwest.
Everything is in patches; there are patches of dark green trees, and almost square patches of emerald fields. There are patches of houses, and patches of city. Winding roads dart around everything, like a garter snake, unable to run straight, because they’d interrupt something. As we get closer to the ground, I can see that lakes aren’t the only water, and every bit of land not filled with buildings or trees is filled in. Little ponds, and little lakes. I count eight out my window, just on the airport grounds.
The pilot announces that it is forty degrees with twenty mile per hour wind, and I relish the thought. I want to get out and breath in the air, but my layover is only three hours, and an hour of that would have to be spent checking back in.
Adventures in the Minneapolis Airport; Part Two
I’m off the plane now. I can’t get the internet, so I won’t publish this until after I’m in Virginia.
Every time I look out the window, I have to tell myself “the sky in Utah sometimes looks like that. There’s nothing to cry about.” Or “There is nothing special about that road, just because it’s in Minnesota doesn’t make it better than other roads.”
I am sure about one thing though: the air. I feel suffocated in Utah, because the air is so dusty and so dry, but even in this building I already feel that I can really breathe. This is wet, cold air. It soothes the throat as soon as you suck it in.
Lana said, “The air in Arizona is like a big blanket.”
“A big down blanket that wraps you up, and tries to shove its corner down your throat to suffocate you,” said I. Maybe that was too cynical.
Maybe it was not cynical enough. I cannot seem to describe how much I hate Arizona. People are never willing to accept that my hate is genuine. Arizona is the anti-Christ to Minnesota. You cannot love the Lakers and the Jazz, right?
Right now a balding man with a toothpick in his mouth is taking a picture of a giggling group of Asian girls. They’re standing behind me, their arms wrapped around Snoopy in his bomber jacket and scarf.
Most of the people here are not native. Everyone in the history of airplanes seems to have a layover in Minnesota, but every now and again I catch a hint of a Minnesotan accent in someone passing by. I am doing very well, not crying, thank you very much.
But I am passing signs with loons on them, and the Twins logos. Lord. Why can’t I handle this? It’s the first time I’ve been here in over a year. I could probably claim Utah as soon as Minnesota.
But I don’t want to.
I love it here. This is home.
Here is home.
Adventures in the Minneapolis Airport; Part Three
“Excuse me,” I address the bent man behind the podium labeled Traveler’s Assistance.
“Yes?” he peers at me, a grin stretched across his face, and the phrase Minnesota Nice hits me kindly in the throat.
I cough it out. “I’m not sure if you’re who I ask,” I say. “But do you know if there’s a Culver’s in the airport?”
He shakes his head, as if he were as disappointed as me.
“No, no Culver’s and no Cinnabuns either.”
“No kidding?” I say, “this is just like a giant mall, you’d think the first thing they’d build would a Cinnabun!”
This is the type of polite and pleasant banter that strangers elsewhere do not participate in.
“Well, they had ‘em, and then a few years ago, they ripped them all out.” He shakes his balding head. “And there aren’t any Culver’s either.”
“Well, that’s too bad, I haven’t been in the Midwest in long time, I could really go for some frozen custard.”
“There’s always DQ.” I smile because I only ever hear people call it DQ in Minnesota.
“Yeah, but there are DQs everywhere,” I say.
There is a moment of silence, before the man looks up at me. Surprise in the corners of his eyes.
“There aren’t Culver’s everywhere?” he asks.
“Nope,” I say. “They’re just out here. I live in Utah and I’ve been going crazy for Culvers.”
He shakes his head, this final blow even more disappointing than the lack of Cinnabuns in the airport.
“I suppose they’ve never even heard of cheese curds out there,” he mumbles.
And I start to laugh, because not a month goes by that I don’t introduce someone in Utah to the novel idea of cheese dipped in batter, then deep-fried. Sold at carnivals, and the best of restaurants.
“Most of them haven’t,” I say. We both smile sadly, chuckle a little, and I turn to find food elsewhere.
Adventures in the Minneapolis Airport; Part Four
I did eventually find food. Deciding I’d rather spend five dollars and an hour of my time in a real restaurant, over five dollars and twenty minutes eating fast food that that will drive me to illness, I approach the hostess at one of several restaurants.
“Dinner for one?” she asks, and I say yes out loud, to prove to myself its not weird.
I had decided on the flight here to eat in a restaurant by myself, to prove that I could, and that I wasn’t scared of the idea.
I also made myself promise to act like a grownup and not read a book. I would sit, and eat my food like a normal human being. Because if I distracted myself from the fact that I was eating alone, my entire purpose would be defeated.
I am led to an area of the restaurant, filled with little tables, and few chairs. I can tell, this is the “Dinner for One” section.
