Experimentations

So Whoa

2012-01-18T18:16:00.000-08:00

Hi guys.

I am officially an English and German double major with a Philosophy minor.

I am also going to Germany for the month of August (and this birthday will be a heckuva lot better than last year).

I am not going to London im Sommer, nor am I going to minor in film.

I am a little bit dismayed.

I am graduating in December.

I am easily discouraged when people do not respond to me.

I am constantly cold.

I am trying with all my might to attend the Sasquatch festival.

I am kind of really poor right now.

I am open to change.

I am listening to really good music.

I am like a Wes Anderson movie.

I am in a very liminal place right now and am trying to be okay with it.

Love, Tana Treefeathers Frechem

HUGO

2012-01-11T14:41:00.000-08:00

So I am in a bet about facebook that involves me not going to there until February 1st. Hence the sudden upswing in blog posts. I WILL get my opinions out there, so help me.

And right now the thing I have the most opinions on is HUGO.

It's the best, most beautiful portrayal of divinity in the creative process. It's a direct argument to the "clock-maker God" model. It's a two hour justification of the humanities.

PLEASE TALK TO ME ABOUT THIS MOVIE.

Thanks.

Between Knees and Ankles

2012-01-10T07:30:00.000-08:00

Things I Like

2012-01-06T13:42:00.000-08:00

Trabis
(Angsty) Break-up albums
Peanut sauce (on everything)
House shows
Show houses
Puppies (especially chocolate lab mixes named Adz)
Naps
Ernest Hemingway
Talking
Touching
Walking to school
Living in the basement

Sundance With Me

2012-01-04T18:30:00.001-08:00

Films I want to see:

DETROPIA
Finding North
For Ellen (for Paul Dano)
Indie Game: the Movie
I AM NOT A HIPSTER
Imposter
Robot and Frank
Safety Not Guaranteed
SHUT UP AND PLAY THE HITS
Sleepwalk With Me
This Must Be the Place
Whiteonwhite:algorithmicnoir

I'm having a really hard time picking just a few.

Hashtag first-world problems.

Christ Was Love

2011-12-26T10:24:00.000-08:00

Happy day-after-Christmas. Boxing day? Yeah. Happy Boxing Day.

Christmas was beautiful this year. I have so many great people in my life.

I've been thinking a lot about that cute little story that gets emailed around so often; the one about the little kids putting on the school Christmas program. They were supposed to hold up letters spelling the phrase "CHRISTMAS LOVE," but the little girl holding the M had it upside down. Everyone chuckled until they realized that the message now held something deeper: "CHRIST WAS LOVE."

Love has been a big deal in my life for the past little while. I mean, Charity has always been one of my favorite aspects of the gospel, but this goes even beyond that. In the past year I've seen people start relationships, end them, long for them, and refuse them. I read most of Thomas Hardy's books, and determined that Love was a choice. I loved all of my friends, deeply and truly - I chose to do so. I read old conference talks and Papa Lewis. I liked friends, guys in my life, and I ached too much. So I went back to loving them and trying to figure out what I meant by it.

I just finished Hemingway's A Moveable Feast and am working through my feelings. It was a beautiful book, and honest. But truly sad. Sad in its articulation of the human will towards self-destruction. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stein, even Hemingway himself - they all spiraled out of happiness in pursuit of self-gratification posing as Love. And as nearly every Woody Allen movie can attest, relationships founded in solipsism find expression not in joy, but in a type of poignant melancholia.

"Love" (note the quotation marks, here implying our cultural projections of the term) has become a plague. Bandied about with every breath, the phrase has little real meaning left in it. Our own vain repetitions have almost robbed us of the purest experience that humans are capable of realizing. Our culture is obsessed with "love" - justified by it, actualized by it. For the past two years I have been lost in society's labyrinthine construction of the term. And whether "love" is the prize, the magic thread, or the minotaur, I doubt anyone could say. Regardless, though, we are constantly working to become une génération perdue.

Now, the day after Christmas, I've had an epiphany. It is so simple: Christ was Love. That's it. So, to be "in Love" with someone is to be "in Christ" with them. Isn't that the most true and beautiful thing you've ever heard?

I want to be in Love with everyone.

Thankful

2011-11-25T09:09:00.000-08:00

I have the greatest friends and family. Seriously. I had a nice small TG lunch with relatives, and then the best Friendsgiving the world has ever seen (culminating in the new Muppet movie).

Some things I'm grateful for (not all things, and not in order of importance):
Dubstep, trees, friend-people (Jared, Colin, Justin, Scott, Marie, Jana, Sarah, Gregory, Eric, Greg, Benjamin, Ashley, Brooke, Preston, Lance, Austin, Elisa, etc.), berries, driving, the scores of Russians who read my blog, Woody Allen, screaming, family-people (Mom, Maddy, Ifti, Gma P, A&A, A&B, J&M, M&K, R&K, D&T, D&S, A&E, Karen, Gma&Gpa, Cheryl, Casey, +40something cousins), M83, dancing, food, Star Trek, baking, Iceland, vinyl records, the Beatles, Papa Lewis, words, movies, harmony, the Burrow, the Dollhouse, blankets, crocheting, Andrew WK, Muppets, German, Andrew Bird, banjos, love, feathers, skirts with pockets, bluegrass, minesweeper, pumpkin, the law of consecration, scissors, FYE, being a Senior, the prospect of B-fast Thanksgiving, Ryan Gosling, cowboys, dancing again, rockabilly, England, hiking, cuddling, Pound Land, gradual change, guitars, incense, suburbia, Christmas music, hot water, gold paint, socks, discussions about Art, summer and winter and fall, heaters, palindromes, lightbulbs, service, noise, mountains, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, hymns, color.

There are a million more things, but it's a start.

I know some of the most talented, brave, kind, genuine, intelligent, funny, gifted, and holy people in the entire world. I lack the words to adequately express my convictions, but please don't doubt my sincerity: Thank you so much for being.

Not So Sad

2011-11-05T16:38:00.000-07:00

Do I only post when I am sad? No.

I am not sad now.

I am very very happy.

Blog

2011-10-12T06:03:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, how's it going?

I have the biggest favor to ask you: please follow my other blog. I'm being graded on the number of followers I get, so pretty pretty please just click that little follow button.

http://provomusicarchive.wordpress.com/

Thanks.

Come Down, Come Down, Sweet Reverence

2011-09-18T19:17:00.000-07:00

It's been a rough couple of weeks. I'm having a hard time with school, and that's translating over to life. When I feel incompetent in one aspect of my existence, that tends to spill over into other areas, too.

I'm also bad at handling people. They are too much of a responsibility for me to take. Like, I don't know how to make small talk, and I don't know how to access the deeper things that I want to talk about. So I don't say anything at all. But then people think I'm incapable of human conversation, and they give me these uncomfortable condescending looks and I want to be gone.