I order a five-dollar salad, ordering myself to believe that it is better than the meatball sandwich and fries for the same price because it is healthier. I type away at my computer while I wait for the food, jotting down notes about the airport.
When the waiter returns with my food, I put away my laptop, and don’t look at what he’s brought me until he has left. When I do look at my food, I laugh. For real, out loud.
And people lean out from their booths to see the crazy, disheveled looking girl sitting in the “Dinner for One” section, laughing.
I was laughing for two main reasons, first: There is romaine lettuce, chopped up with chicken, cheese, and tomatoes, seeming like a perfectly normal and healthy salad. But stacked vertically on top of the greens is a tower of battered and deep-friend onion rings, and in case you weren’t sure if you had officially entered hick town yet, there is no dressing, but instead, barbeque sauce has been dumped over all of it.
That is the first reason: the onion rings and barbeque sauce. The second reason: that I looked at that weird food, and I found it totally appetizing.
I ate the entire salad and was grateful that it was so big, because I was so hungry. But I didn’t realize that I was a small town hick right down to my thrift store purse until I said to the waiter, with all sincerity and honesty, “thank you, that was the best salad I’ve ever had.”
Oh lord. It was. That’s what worries me.
“Here,” I say. That’s when I start to cry. I don’t cry for too long, either. Just a minute and just a little. I didn’t cry at all when we were losing altitude and I needed to pull out my journal to write down everything I saw.
Adventures in the Minneapolis Airport; Part One
Here’s what I wrote:
The clouds are all level, and it’s like looking down on a glass table top, with little piles of melting whipped cream sitting on top, or ice floating on a perfectly clear lake.
I notice the lakes; how could I not? They’re large and sprawling, strangely shaped, like half a muddy footprint filled in by the rain. Paul Bunyan was here for Lumberjack Day.
The horizon is blue, varying shades stacked on top of each other, uninterrupted by ugly, dirty mountains. The world goes on forever here, and I am not trapped in a right side up bowl.
Water towers. I see them before I notice anything else, and it brings me the closest to crying so far. After I see one, I see a dozen through the same small window. They stick up from the earth like squat skyscrapers, with bubbly heads, steely blue, or off-white, and I wonder for the first time where the rest of the world stores their water.
And baseball diamonds. They are everywhere. The reddish color of the dirt stands out from the greenish blue of everything else. They are everywhere; I count nine before I stop looking. I love baseball. I have always been only mediocre when playing, but if there is a place in America that loves its patriotic sport, it’s the Midwest.
Everything is in patches; there are patches of dark green trees, and almost square patches of emerald fields. There are patches of houses, and patches of city. Winding roads dart around everything, like a garter snake, unable to run straight, because they’d interrupt something. As we get closer to the ground, I can see that lakes aren’t the only water, and every bit of land not filled with buildings or trees is filled in. Little ponds, and little lakes. I count eight out my window, just on the airport grounds.
The pilot announces that it is forty degrees with twenty mile per hour wind, and I relish the thought. I want to get out and breath in the air, but my layover is only three hours, and an hour of that would have to be spent checking back in.
Adventures in the Minneapolis Airport; Part Two
I’m off the plane now. I can’t get the internet, so I won’t publish this until after I’m in Virginia.
Every time I look out the window, I have to tell myself “the sky in Utah sometimes looks like that. There’s nothing to cry about.” Or “There is nothing special about that road, just because it’s in Minnesota doesn’t make it better than other roads.”
I am sure about one thing though: the air. I feel suffocated in Utah, because the air is so dusty and so dry, but even in this building I already feel that I can really breathe. This is wet, cold air. It soothes the throat as soon as you suck it in.
Lana said, “The air in Arizona is like a big blanket.”
“A big down blanket that wraps you up, and tries to shove its corner down your throat to suffocate you,” said I. Maybe that was too cynical.
Maybe it was not cynical enough. I cannot seem to describe how much I hate Arizona. People are never willing to accept that my hate is genuine. Arizona is the anti-Christ to Minnesota. You cannot love the Lakers and the Jazz, right?
Right now a balding man with a toothpick in his mouth is taking a picture of a giggling group of Asian girls. They’re standing behind me, their arms wrapped around Snoopy in his bomber jacket and scarf.
Most of the people here are not native. Everyone in the history of airplanes seems to have a layover in Minnesota, but every now and again I catch a hint of a Minnesotan accent in someone passing by. I am doing very well, not crying, thank you very much.
But I am passing signs with loons on them, and the Twins logos. Lord. Why can’t I handle this? It’s the first time I’ve been here in over a year. I could probably claim Utah as soon as Minnesota.
But I don’t want to.
I love it here. This is home.
Here is home.