I think some of it is also PGSD (Post-Graduation Stress Disorder). I had a miniature panic attack this morning when I started thinking of what my after-college life is going to be like. What good will I do with degrees in English and German? How will editing a newspaper better the human condition? And with how bad the world is (cute starfish stories aside), what does it matter if I write a story of goodness and truth, even if it moves a million people? My words are so weak.

But then I was asked to concentrate on holy sacraments in my life: Consecrated actions and symbols - the ever-downplayed importance of physical interaction for holy communion. I've found comfort in the thought before, and offered these same ideas with love to others. Maybe I ought to listen to them myself. People are the thresholds into the realm of the divine. They're liminal, they love ambiguity, and they're hard to work with sometimes. But through them, with them, there's something much purer and more real.

That doesn't mean that the only real joy I'll ever find will be through people. I think I'll always love the mountains, the trees, the rivers just as much as any person in my life. The natural world represents a whole different part of God's love. Nature isn't disappointed in me, or embarrassed by me. The wilderness is stern and justly constant. Nature does not forsake.

You need both, I guess; you need to learn to accept and to be accepted. To cherish, and to be cherished. Equally difficult, equally sacred.

I've weathered the storm. I don't feel perfect, but I feel a little bit better. Emotion is holy.

So, come. Commune with me:

Movin' on my Mind

2011-09-03T08:18:00.000-07:00

I am the movement, the hot summer energy.
The fly, the panting dog, a flick of brown lizard tail.
I breathe sweat and rain and blood and rivers and bile and mud,
and sing the harmonies of thunder and sparrows.

I am (and will be ever!) the stillness, the waiting barn-cat.
The groan of wood on wood and bone on bone.
The sticky warm wet of the dying, and the sunset.

But we make no promises. Pull your plow,
and watch your mountains.

Old

2011-07-29T11:04:00.000-07:00

I found this in my email account. I don't remember when I wrote it - sometime last year, probably. I'm pretty sure this is my first attempt at writing personal essays, and, though not really a separate genre, wilderness writing.

J’essaye

“’I sound my barbaric YAWP!!!’”

I spat the phrase through the cold mountain air and held my breath to hear it spat right back. The sky glowed with that liminal light that suggests equally either an imminent dawn or an impending dusk. Trying to capture such unbelievable beauty on paper after the fact seems like some sort of blasphemy . . . a vain repetition of the original statement made in its creation. Yet, somehow, it feels like I have this heavy responsibility to the rest of humanity. I have to convey this experience to those poor millions who have never and will never witness a cold winter morning in Spanish Fork canyon firsthand.

Nature always makes me feel like this – like I’m supposed to tell its story, even though I’ll never really be able to. There’s some sort of divine unobtainability that at once draws me in because of its mystery, and in the same breath sends me away because I simply cannot hope to understand it. But I keep trying, because if I can convey even one tenth of the majesty of a singing waterfall, or a quivering pine, or the gasp of autumn leaves underneath a worn old hiking shoe, I’d be more than satisfied.

That’s why I started to study English. If BYU offered a “Hiking and the General Outdoors” degree, I’d be the first to sign up. But they don’t. So English seemed like the next best thing. Let me explain: Years ago when Shakespeare first created his man Hamlet, he put into his mind one question – “To be, or not to be?” He could just as easily have asked, “To write, or not to write?” For me there’s no distinction. Existence in the physical world is founded upon the idea that we are to become little gods and goddesses and also that we need some practice before we get there.

But how much practice? How many times will I cut my soft pink lungs with frigid mountain air before I can adequately describe the taste of falling snow? How many times will I scrape my skin before I can convey the smell of blood and earth through ink and paper? How many times will I see the poetry of a bird in flight before I, too, can sing his song?

Standing atop Double-O arch, I found no answers. The rocks there were warm and living, smoothed by a loving wind. A sole black raven circled overhead, reading the drafts and swimming in currents that I couldn’t see. The thermometer read as high above 50 degrees as the winter canyon read below it. Past conquerors had carved their names into the red stone, letting me know the Steve had been there, and that J. H. plus M. P. equals love forever. Were they right? Did cutting a story into stone make it any more real? Who knows if Steve had actually been there? And are J and M still in love like they promised me? A tiny trickle runs from the base of my sweating water-bottle, carving its own story into the red stone for a heartbeat or ten until it vanishes in the hot air.

Are my stories doomed to the same fate?

Walking along an Oregon seashore, I had a similar impression. Along the beach were dozens of small holes. Perfect and empty circles marring the smooth sand. I walked until I saw one that wasn’t empty. A little mound of gel sat in the middle - a dying jellyfish. Or maybe it was already dead. And I was jealous of it. Jealous of a tiny mound of goo that may or may not have (ever) been capable of thought. Jealous because even if the little thing were to shrivel up and vanish, it would still have left a mark. And maybe, in a few million years, someone would find the little depression fossilized in the sand like those from its gigantic ancestors. Someone would find it and imagine its story: how it lived in the cool Pacific waters, and how it bred and how it was finally washed up on a beach where it sat in the sun until it died. But no one would know about the 19-year-old girl who stood over him and wept at the bitterness of life and its end before taking a picture to show her sick mother.

In a way, I’m on the same plane as that jellyfish. All I envied him was the story I had created for him. In reality the waves probably erased his last resting place. And even if it did survive to become a fossil, who can guarantee that it would ever be discovered, or be recognized for what it really was? The paleontologist digging him up will never really know what it was like to be a jellyfish. All they’ll see is the hole in the ground that holds the part of him that meant nothing. They’ll see a grave where he never lived and where he was never happy.

Is this what I love? A nature that swallows up stories? An earth that erases all tales in the telling of her own? No. I love a world that lets me tell my story with her. Or, rather, I love a world that allows me to be a spot, a letter, a word, a line in the great poem of existence.

An old professor of mine once read a passage about a woman who took a walk in the woods. She wandered off the path through some autumn leaves. She stumbled and fell to her knees, hands splayed in the wet earth to catch herself. But she didn’t get up. She stayed there because that was the appropriate position for worship. I didn’t write down the author of that book, or even the title, and have since spent hours looking for those few sacred lines. But even if I never find the book again, I have something better: I have been that woman.

Perhaps her story was really mine. Maybe it was never actually written in a place that anyone would read, but it comes to people who need it. I write it in the footprints left on a dusty trail, and in the grass bent over from the weight of a sleeping-bag.

It would be wrong to say that there is no poetry in these things I do. But it would be just as wrong to say that there is none in the things I write. The French have it right when they say, “J’essaie;” Self and the written word are inseparable. I will sound my barbaric YAWP! as often as I can – and if it echoes from these pages as clearly as it does between canyon walls, well, all the better.

Foxes and Mountains

2011-07-23T09:38:00.000-07:00

The Fleet Foxes concert last night was so beautiful. The light of the dying sun bled red and gold down the hill's face, while a warm animal breath of wind teased leaves and hair.

O my mountains!

And this video is just because I am absolutely in love with Mountain Man right now.

Synthesis

2011-07-16T14:56:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm back. I've been back for a while now, but I've been feeling fairly lackadaisical about writing. What else is new?

I'm worried about falling into the pattern of so many before me, back from a different country and incapable of talking about anything but the differences between here and there. Not everyone wants to hear about how much easier it is to be a vegetarian in England, or about Poundland, or the tragic, tragic Mud-Swallow situation.

And, really, that isn't what the trip was about. My major preoccupation, of late, has been the quality of human interaction in "natural" situations. I've been reading Walden, Desert Solitaire, and Into the Wild over the last week or so, and I really am fascinated by the "Wilderness Code of Conduct." So many people advocate the embrace of solitude in Nature. And having explored my fair share of this green earth, I'd agree that Nature itself (or, grant me my personification of divine femininity, herself) is a holy thing really experienced in moments of spiritual aloneness. A unique and beautiful communion.

What I struggle to comprehend, then, is the need for other people in the wilderness. People who really do enter Nature entirely alone end up in situations like Chris McCandless or Aron Ralston. The Wild is too big to tackle singlehandedly, so we set up rules of respect for fellow wanderers and for the land itself. To anyone who has ever found their way following a small trail of cairns, you know that you are a member of a community, regardless of whether or not you literally walk alone.

Maybe that's the appeal. Nature isn't a substitute for human interaction, but a sort of preparation for it - an extended metaphor, maybe. Because while on a basic level it's one step removed from the reality of humanity, it is, by that same character, simplified. Nature doesn't send mixed signals - it speaks boldly and loudly.

I need more of that simplicity and security in my life. I'm not going to end this post (as I sincerely was tempted to do) "I am going into the wild." Instead, I'll offer a thought on the beauty of travel: The best part of going away is the coming home. Yes, I'm currently a vagabond. But aren't we all, really? I'll enjoy my few weeks of homelessness as much as I have enjoyed the rest of my 21-year period of transience. And meanwhile, I'll just imagine how nice it'll be one day to finally go back home.

Joyas Voladoras

2011-06-30T09:50:00.001-07:00

A gorgeous essay by Brian Doyle.

Consider the hummingbird for a long moment. A hummingbird's heart beats ten times a second. A hummingbird's heart is the size of a pencil eraser. A hummingbird's heart is a lot of the hummingbird. Joyas voladoras, flying jewels, the first white explorers in the Americas called them, and the white men had never seen such creatures, for hummingbirds came into the world only in the Americas, nowhere else in the universe, more than three hundred species of them whirring and zooming and nectaring in hummer time zones nine times removed from ours, their hearts hammering faster than we could clearly hear if we pressed our elephantine ears to their infinitesimal chests.

Each one visits a thousand flowers a day. They can dive at sixty miles an hour. They can fly backwards. They can fly more than five hundred miles without pausing to rest. But when they rest they come close to death: on frigid nights, or when they are starving, they retreat into torpor, their metabolic rate slowing to a fifteenth of their normal sleep rate, their hearts sludging nearly to a halt, barely beating, and if they are not soon warmed, if they do not soon find that which is sweet, their hearts grow cold, and they cease to be. Consider for a moment those hummingbirds who did not open their eyes again today, this very day, in the Americas: bearded helmetcrests and booted racket-tails, violet-tailed sylphs and violet-capped woodnymphs, crimson topazes and purple-crowned fairies, red-tailed comets and amethyst woodstars, rainbow-bearded thornbills and glittering-bellied emeralds, velvet-purple coronets and golden-bellied star-frontlets, fiery-tailed awlbills and Andean hillstars, spatuletails and pufflegs, each the most amazing thing you have never seen, each thunderous wild heart the size of an infant's fingernail, each mad heart silent, a brilliant music stilled.

Hummingbirds, like all flying birds but more so, have incredible enormous immense ferocious metabolisms. To drive those metabolisms they have race-car hearts that eat oxygen at an eye-popping rate. Their hearts are built of thinner, leaner fibers than ours. Their arteries are stiffer and more taut. They have more mitochondria in their heart muscles -- anything to gulp more oxygen. Their hearts are stripped to the skin for the war against gravity and inertia, the mad search for food, the insane idea of flight. The price of their ambition is a life closer to death; they suffer heart attacks and aneurysms and ruptures more than any other living creature. It's expensive to fly. You burn out. You fry the machine. You melt the engine. Every creature on earth has approximately two billion heartbeats to spend in a lifetime. You can spend them slowly, like a tortoise, and live to be two hundred years old, or you can spend them fast, like a hummingbird, and live to be two years old.

The biggest heart in the world is inside the blue whale. It weighs more than seven tons. It's as big as a room. It is a room, with four chambers. A child could walk around in it, head high, bending only to step through the valves. The valves are as big as the swinging doors in a saloon. This house of a heart drives a creature a hundred feet long. When this creature is born it is twenty feet long and weighs four tons. It is waaaaay bigger than your car. It drinks a hundred gallons of milk from its mama every day and gains two hundred pounds a day and when it is seven or eight years old it endures an unimaginable puberty and then it essentially disappears from human ken, for next to nothing is known of the mating habits, travel patterns, diet, social life, language, social structure, diseases, spirituality, wars, stories, despairs, and arts of the blue whale. There are perhaps ten thousand blue whales in the world, living in every ocean on earth, and of the largest mammal who ever lived we know nearly nothing. But we know this: the animals with the largest hearts in the world generally travel in pairs, and their penetrating moaning cries, their piercing yearning tongue, can be heard underwater for miles and miles.

Mammals and birds have hearts with four chambers. Reptiles and turtles have hearts with three chambers. Fish have hearts with two chambers. Insects and mollusks have hearts with one chamber. Worms have hearts with one chamber, although they may have as many as eleven single-chambered hearts. Unicellular bacteria have no hearts at all; but even they have fluid eternally in motion, washing from one side of the cell to the other, swirling and whirling. No living being is without interior liquid motion. We all churn inside.

So much held in a heart in a lifetime. So much held in a heart in a day, an hour, a moment. We are utterly open with no one, in the end -- not mother and father, not wife or husband, not lover, not child, not friend. We open windows to each but we live alone in the house of the heart. Perhaps we must. Perhaps we could not bear to be so naked, for fear of a constantly harrowed heart. When young we think there will come one person who will savor and sustain us always; when we are older we know this is the dream of a child, that all hearts finally are bruised and scarred, scored and torn, repaired by time and will, patched by force of character, yet fragile and rickety forevermore, no matter how ferocious the defense and how many bricks you bring to the wall. You can brick up your heart as stout and tight and hard and cold and impregnable as you possibly can and down it comes in an instant, felled by a woman's second glance, a child's apple breath, the shatter of glass in the road, the words I have something to tell you, a cat with a broken spine dragging itself into the forest to die, the brush of your mother's papery ancient hand in a thicket of your hair, the memory of your father's voice early in the morning echoing from the kitchen where he is making pancakes for his children.