Adventures in the Minneapolis Airport; Part Three
“Excuse me,” I address the bent man behind the podium labeled Traveler’s Assistance.
“Yes?” he peers at me, a grin stretched across his face, and the phrase Minnesota Nice hits me kindly in the throat.
I cough it out. “I’m not sure if you’re who I ask,” I say. “But do you know if there’s a Culver’s in the airport?”
He shakes his head, as if he were as disappointed as me.
“No, no Culver’s and no Cinnabuns either.”
“No kidding?” I say, “this is just like a giant mall, you’d think the first thing they’d build would a Cinnabun!”
This is the type of polite and pleasant banter that strangers elsewhere do not participate in.
“Well, they had ‘em, and then a few years ago, they ripped them all out.” He shakes his balding head. “And there aren’t any Culver’s either.”
“Well, that’s too bad, I haven’t been in the Midwest in long time, I could really go for some frozen custard.”
“There’s always DQ.” I smile because I only ever hear people call it DQ in Minnesota.
“Yeah, but there are DQs everywhere,” I say.
There is a moment of silence, before the man looks up at me. Surprise in the corners of his eyes.
“There aren’t Culver’s everywhere?” he asks.
“Nope,” I say. “They’re just out here. I live in Utah and I’ve been going crazy for Culvers.”
He shakes his head, this final blow even more disappointing than the lack of Cinnabuns in the airport.
“I suppose they’ve never even heard of cheese curds out there,” he mumbles.
And I start to laugh, because not a month goes by that I don’t introduce someone in Utah to the novel idea of cheese dipped in batter, then deep-fried. Sold at carnivals, and the best of restaurants.
“Most of them haven’t,” I say. We both smile sadly, chuckle a little, and I turn to find food elsewhere.
Adventures in the Minneapolis Airport; Part Four
I did eventually find food. Deciding I’d rather spend five dollars and an hour of my time in a real restaurant, over five dollars and twenty minutes eating fast food that that will drive me to illness, I approach the hostess at one of several restaurants.
“Dinner for one?” she asks, and I say yes out loud, to prove to myself its not weird.
I had decided on the flight here to eat in a restaurant by myself, to prove that I could, and that I wasn’t scared of the idea.
I also made myself promise to act like a grownup and not read a book. I would sit, and eat my food like a normal human being. Because if I distracted myself from the fact that I was eating alone, my entire purpose would be defeated.
I am led to an area of the restaurant, filled with little tables, and few chairs. I can tell, this is the “Dinner for One” section.
I order a five-dollar salad, ordering myself to believe that it is better than the meatball sandwich and fries for the same price because it is healthier. I type away at my computer while I wait for the food, jotting down notes about the airport.
When the waiter returns with my food, I put away my laptop, and don’t look at what he’s brought me until he has left. When I do look at my food, I laugh. For real, out loud.
And people lean out from their booths to see the crazy, disheveled looking girl sitting in the “Dinner for One” section, laughing.
I was laughing for two main reasons, first: There is romaine lettuce, chopped up with chicken, cheese, and tomatoes, seeming like a perfectly normal and healthy salad. But stacked vertically on top of the greens is a tower of battered and deep-friend onion rings, and in case you weren’t sure if you had officially entered hick town yet, there is no dressing, but instead, barbeque sauce has been dumped over all of it.
That is the first reason: the onion rings and barbeque sauce. The second reason: that I looked at that weird food, and I found it totally appetizing.
I ate the entire salad and was grateful that it was so big, because I was so hungry. But I didn’t realize that I was a small town hick right down to my thrift store purse until I said to the waiter, with all sincerity and honesty, “thank you, that was the best salad I’ve ever had.”
Oh lord. It was. That’s what worries me.
I have to wake up in three hours
maybe I just won't go to sleep....
I leave this home at 5:30 in the am.
bah.
I need to shower or I'll be going on day three sans bathing.
I wish I had my iPod for my journey, but it's in Mesa.
I am excited to see you, following people: Grandma, Grandpa, Lauren, President Obama
I will miss you, following people: boyfriend and his family, roommates and their families, President Monson.
oops. I accidentally typed President Hinkley first, and had to correct it.
I miss you, Prophet.
I leave this home at 5:30 in the am.
bah.
I need to shower or I'll be going on day three sans bathing.
I wish I had my iPod for my journey, but it's in Mesa.
I am excited to see you, following people: Grandma, Grandpa, Lauren, President Obama
I will miss you, following people: boyfriend and his family, roommates and their families, President Monson.
oops. I accidentally typed President Hinkley first, and had to correct it.
I miss you, Prophet.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
i am sorry
i haven't had anytime lately. Here are the things that take up my time:
moving myself out
helping other people move out
and move in
spending time with Lana, Sophie, Travis, and Paige before i leave forever.
watching my new shows:
i have the entire first season of Flight of the Conchords
the first three series of The Mighty Boosh
and am making my way through all four of the OC.
anyways.