Love and Knitting

2011-04-18T21:36:00.000-07:00

Coolest video ever:

Sometimes

2011-04-14T22:51:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I get frustrated that this little town is so lonely, but doesn't have any places to just be alone.

I really need these next 10 days to be over.

Good Things

2011-04-08T07:18:00.000-07:00

Helplessness

2011-04-03T18:18:00.000-07:00

Yeah I'm tongue tied and dizzy
And I can't keep it to myself.
What good is it to sing helplessness blues?
Why should I wait for anyone else?

The latest Fleet Foxes album is beautiful.

Wanderlust

2011-03-18T07:15:00.000-07:00

Good morning.

Winter is slowly sleeping. And I am getting that wonderful itching in my bones.

I want to be moving again. I want to be running, jumping, swimming, swinging, singing. I want an interpretive dance party to the Fleet Foxes in the middle of a meadow. I want sweet summer kisses. I want heartbeats and drumbeats. I want fresh peaches and honey, and tree-bark scraped inner thighs. I want worn copies of Walt Whitman. I want baskets and farmers markets and sundresses. I want that warm-belly feeling.

"Summer in the Mountains" by Li Po

Gently I stir a white feather fan,
With open shirt sitting in a green wood.
I take off my cap and hang it on a jutting stone;
A wind from the pine-tree trickles on my bare head.

Here it goes again

2010-12-21T15:19:00.000-08:00

Well, finals are over, and despite the fact that I put in next to no effort on them (or, really, into any of my classes after the last three weeks or so), it looks like I'll be pulling all A's and A-'s.

I got accepted into my study abroad program, but when I got the email, I suddenly had these insane second thoughts. Like about how England is really far away and how I don't know if it's really a legitimate thing to spend $5000 on. Damn.

But, even though apathy seems to have taken a pretty strong hold on my life, I'm still pleased with things. I still enjoy the rich blessings. I love where I work. I meet wonderful people and they all have stories to tell. It really is a holy experience. Dozens of sacred moments piled one on top of the other.

I'm having some transcendentalistic stirrings, again. I went skinny dipping at the hot springs, and read WW aloud to the trees.

Also, poetry is just about pouring out of me. Maybe I'll post some later. After True Grit tonight.

On Tana's Hatred of the Human Race

2010-11-17T14:04:00.000-08:00

I'm sick of ignorant asses.

That's all there is to it. Forgive the language, but really.

First: I am sick to death of idiots who base all of their music preferences on what is or isn't popular. On the one end of the spectrum, you've got people who listen to whatever is "cool" simply because the nebulous collective (of which I refuse to call myself a member) has deemed it so. And at the opposite end, you've got people who refuse to like something because other people embrace it. These people irk me even more, if possible, than the first group. They're people who approach popular bands, both the good and the bad, and reject them on the premise that if several hundred people have stupidly latched on to one or two songs, the band's whole repertoire must be full of opiate for the masses.

What the hell? The public in general is not a particularly keen body. Persons are smart; people are not. Look at how people act in mobs, in wars, etc. It's chaos. YES, there are exceptions. I'm not addressing them. I'm saying that as a whole, humans don't always make the best choices. So why on Earth would you base your preferences on "popular opinion"? Try actually listening to music for a change. And, by the way, it's still possible to realize a band's talent and see what they've done for the progression of music without worshipping them. If you have a legitimate reason for disliking the Beatles or Queen, you can still acknowledge that they were groundbreaking. But popularity does not equal ability. Open your effing ears.

Second: Why on earth do people feel the need to say unkind things about appearances or choices that they don't agree with? Yes, my hair is short. No, you don't need to write rude poems about short hair and then read them aloud. It's fine if you don't like it, but you don't have to be mean about it.

Finally: It's just common courtesy that when you tell someone you're going to do something, DO IT.

Sorry. I'm angry. I don't want to talk anymore.

Apology #287

2010-10-28T09:17:00.000-07:00

Again, I have been lax. Again, I beg your forgiveness. You, that imaginary, ever-demanding readership. So needy.

I ran the Dirty Dash. It was lovely.

I work at the Parlor. We listen to good music and make good food. Please come visit me.

I have an essay to write: Revulsion. But when oh when?

I'm keeping my head above the water, but just barely. Just. Barely.

I have to write a poem, but I'd rather use one of my old ones. I don't feel particularly poetic. Or, maybe, I don't want to feel particularly poetic. Because who am I anyway? Who am I to put words where they belong? Who am I to arrange them to sing when all they want to do is cry, cry, cry.

I still love baking, though I have little time.

Halloween? Hah. I haven't a costume.

I want to paint and sing and dance and love and hike and live, oh how I want to live.

Take comfort, readers. I'll be back to myself before long. And then some real posts, not just this inane drivel.

While you're waiting for me to get back, though, listen to this:

Sprawl

2010-09-11T21:10:00.000-07:00

I propose a reinvention of good intentions.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Arcade Fire's new album is white hot. Buy it. Put it in your CD player. Crank the base until you feel it deeper than your own heartbeat.

Hopes and Dreams

2010-08-31T07:03:00.000-07:00

Good morning all!

School has started once again, and I am just so dang happy about it. My classes are lovely, my classmates are lovely, and my teachers are lovely.

Rick Duerden, in particular, is going to be one of my favorite this semester, I can already tell. He's passionate and funny, and just what I need in my life right now. See, I sometimes have this awful habit of second-guessing myself. So right around the beginning of the semester every year I have a mini-panic attack because I'm worried that maybe studying English and German isn't going to be a sound enough choice. That maybe I ought to suck it up and swallow back my distaste for Chemistry or Biology or whatever and start getting a more specific education.

And then people like Rick come along, and explain that in studying English, we don't have to be good little fascists. We can think for ourselves! No no no, I can think for myself! An' that's the truth, isn't it? Because by thinking independently, perhaps we really can, as Rick put it (in his best imitation of the Brain), "TRY TO TAKE OVER THE WORLD!"

Some of my other classes terrify me a little bit; they're going to challenge me. But I love that. I love trying to break out of my little self-contained world and talking to other people.

And despite the fact that I'm going to have to kiss my social life goodbye, this semester seems like it's going to be a good one. I almost got to move into a house, which made me really really happy (because I love old houses very very much), but it didn't quite work out. But I'm happy with that, too, because I have two of the best roommates anyone could ask for. So if this is where I'm meant to be (and there's nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be), then I'm just pleased as punch to see what lies in store.

Flight of Fancy

2010-08-11T09:42:00.000-07:00

Oh how the sea,
To you and me
sings a longing ecstasy.

Hey friends. I know it's been a while since we last talked. I didn't mean to neglect you . . . It'll never happen again. Or, it probably will, but it doesn't mean I love you any less.

Wow, a lot has happened since I posted last. After McCartney (and the confirmation that perhaps we really might be able to give peace a chance), I fled.

I don't know what from; maybe everything, or maybe nothing. All I know is that I jumped into Artie, and sped off after a dream. Following were a night of satisfaction, a day of joy, a night of terror, a day of bliss, a night of despair, a day of anxiety, and a night of relief.

My birthday was gear. We saw Inception at a drive-in, which brought back a childhood euphoria that I haven't felt in YEARS. It was a funny way to kick off my entrance into (what I feel to be) the real realm of adulthood. My doll of a coworker called these my "salad years." When I inquired as to what he meant, he simply replied, "You know, fresh!"

I'm dismayed by how little I read this summer, but I've seen more movies than you can shake a stick at. I've become a zombie-movie connoisseur, a die-hard Woody Allen fan, and a sucker for indie films. Micmacs, Into the Wild, and 28 Days Later are probably some of the most beautiful movies ever made.

Sir Macca's Meat-Free Monday campaign has renewed my enthusiasm for vegetarianism. Go veg!

Ich liebe dich. Je t'aime. Yo te amo. I love you.

I guess I'm done

2010-07-09T22:43:00.000-07:00

I love these people.

And these people, too.

So yesterday, after my third consecutive day of being at the store for 10 hours, I lost it. I closed early, and blew off cleaning to go see a couple of shows (the above-mentioned beloveds) and get a strawberry-oreo milkshake.

Totally worth it.

And as a side note, in less than 72 hours, I will be watching Paul McCartney. It's funny: I've been brushing up on the Beatles songs that I can play on guitar. I think it's because I secretly hope that Paulie will hurt his hand (in a very mild way), and that no one else in his band will know the songs, so he'll have to ask the audience, "Can anyone here play Jenny Wren?" to which I will triumphantly respond in the affirmative, and then me and my favorite Beatle will rock out together.

Don't judge me.

Macca, baby!

2010-07-05T22:00:00.000-07:00

"There's a fine line between recklessness and courage"
- Paulie . . . Who else?

Hello friends. Life is swell.

There's a very deep-seated comfort that seems to be engulfing every aspect of my life, and it's so beautiful.

The agenda for this week is looking a little intimidating: Work everyday from 11-9. Yikes. But I do get to have a movie night with Taylor, and I also start official half-marathon training. Which is something that makes me wicked excited, because it's about progress and self-betterment - things that I am quickly discovering give my life a thrilling new energy. I live to strive!

But I also live to be happy. So after Jon is back from Havasupai and can cover my shifts, I am Oregon bound. I've got a beautiful friend who gave me a nice little list of things to see and do while I'm there, too.

Oh, and did I mention that I'm going to see Paul McCartney in concert?

PAUL EFFING MCCARTNEY. Like, the real live (vegetarian) Beatle!

Sometimes my life is just too marvelous for words.

Payson

2010-06-27T20:45:00.000-07:00

It's funny what life throws at you. I took Claudio in for his yearly Safety and Emissions inspection, and it turns out that he's got a broken motor mount. Which wouldn't be such a big deal if he were anything other than a 1999 Hyundai Sonata. But since he is a 1999 Hyundai Sonata, it's going to cost $400 to get it replaced. Rough. But we take it in stride. I'm hoofing it a whole bunch more, and that's a win-win situation, both for me and the environment.

Plus, as of Tuesday, I'll have a very nice bike to ride around. Conveniently, that'll be just in time for the cross-training portions of my preparation for the Provo Halloween Half Marathon. I kind of surprised myself with this whole thing. I know it's not a full one, but running 13.1 miles is still a big deal (especially for someone as fitness-challenged as yours truly). My official training schedule doesn't start until July, after this whole vegan thing is done, but unofficial training started this week. I'm wicked excited.

I actually got the motivation from the marvelous people who sprung a last-minute camping trip on me. We went up to Payson Lakes and did some hiking/walking/trailrunning/generally awesome things. We swam the lakes, talked about everything and nothing, and had a blast.

Oh good people, I love you!

GOAL!

2010-06-20T23:10:00.000-07:00

Wow. These last couple of weeks have been life-changing. Or rather, motivational to make some sort of change. I'm embracing counter-culture. I am living for the music of the moment. Hipster, Hippie, call me what you will; I am happy.

Sadly, though, I think I'm lacking a lot of direction. I'm full of this jittery energy that keeps spilling into nothing. So, here are a list of goals - things that I want to do - because by writing them, I validate them. Watch me go:

1. Continue with the vegan-ness. At the end of the month, reevaluate vegetarianism.

2. Write a song. Stop just screwing around with my guitar and make something performable at open-mic night.

3. Draw/Paint something to be proud of. Hang it up in my new room.

4. Conquer the UTA system. Make it up to SLC and eat at One World.

5. Find something decent at DI. Change it.

6. Write letters. Stop being so reliant on technology.

7. In the same vein: 15 minutes of computer time a day. Facebook doesn't own me.

8. Keep up the hour of yoga every day. Imitate Bryan Kest in everyday life.

9. Learn more about Buddhism. Go beyond Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Riding.

10. Get out of Utah. Hop a train to Oregon.

11. Tell people how amazing they are. Stop waiting around for them to talk first.

12. Hug more. All you need is love.

13. Buy a cycle. Scratch that - buy two cycles: one bi- and one motor-

14. Go green. Walk to work (and, again, conquer UTA).

15. Let people go. Clean out address books usw.

16. Learn Spanish and French. Practice practice practice.

17. Explore Neo-Psych . . . Man.

18. Buy a camera. Take photos and shake 'em like Polaroids.

19. Research med schools. Change major?

20. Visit HBLL twice a week. Pick a floor and area at random, and find one book on something completely new.

That's all I've got for now. I'll think up more later.

So much to do!

Breathe

2010-06-19T08:27:00.000-07:00

"Don't you know it's gonna be alright?" -John Lennon, Revolution 1

Yes, John. I do.

Things are better. We're being positive. And listening to really great music.

Terror

2010-06-14T11:57:00.000-07:00

My mom has cancer.

Not real. Not real. Not real.

Spotless

2010-06-11T21:46:00.000-07:00

So I have this amazing friend with great taste in just about everything. At his behest, I watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

I loved it.