Cut down a tree today.
Eat a flapjack.
Wear some flannel.
Happy Lumberjack Day.
(aka: the manliest day of the year)
Monday, April 20, 2009
The BYU bookstore wants my money
I know this is true, because it is exerting all its energy to pull me into its trap.
Today, while strolling through, I passed a book of T.S. Eliot poetry for three dollars.
Above the book was a sign that declared everything an extra 20% off.
2.50$.
2.50 for T.S.Eliot.
I can spare 2 dollars, right?
The cashier held up the book.
"A lot of people have been buying this," she said.
"Yeah," said I. "For 2.50 how can they say no?"
"Is he a good poet?" she asked, reading off the cover, "T. S. Eliot?"
"Depends on what you like," I say. "He's a good modernist poet."
She stares at me.
for like thirty seconds.
"okay," she finally says.
Anyway, here is my summer book list. I am not including poetry, because even though I have TONS of new poetry, I usually just sit down and read for a half hour or hour and then read something else. I never read poetry books straight through. Anything to add? What are you planning on reading?
SUMMER READING BOOKLIST:
Extremely loud and incredibly close and Everything is Illuminated (both by Jonathon Safran Foer)
The Joy Luck Club (Amy Tan)
Gang Leader for a Day (Sudhir Venkatesh)
A Mercy and Jazz (both by Toni Morrison)
House on Mango Street (Sandra Cisneros)
Krik? Krak! (Edwidge Danticat)
Me Talk Pretty One Day (David Sedaris)
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay (Michael Chabon)
I Know Why the Cage Bird Sings (Maya Angelou)
Lakota Woman (Mary Crow Dog)
How The Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents (Julia Alvarez)
A Thousand Splendid Suns (Khaled Hosseini)
I'm currently half-way through Everything Is Illuminated. I know this seems like a lofty reading goal, but it has been over a year since I could really read leisurely, and I want to take complete advantage of it.
These are all books that have been recommended to me by actual people. Do you have other suggestions for me?
Thanks!
finals destroy me
when finals come a knocking, and beg me to study, work, buckle down, blah blah blah, I find that I cannot study, work, or buckle down AT ALL.
and I mean, AT ALL.
Instead of doing the above things, I find myself lounging at Lauren's or Sophie's. Painting. Watching movies. Stealing music. Being in the ER (don't worry, Travis is fine). Cutting my bangs. Eating Easter candy. Competing in Model-walk races. Riding my bike. Reading poetry. Filling my journal. Editing my book. Reading YA novels. Taking Facebook Quizzes. Going to the dollar theater. Eating pancakes for breakfast. Being barefoot. Blogstalking. Watching chick-flicks. Finding YouTube clips. Stealing Lauren's food. Stealing Lana's bedcouch. Watching movies like Walk the Line.
and of course,
What is wrong with me?
I should be prepping for my D&C Test.
Oh, did I mention that I am in the middle of my American Literature final RIGHT now?
Yeah, Good work.
and I mean, AT ALL.
Instead of doing the above things, I find myself lounging at Lauren's or Sophie's. Painting. Watching movies. Stealing music. Being in the ER (don't worry, Travis is fine). Cutting my bangs. Eating Easter candy. Competing in Model-walk races. Riding my bike. Reading poetry. Filling my journal. Editing my book. Reading YA novels. Taking Facebook Quizzes. Going to the dollar theater. Eating pancakes for breakfast. Being barefoot. Blogstalking. Watching chick-flicks. Finding YouTube clips. Stealing Lauren's food. Stealing Lana's bedcouch. Watching movies like Walk the Line.
and of course,
What is wrong with me?
I should be prepping for my D&C Test.
Oh, did I mention that I am in the middle of my American Literature final RIGHT now?
Yeah, Good work.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
I would so very much like to be a part of your protestacular,
Sparknotes is the best way to waste time ever.
This is why: They have links EVERYWHERE literally labeled "Procrastinate."
Okay, if you insist.
Today I found this article on how to NOT be an adult.
Sweet.
aDULLt entertainment
Save yourself. Now, now, now(!), before it’s too late.
This is why: They have links EVERYWHERE literally labeled "Procrastinate."
Okay, if you insist.
Today I found this article on how to NOT be an adult.
Sweet.
aDULLt entertainment
Save yourself. Now, now, now(!), before it’s too late.
Here’s the thing: You’re looking like an adult these days, you’ve got the same brain capacity as adults, but you haven’t yet picked up the slew of adult habits that make adults so… [insert finger down throat here].