I'm pretty sure that a cuter scene does not exist:

Fog

2010-06-04T21:50:00.000-07:00

Night creeps cold and lonely into hospital rooms. Soft, neutral colors turn sick in the dim fluorescent light, and bodies in beds turn sick with them. It smells antiseptic. I long for the hot, thick air of my own bedroom. My chair sounds ancient, but without a personality. The old red and white book resting open on my leg, and the sound of breathing from the bed next to me offer a mild comfort; still, I cannot believe that people come here to get well.

I'm tired. People are so unbelievably delicate. It's exhausting to try and keep everything together. But we soldier on, eh?

Ahem. Sorry. Dearest readers, prayers and love would be much appreciated, if you can spare them. I promise to reciprocate.

Untitled

2010-05-27T01:01:00.000-07:00

I am tiredly relieved.

Rather than wasting my time on manufacturing a synthetic facade of stability, I can devote myself to the arbitrary goals that summer seems to demand. Things like finishing off the plethora of eggs, milk, cheese, and other assorted animal products before June 1 when I will begin my month of vegan-ness. Or getting through 3 books a week. Or doing yoga in the mountains.

I guess Paul Simon said it best:

Apologies

2010-05-07T12:51:00.000-07:00

I have great vision for this blog. I really do.

But when I sit down to write, the incredible vastness of what I want to say hits me in the face and I run out of breath just thinking about it.

Here, for example: I'm reading a book called Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer (because ILL is stupid and instead of sending JM Coetzee's Waiting for the Barbarians [you know, the novel by the Nobel Prize winning author], they sent me some collection of political essays by a guy named Lapham, so 'til they get me the correct Coetzee book, I'm killing time with books on vegetarianism). It deals a lot with the concept of animal consciousness, definition of self and other (which is part of why I love Jonathan Safran Foer - he brings in Derrida and Kafka, too), and the question of essential mercy (both for animals and human social existence). Which brings up my ever-changing definition of (and relationship to) God. Like, I do believe in a merciful divinity; I feel like I have to. But, goodness, does Romans 9 have to be so harsh? So then I start thinking about the connotations of mercy with the feminine and wonder where the female role lies in the realm of the divine. Does the role really differ all that much? I mean, Christ was a blend of so many traits traditionally classified as "masculine" and "feminine." Am I just missing the mark on a really basic level? Maybe my severely limited human mind is just balking at these concepts that fly so far overhead. The heart of Mormonism, for me, is living a Christlike life. I try to live in a charitable Christian manner, though skewing it sometimes. Until recently, I sincerely valued the existence of others above my own, but a development of more blatant introversion has revealed the flaws of that mindset. I'm starting (well, more than just starting) to understand the magnificence and importance of developed selfhood. Rumi's poetry collection, Feeling the Shoulder of the Lion, has some really good insights on that (on the same level as Gibran's The Prophet). I read some of it yesterday on a hike, and it felt like a huge push (ironically) towards some kind of connection on a very spiritual level. I've started to resurrect my fascination with Transcendentalism recently (did it ever die?), because it feels like an access to some type of holy moment. My coworker James was discussing the need for an appreciation of life for what it is now, the wonder of the present, because you can't hold out continuously for an uncertain result. I agree, and I like that it doesn't need to put morality on hold. If every moment is divine, we still need to live in a way deserving of that divinity, while simultaneously allowing the moment itself to propel us onward and upward. Something along the lines of a perpetual breath of renewal and redemption - helping to actualize while actualizing. And all of that gives so much weight to the little words we speak on a day-to-day basis, because we are identifying (creating?) and uniting the taste of the word on the tongue with its music to the ear and its visual representation for the eye. If we can find beauty in one of those senses, why not all? I've recently started experiencing a strange bloom of euphoria when I hear people say my name. Oh, Bloom. "Being who he wasn't, could be as he wished to be . . . " And unfortunately this blog post has become something akin to Ulysses (though on a pathetically small scale; Joyce, you are still my master).

It's almost terrifying, huh? Everything is so darn intertwined.

Here, accept these as my apology:

Spencer Russell (Mudbison) - Wait For Me from DonaMajicShow on Vimeo.

Bitter

2010-04-30T15:19:00.000-07:00

Hello world.

I'm going a little crazy. Summer was here, but now it's in hiding. Boo. It's not that I don't absolutely love the overcast sky, or the soft drizzly rain - - on the contrary. But I am a cold-blooded thing, and have a very difficult time functioning when it's 60 degrees in my apartment.

However, despite the freezing temperatures that refuse to depart, I still manage to get things done. Like hikes to the hot springs and vegetarian lunches.

A recent preoccupation with The Shins (oh, James Mercer) has stirred an acute desire to comprehend time and fate. So I meander around in the mountains, hoping to stumble over an answer to a question I don't think I could even verbalize.

Dinner on Tuesday made me realize how much I absolutely adore my family. Other people, though, that's a different story.

As for media, this week I'm wrapping myself up in Indie-folk and Isaac Russell. The Men Who Stare At Goats was fantastic, if a little rushed towards the end. And to top it all off, I've begun to wade through Joyce's Ulysses. Hopefully tomorrow I'll be able to find a copy of Coetzee's Waiting for the Barbarians.

People people people. Does the key to self lie in the other, or vice versa?

A

2010-04-17T08:13:00.000-07:00

First final down; Take that my postmodern kittens.

In other news:

MUDBiSON tonight. Hells yeah.

Sun

2010-04-14T07:53:00.000-07:00

I am done. Done with my Winter classes. Now it's just a few finals and then I am home free. I'm not even that worried about them.

All I'm concerned with at this moment is how wonderful the sun looks streaming through my bedroom window, and how summery my new black dress feels against my skin, and how much I love daffodil people.

And how Iron & Wine sings like a sticky summer twilight on a Pennsylvania porch - low and mellow with empty thunder and cicadas.

One more week. Then, world, you're mine.

Genius

2010-04-03T08:25:00.000-07:00

Awesome person of the week:

Christian Bök

Kim Johnson gave a Brown Bag Lecture last Thursday entitled "The Anatomy of Language." It was really great. I love it when people are passionate about language. I am inspired to go buy a gigantic dictionary, and to look up every word I use, and to try and fit "chartreuse" into more of my conversations.

She read to us from Christian Bök's book, Eunoia, and it was one of the coolest things I've ever heard. He wrote five chapters, each dedicated to one vowel, and in each he used nothing but univocal words. It's nothing short of amazing. Kim pointed out that each of the vowels seem to have a corresponding feel to them; the A chapter is very social, the E chapter very elegant, usw.

An excerpt from the A chapter:

Awkward grammar appals a craftsman. A Dada bard as daft as Tzara damns stagnant art and scrawls an alpha (a slapdash arc and a backward zag) that mars all stanzas and jams all ballads (what a scandal).

Brilliant people make me so happy.

Now conference!

Sick

2010-03-30T23:38:00.001-07:00

I hate being sick.