In the coming years, you may be tempted to do the following list of things. DO NOT! They are the trappings of everything mundane and lame about being an adult, and you must avoid, avoid, avoid(!) if you wish to retain your optimistic worldview, full of wonder and possibility and late nights and junk food.
The HOW NOT TO BE List:
1. Do not adopt a fatalistic world view.
Something happens between the age of 18 and 40 when it comes to the way people perceive and explain things. Fueled by curiosity, young people want to answer questions about how the world works with acute analysis and humor.
Full on grown ups answer almost every tough question with, “It is what it is.”
“It is what it is?” What?!? No. Sorry. No thanks. We like to think we can assert some control on our world, and “it is what it is” might be the least inspiring, most resigned little motto we’ve ever heard.
2. Do not buy those speakers that look like giant rocks.
Ahhh, the giant rock speakers. Honestly, if you must spend time, energy and money primping your future suburban patio, build a coy pond. There is just something very wrong about Santigold blasting out of a gigantic, plastic rock. Just, no.
3. Do not “abuse” quotation marks.
Why so many “adults” do this is beyond us. Didn’t they ever go to “school” and “learn” that “quotations” are for “dialogue” and sometimes for things that aren’t “really true,” so we put “quotes” around them to show that we don’t believe it?!?! Do they “do this” because they actually don’t believe that “half” of what they “say” or “write” is actually true?!?!? Adults need to learn about italics and bold, and not totally misuse quotation marks.
4. Do not respond questions about “you” with answers about “we.”
Question to Adult: “Where do you live, Matilda?”
Adult Answer: “We live in a condo on a lake. We like it there, but we think we need to repaint the exterior this summer to something a little more subdued, like a nice mauve.”
Ehem. Well, we at SparkNotes say Congratu-frickin-lations, Matilda, that you’ve actually managed to find a mate who shares your enthusiasm for mauve, but you are allowed to have your own personality and opinions!
5. Do not say, “I only read nonfiction.”
Well, well, well, what do we have here? A Mr. Serious? A Mr. Pretentious? A Mr. Anti-Imagination? Sorry, sir, we’re going to have to hit you over the head with that 900-page book about the Six Day War because we think taking the fantasy out of your library is a bad plan that results in you becoming a major snoozer of a dude. Sorry sir, FAIL.
Cycles
I noticed I go through writing cycles.
For months I won't write a line of poetry, though I spend all my time scribbling away at my book.
and then, one day, I wake up, and can't write the last thirty pages of my book, because all I have a mind for is verse.
That circle has begun to repeat itself.
I am back into poetry phase.
NO, MY BOOK. I need to finish it, but I don't want to right now.
Yesterday I wrote a poem for Shakespeare as I walked across campus.
It is a haiku:
your poems are dumb
your plays are super boring
I hate you, William
these are the kind of gems I provide when I am in poetry mode.
among others.
also, I received no less than SEVEN (yes, seven) books of poetry for my birthday.
Thank you, friends.
For months I won't write a line of poetry, though I spend all my time scribbling away at my book.
and then, one day, I wake up, and can't write the last thirty pages of my book, because all I have a mind for is verse.
That circle has begun to repeat itself.
I am back into poetry phase.
NO, MY BOOK. I need to finish it, but I don't want to right now.
Yesterday I wrote a poem for Shakespeare as I walked across campus.
It is a haiku:
your poems are dumb
your plays are super boring
I hate you, William
these are the kind of gems I provide when I am in poetry mode.
among others.
also, I received no less than SEVEN (yes, seven) books of poetry for my birthday.
Thank you, friends.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
reasons I survive:
Today I had a sad day. These are the people who made me feel better.
These are my good, dear friends.
These are people whom I love beyond words.
And yet, even though I cannot describe them in words I was trying to think of ways to describe my friends in one word.
This is what I have.
Sophie the cultured.
That rivaled Sophie the hard-worker. Sophie the understanding.
Today when I sat on the couch crying she simply leaned over, wrapped her arms around me and said, "Today I cried at work, if it makes you feel better."
It did make me feel better.
Travis the grown-up.
That rivaled Travis the child.
He is the most grown-up of us, but he is also the biggest silliest kid, and that's exactly how I love him to be.
He let me sit in his office and sob. He let me eat all his food. He let me ride the scooter sans helmet.
Paige baby.
Paige the athletic.
That rivaled Paige the loyal. and Paige the genius. and Paige the giggly. Paige didn't even know I was sad today. She just came over and laid on the couch and let me read Whitman aloud to her for forty minutes. Then hugged us, and told us silly stories, and chased us up three flights of stairs.
Lana the granola.
That rivaled Lana the returned. Lana sat me down, told me a dozen funny things, thought-up some profound aphorisms, such as "we rarely have problems that we do not in some way cause ourselves." Then hugged me, and assured me, as only best friends can, that any problems I have created, or am faced with, I am equally able to conquer.
Lisa my sister.
That rivaled Lisa the rad. Lisa the beautiful. Lisa the cool one. Every time I go on Lisa's blog I feel happier. She didn't know I was having a sad day either, but she sent me a little message nonetheless. "I miss you," it said, "Is everyone being nice to you?"
I miss you too. I love you a lot today.
Lauren the artistic.
That rivaled Lauren the hilarious. Lauren the intellectual. "I am feeling sad, and all I want to watch is a movie to make me cry more," I said. "Finding Neverland it is," she said, and we sat on the couch sans pants, and bawled together. And I thought, what wonderful friends I have.
This is just so you all know, I have the best friends in the world.
I don't want you to be too jealous.
But a little jealous is fine.
These are my good, dear friends.
These are people whom I love beyond words.
And yet, even though I cannot describe them in words I was trying to think of ways to describe my friends in one word.
This is what I have.
Sophie the cultured.That rivaled Sophie the hard-worker. Sophie the understanding.
Today when I sat on the couch crying she simply leaned over, wrapped her arms around me and said, "Today I cried at work, if it makes you feel better."
It did make me feel better.
Travis the grown-up.That rivaled Travis the child.
He is the most grown-up of us, but he is also the biggest silliest kid, and that's exactly how I love him to be.
He let me sit in his office and sob. He let me eat all his food. He let me ride the scooter sans helmet.
Paige baby.Paige the athletic.
That rivaled Paige the loyal. and Paige the genius. and Paige the giggly. Paige didn't even know I was sad today. She just came over and laid on the couch and let me read Whitman aloud to her for forty minutes. Then hugged us, and told us silly stories, and chased us up three flights of stairs.
Lana the granola.That rivaled Lana the returned. Lana sat me down, told me a dozen funny things, thought-up some profound aphorisms, such as "we rarely have problems that we do not in some way cause ourselves." Then hugged me, and assured me, as only best friends can, that any problems I have created, or am faced with, I am equally able to conquer.
Lisa my sister.That rivaled Lisa the rad. Lisa the beautiful. Lisa the cool one. Every time I go on Lisa's blog I feel happier. She didn't know I was having a sad day either, but she sent me a little message nonetheless. "I miss you," it said, "Is everyone being nice to you?"
I miss you too. I love you a lot today.
Lauren the artistic. That rivaled Lauren the hilarious. Lauren the intellectual. "I am feeling sad, and all I want to watch is a movie to make me cry more," I said. "Finding Neverland it is," she said, and we sat on the couch sans pants, and bawled together. And I thought, what wonderful friends I have.
This is just so you all know, I have the best friends in the world.
I don't want you to be too jealous.
But a little jealous is fine.
a pathetic monday
Poor Travis.
Poor Lauren, Lana, and Sophie.
I am a weepy, blotchy-faced friend if ever they had one.
Today I felt sad. I started getting teary-eyed in Shakespeare while writing homesick poetry. (Stop judging me now, I know how pathetic I am, and that’s the first step.)
Then I walked to Travis’s work.
Midway through my first sentence I lost it.
I sat in his office and sniffled and wiped my eyes for the first half hour I was there.
For the last half-hour I broke down and sobbed.
Then we went to Travis’s house, where I was somewhat more composed.
But I ate a lot of food.
Then to my home, where Lana, Lauren, and Sophie snuggled me, and hugged me, and didn’t make me feel bad for crying at all.
We watched Finding Neverland, and all sobbed together. We went to Macaroni Grille and found that getting a 3 dollar cup of soup, and eating free bread is MORE than filling.
Then home for chocolate.
Home to see Paige.
And the reading aloud of Walt Whitman.
The playing of the guitar and the cursing of finals.
I haven’t been home in well over a year. I probably won’t be home any time soon.
That’s what made me cry today.
For apparently the first time, I realized that when I left home after my senior year of high school, I was signing myself away to maybe a life time elsewhere.
It never occurred to me that I might be leaving forever.
I always assumed that I’d return to raise my babies after a few years around the country or abroad.
But the more I think about it, the less I can believe that I’ll go home again.
This post may seem familiar.
That’s because every time the seasons change, I wish I were in Minnesota.
Spring in Utah means that it’s still winter mixed with summer with weird temperature everyday. There is grey, drizzly rain, and all the trees are blossoming.
Spring in Minnesota means the snow is dirty and melting. There are heavy thunderstorms, and the lakes are melting. The fields are green, and so is everything else, and there are birds making babies in the field behind my house.
The differences are slight, but it’s enough to make me sob all day.
I want to be home.
That’s all.
What would I do without the friends who keep me happy?