BUT . . .

I still managed to get everything done that needed to get done today.
I:
-wrote four pages of my research paper
-wrote two pages of my other research paper
-wrote a reading response to Tolstoy's Letter to a Hindu
-did some beginning research on my "Snows of Kilimanjaro" paper
-bought and ate French pastries while watching "I've Loved You So Long"
-did not throw up said pastries
-scheduled Visiting Teaching
-figured out Friday night things (Kebab Connection and Chili's!)
-created a most marvelous 18-credit schedule for Fall 2010:

English 218R: Creative Writing - J. Bennion
English 382: Shakespeare - R. Duerden
Geology 100: Dinosaurs - B. Britt
Religion 212: The New Testament - A. Skinner
German 202 - C. Clement
Honors 303R: C.S. Lewis - B. Young

All in all, a rather productive day.

Now if my belly would stop trying to crawl up my throat, I might be able to enjoy it a little bit more . . .

Meditation

2010-03-26T17:19:00.000-07:00

Mon Oubliette

Lying on my back, I pluck at smoky roses -
incense sweet and silky.
They smell like time, and old love;
breathing dreamstuff in the silence of
dragons
or
dragonflies.

Creation and recreation -
my thoughts are dancing from a
smoldering orange ember.

Why do the good die young?

And is it memory
that evolves
into experience,
or the other way 'round?

I don't
recall -

Old souls are curling,
yet between us
we can only forget.

Undead

2010-02-25T22:32:00.000-08:00

Best day I've had in a long time.

Finally got to watch Zombieland. I was a skeptic, I'll admit. I wouldn't have even looked twice at the movie if Aymara hadn't brought it home. I had no idea that a zombie movie could be so . . . Heartwarming? And absolutely hilarious. I mean, it had Bill Murray, for heaven's sake! Bill Murray!

I've never thought of zombies as particularly frightening. I mean, being undead and all, I assumed their reflexes would be slowed, and that the only way you were really in danger is if you were cornered by a whole horde. Not so. They're actually wicked fast and super mean, at least in this instance. Given, the Zombieland zombies aren't classic "back from the grave" beasties - they're actually just normal people who got infected by some sort of new strain of mad cow disease. Completely ordinary bleeding-from-the-eyes, black-bile-vomiting, human-flesh-shredding people. That means that when you put 'em to sleep, they're going down for the first time, so they're easier to kill than the traditional zombie. And quicker kills means extra time for - you guessed it - more kills. Kind of gory, consequently, but the super-explicit parts were easy to see coming (and thus easy to avoid watching in their entirety).

All told, a fairly believable romance, a cute discovery of friendship, and one terrifying clown zombie that was almost too much for me (Coulrophobia, anyone?). Quite an enjoyable flick, on the whole.

Deathdream, you're next.

Spitze!

2010-02-22T20:34:00.000-08:00

On a hot summer night, would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses?

Yes, and this along with it:

I really like this video. Jack White, I appreciate your brilliance. I bask in it.

Itinerary

2010-02-20T21:26:00.000-08:00

Saturday, February the 20th

1:15 am - Agree with roommate upon a 9:00 am departure time. To bed.

8:02 am - Wake up. Shower (without much appreciation for the miracles of hot running water). Dress. Load backpack, search for route.

9:00 am - Notice that roommate has still not come out from her room. Eat a Nutrigrain. Feel GREAT. Contemplate having 500 babies.

9:28 am - Give up on roommate. Depart alone.

10:40 am - Having made it through the first part of the canyon, become dismayed that the road is closed to cars. Decide that Three Forks Trailhead cannot be too far away, and begin walking.

12:00 pm - Arrive at trailhead. Realize that it is actually about 5 miles from road close location. Continue on trail.

12:28 pm - Arrive at hot springs. Find a lovely warm pool. Strip down to swimsuit (ask self if having a two-piece means sub-par mormon status; decide not to care, as two-pieces are much more sensible). Bask in the weightless sensation that the water provides. Consider skinny dipping. Decide against it. Daydream about old Chem labs and their similar sulfur smell.

1:03 pm - Lunch: two handfuls of dry Apple Jacks. Mmm. Remember that work begins at 4:30. Towel off. Get dressed. Begin trek back.

1:15 pm - Think about Thoreau's Walden. Contemplate the problems associated with living in a 6' railroad box. Wonder if next pair of clothes ought to be handmade. Remember lack of equipment and knowhow.

1:26 pm - Think about Whitman. Overcome desire to roll in mud.

1:32 pm - Think about Margaret Fuller and all manners of Transcendentalism. Wonder about Heavenly Mother. Wonder about relationships. Wonder about intellectual communion.

2:00 pm - Rejoice in the feeling of movement and use. Decide that the phrase, "loamy soil" is oddly sexy.

2:15 pm - Try to discover the question to life, the universe, and everything. Agree with Arthur that it is probably, "How many roads must a man walk down?" Worry about the state of the world. Wonder how on earth a person can become so far removed from themselves that they can do violence to another.

2:27 pm - Curse self for forgetting sunscreen.

2:40 pm - Reunite with Claude. Realize that total hiking distance was an estimated 15 miles. Start drive home.

3:30 pm - Shower (with MUCH appreciation for hot running water)

3:50 pm - Pass out on bed.

4:25 pm - Wake from fitful half-sleep to Paul McCartney mourning Eleanor Rigby. Stumble into clothes. To work.

5:00 pm - Angsty Footloose dancing.

6:30 pm - Realize the intense hunger that is searing belly. Attempt to make a pizza, but find no time.

7:17 pm - Advise Cam on the proper method of knife threatening; walk right into dirty-joke setup ("Here, it'll just be in and out, real quick." "That's what she said.").

8:00 pm - Rocky Horror Picture Show. Wish for rice to throw during wedding scene. Time Warp.

9:07 pm - Finally make veggie pizza. Eat a quarter of said pizza. Remember why Rocky Horror Picture Show is not in movie collection.

10:30 pm - Home at last.

11:00 pm - Coin word "itinerize." Itinerize day. Eat weird bean-paste ball offered by roommate.

11:25 pm - Fear for aching legs and feet tomorrow morning. To bed.

Wayward

2010-02-18T06:44:00.000-08:00

I postulate that we do naught but oscillate until we osculate. Or suffocate, I suppose. Whichever happens first. But 'til then, we keep walking the fine line between ins and exes. Our lives and interactions center on one choice: Sex or Sanity - that is, Love or Logic?

And somehow, paradoxically, one cannot exist without the other; not entirely. Without love of something, be it selves, sciences, spouses, souls, then what air has logic to breathe? And in the absence of logic, love knows not even itself.

So, the solution? To live continually in that marvelous moment of sweet-on-tongue ecstasy, in which the cake is more yours than ever it was on plate - at the very instant you eat. A continual existence at these moments is impossible; but to live always in them is feasible.