Sunday, April 12, 2009
2 Corinthians 13:12
Greet one another with a holy kiss.
My sister called me today to read me this scripture over Skype.
"It made me think of you," she said.
My sister called me today to read me this scripture over Skype.
"It made me think of you," she said.
If you can't imagine yourself being Peter Pan,
you won't be Peter Pan.
See this lovely book?
I own it. Lana bought it for me in London. On each and every page Lana has written little notes about her activities in Europe. Inside are tickets from plays, and train rides to Scotland. There is a leaf from Kensington Gardens, and grass from Stonehenge, and little British candy wrappers.
(this is a picture Lana took for me in Kensington Gardens)
some entries are very short, they say things like: 24.01.09 South Bank and West End
other entries are very detailed, written in minute handwriting like: Kensington Gardens: the air is cold and the smell of wet earth clings to your nose. There is a hushed awe over the grounds. Small animals and dogs are trotting around busily. A black Scottish Terrier sniffed my calf in greeting. A flock of fattened pigeons lighted around my feet, eager for my charity. I am sitting on a wooden bench, a hundred empty peanut shells are littered around my feet.
I wish I had a camera so that I could take pictures of the beautiful book so everyone could be jealous.
This is my dear friend Lana. Just hanging in Oxford.
For all Lana's stories of Europe and Provo, read her lovely blog.
See this lovely book?
I own it. Lana bought it for me in London. On each and every page Lana has written little notes about her activities in Europe. Inside are tickets from plays, and train rides to Scotland. There is a leaf from Kensington Gardens, and grass from Stonehenge, and little British candy wrappers.
(this is a picture Lana took for me in Kensington Gardens)some entries are very short, they say things like: 24.01.09 South Bank and West End
other entries are very detailed, written in minute handwriting like: Kensington Gardens: the air is cold and the smell of wet earth clings to your nose. There is a hushed awe over the grounds. Small animals and dogs are trotting around busily. A black Scottish Terrier sniffed my calf in greeting. A flock of fattened pigeons lighted around my feet, eager for my charity. I am sitting on a wooden bench, a hundred empty peanut shells are littered around my feet.
I wish I had a camera so that I could take pictures of the beautiful book so everyone could be jealous.
This is my dear friend Lana. Just hanging in Oxford.For all Lana's stories of Europe and Provo, read her lovely blog.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
You got old, Peter. You promised to never get old.
I am no longer a teenager.I am officially "in my twenties."
How strange.
Friday, April 10, 2009
lana face
lana is here, and I don't have a lot of pictures, but a lot has happened.
including, but not limited to: Vitas, henna, explosive car batteries, italian dinner crepes, tutus, british candy, and cardigans.
And, of course, KNIVES.
Lana came home from cooking school in London with a degree, and a GIANT SET OF KNIVES.
She would show them to us and then say, "This is the cleaver. In German it's called, the Hackmesser."
Lana said "This one is really sharp-arg. I cut myself."
(please notice her cool chef uniform)
including, but not limited to: Vitas, henna, explosive car batteries, italian dinner crepes, tutus, british candy, and cardigans.
And, of course, KNIVES.
Lana came home from cooking school in London with a degree, and a GIANT SET OF KNIVES.
She would show them to us and then say, "This is the cleaver. In German it's called, the Hackmesser."
Lana said "This one is really sharp-arg. I cut myself."(please notice her cool chef uniform)
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Edward can't read Bella's mind because she doesn't have one
(that title is unrelated to this post.)
(mostly)
I have been working the last several days in the same art class, (this is an art class of adults, mind you, they're all already in their majors and everything.)
and I've heard several interesting things.
First, I heard two women, both adults discussing nude modeling.
Woman 1: I was in a sculpting class at UCLA where we were supposed to be sculpting a nude person, it was so offensive and repulsive that I dropped out.
Woman 2: I know, why does anyone thing that nude art is okay?
W 1: It's not! It's only okay when it's for medical purposes!
W 2: I went to a lecture where a woman discussed how nude art glorifies women! More like, objectifies, and disgraces women, it's THE MOST disrespectful thing someone can do to the human body!
W 1: I went to a gallery last week, and the artist was there, and he showed me this beautiful, life-size painting. The colors, the lighting, the strokes, the proportions, everything was perfect, but the model was naked! He said, "what do you think?" I told him, "She needs a blanket." He looked at me, like, psh. He thought I was so uncultured and .... [trails off, and murmurs the word bigot]
W 2: Why don't people think that is pornographic?
W 1: All nudity is obscene.
Please remember that while this was happening, I was a few feet away, modeling in a bikini (because that is BYU's policy), and feeling like an object, but only because they seemed to think that I could not hear them. I was not a person, I was just the model.
and Really? the most disrespectful thing you can do to the body is PAINT it?
THEN a different set of women had THIS conversation:
Woman 3: Bleh, my last professor was trying to convince us of the merits of abstract art in my last class.
Woman 4: I hate abstract art, how can you understand it?
W 3: You can't. No one really likes any art besides realism.
Really. How neat.
Then I overheard another girl say that Twilight was good literature.
Kill me.
But don't worry, it's not just the art students. Remember this class? American Lit for English Majors.
Well the other day in this class, we read a short story.
When we discussed it, this was said:
Girl: Was the main character in this story white?
Prof: Yeah, of course. Why do you think there was so much racial tension with him and the African Americans in the story?
Girl: Well, if he was white, then why was he so poor and nomadic?
Prof: There are white poor people.
[moment of confused silence]
Girl: Even in the south in the 40s?
Really? REALLY?!
Then today after reading Sylvia Plath, a girl said, "I don't think this is poetry."
Prof: That's valid. Why not?
Girl: Well, it's very depressing, and poetry is supposed to be uplifting.
Prof: Not all poetry is uplifting.
Girl: If it's not uplifting, then it can't be poetry.
BkserbfiDBVEJkjbrfkjwergkrKJBEFehwfk.
ARGH!
The liberal arts.
The LIBERAL ARTS!
who named them such?
these are supposed to be the most liberal sections of all the student body, are they not?
(mostly)
I have been working the last several days in the same art class, (this is an art class of adults, mind you, they're all already in their majors and everything.)
and I've heard several interesting things.
First, I heard two women, both adults discussing nude modeling.
Woman 1: I was in a sculpting class at UCLA where we were supposed to be sculpting a nude person, it was so offensive and repulsive that I dropped out.
Woman 2: I know, why does anyone thing that nude art is okay?
W 1: It's not! It's only okay when it's for medical purposes!
W 2: I went to a lecture where a woman discussed how nude art glorifies women! More like, objectifies, and disgraces women, it's THE MOST disrespectful thing someone can do to the human body!
W 1: I went to a gallery last week, and the artist was there, and he showed me this beautiful, life-size painting. The colors, the lighting, the strokes, the proportions, everything was perfect, but the model was naked! He said, "what do you think?" I told him, "She needs a blanket." He looked at me, like, psh. He thought I was so uncultured and .... [trails off, and murmurs the word bigot]
W 2: Why don't people think that is pornographic?
W 1: All nudity is obscene.
Please remember that while this was happening, I was a few feet away, modeling in a bikini (because that is BYU's policy), and feeling like an object, but only because they seemed to think that I could not hear them. I was not a person, I was just the model.
and Really? the most disrespectful thing you can do to the body is PAINT it?
THEN a different set of women had THIS conversation:
Woman 3: Bleh, my last professor was trying to convince us of the merits of abstract art in my last class.
Woman 4: I hate abstract art, how can you understand it?
W 3: You can't. No one really likes any art besides realism.
Really. How neat.
Then I overheard another girl say that Twilight was good literature.
Kill me.
But don't worry, it's not just the art students. Remember this class? American Lit for English Majors.
Well the other day in this class, we read a short story.
When we discussed it, this was said:
Girl: Was the main character in this story white?
Prof: Yeah, of course. Why do you think there was so much racial tension with him and the African Americans in the story?
Girl: Well, if he was white, then why was he so poor and nomadic?
Prof: There are white poor people.
[moment of confused silence]
Girl: Even in the south in the 40s?
Really? REALLY?!
Then today after reading Sylvia Plath, a girl said, "I don't think this is poetry."
Prof: That's valid. Why not?
Girl: Well, it's very depressing, and poetry is supposed to be uplifting.
Prof: Not all poetry is uplifting.
Girl: If it's not uplifting, then it can't be poetry.
BkserbfiDBVEJkjbrfkjwergkrKJBEFehwfk.
ARGH!
The liberal arts.
The LIBERAL ARTS!
who named them such?
these are supposed to be the most liberal sections of all the student body, are they not?
Friday, April 3, 2009
i wish the rain in utah was full of thunder and lightning
I stole this picture from my sister Lisa's blog. She took it.Last night, I spent several hours in the rain.
"You know, we're the coolest people ever," said Travis.
"Who?" I asked.
"Us."
"You and I are the coolest people ever?"
"Look at us!" he said, "We're out in the rain, passing out fliers for Gallery Stroll."
Yeah we were.
In the rain.
For like two hours.
If you are in Provo, come to Gallery Stroll tonight, and you might win a glimpse of the two coolest people ever.
(travis and i.... come on!)
Also, please check out this video that Chris posted on his blog. EVERYONE will appreciate this. I promise. it's wonderful.
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