The shortest distance between two points is a straight line - but life is not that short. We ebb and flow in emulation of that great ocean of Mother-tears and Mother-essence from whence we all came. We feel in sound as much as in silence, for silence, too, is a symbol. We rise and fall, but always with a brief respite at some intangible zero between our peak and our depression, holding momentarily to the everything and nothing of our memories. We stand here, in our grounded limbo, with dreams of our deepest depths, and hopes for our highest heights. In these sacred moments (or, for the wiser being, "In the mindset of these sacred moments,") is communion possible. The only thing left, then, is to seek out those willing and able to enter ethereality with us.

We mustn't forget that every being has the potential to commune with us - indeed, we are all extensions of divinity, living with a common core. We rose from dirt, from our Mother Earth. The makeup of our blood, our sweat, our spittle - it's all the same: Protons, Neutrons, Electrons - infinitely divisible if we but recollected the power. Thus is Hate the most irrational emotion; if there is anything in this world we love, the we can do nothing so logical as to love all. That which we claim to adore is built of the same stuff as what we detest. Hatred is merely a failure to remember this.

Then there are those that we remember more than others - those with whom we share heart-beat and heart-melody. Perhaps it is that a million years ago, one core particle of each of our respective beings dwelt together in one drop of angry animal blood. We remember the wild electricity in breaths of sensual oneirism. It takes no effort to recollect what we were, or might have been.

And so, as it has been for as long as the world can remember, we love to talk and long to touch. Ever will it be until the ultimate day when all transcend all and, uninhibited, we recognize our completion.

Cruelty

2010-02-15T23:51:00.001-08:00

1 AM, and my sleep schedule is once again off. I feel like this particular moment would be one of those, "Oh eff," sort of moments, had not these moments become so frequent in the past few weeks that they've lost their effect. Woe, woe is me - but not to an extreme degree. Woe is unbecoming.

My brain has been going in hyper-speed lately. I don't know why. And even though my fingers tick across the keys as fast as possible, it seems only a ticking of seconds - time trickling away so much quicker and taking all semblances of reason along. So I'm left with tired fingers that can't dance anymore, and a page of breaths that sang yesterday and weep tonight.

Isn't it funny when the sky reflects your mood? Sickly hollow, and hollowing; I'm snakeskin and thistles.

But . . . The original purpose of this post . . . It's a song I love.

I love.

Huckabees

2010-02-14T23:58:00.000-08:00

In my Writing About Literature class we've been discussing (though not in any great depth) Literary Theory. Our Theory book (Culler's Literary Theory, a Very Short Introduction) has focused on two particular Theorists thus far - Foucault and Derrida. Foucault has some interesting stuff to be sure, but Derrida's ideas really piqued my curiosity.

Derrida focused a decent part of his energy on examining the works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Rousseau, in his novel The Confessions, puts forth an idea about signs: he accepts them, essentially, as substitutes. And, in accordance with traditional theory, the sign is supposed to make itself as transparent as possible to allow the most accurate view of the actual thing it's standing in for (Keats' "camelion" poet and Negative Capability sound familiar?). Rousseau makes his point by referring to the Freudian relationship he had with his caretaker; he thinks of nothing but this woman, and everything around him has some connection to her. Derrida points out a flaw in this method of thought, however, in referencing one particular instance when, in the presence of his "maman," the young Rousseau steals a bite of food that had been in her mouth. Thus, even when the alleged "being" is present, a sign is still necessary to access it. He goes on to say that even if Rousseau were to actually possess the woman, it would only be a possession of the act - another sign of her.

Derrida's conclusion is simply this: nothing has an actual identity. Or rather, the identity lies in the intermediates. All things are actualized by their signs, which, in turn, are merely signs for thought or feeling, which are signs for the being doing the thinking or feeling, which is a sign for the concept that someone else has of said being, usw.

So, if everything is nothing, and nothing can be anything, then everything can be anything, and you've got a start on Deconstructionism. I'm still undecided on how I feel about that. On the one hand, I love the idea that everything (on some level) can be the same, because we're all signs representing one another - or at least representing what someone else might be. It's very equalizing. But on the other hand, something in me screams out against such ambiguity. It might just be that ol' divine potential acting up again, but I find order a lot more appealing than chaos. [Note to self: post musings on ambiguity in self-concept, relationships &c].

I appreciate Derrida for offering some sort of identity concept, and definitely for providing a veritable Vegas-style buffet for thought, but if he's got it right (and I'm a little terrified that he might), the adjustment period is gonna be kinda rough.

Freude

2010-02-08T22:48:00.000-08:00

Wie tanzt mein Herz? Wie ein Reh, das jung und wild ist. Es läuft, es springt, es rührt meine Seele.

Ich träume zwischen Sterne.

Komm, sei mit mir. Wir werden Geheimnisse flüstern und Schmetterlinge zähmen. Wasserfälle werden für uns singen. Die Bäume werden mit uns lachen.

Das ist meine Welt.

Kannst du sie sehen?

Number 9

2010-02-05T14:35:00.000-08:00

I want a revolution.

Well, you know, we all wanna change the world.

Peace Corps!

Tengo que practicar el español.

Erin Brokovich = Love.

Mattress bouncing and sharing tie-dye blankets with Nate = also Love.

Gigantic sugar cookies are so cool.

Disco night at Classic Skating?

All told, this week has been fairly gear. Now I must away to "forests ancient as the hills, / Enfolding sunny spots of greenery."

Be well, all.

Love and Peace,

Tana

Hot

2010-01-23T23:01:00.000-08:00

A low base bleeds out of the monitor, trickles out across the crowd. Eager am I for this baptism of soul, such complete envelopment.
The drums next, stomping their dull fury. The body-hollowing beats enter me entirely, and I live only as they allow. They are air of lung, growl of belly, beat of heart. Let them be merciful; if they stop, I die.
Scalded fingers over black frets dance. Ear tickled and excited, I am no longer my own. The music takes. Me.
The hot smell of human is everywhere, but we are far and beyond. Sweat runs down the many and one who are music, are me, are everything and nothing.

This is how I am not myself.

It's beautiful.

Reality

2010-01-20T20:45:00.000-08:00

Kinda weird to come back down. Or maybe just over, back into the niche that I seem to fill oh-so-much better. Which, admittedly, is frustrating on a few different levels, but mostly just in the fact that, subconsciously, I myself seem to be the biggest advocate for this role - probably to preserve the sense of security (however false) it provides. But playing it safe isn't always a good thing, especially when the concept of safety is so tipsy anyway. I am okay with where I am now, though I don't think it's a particularly eternal state of being.

I don't really know what to call the emotion I've been so taken with of late. Contentment originated in one far deep spot, and sort of permeated the rest of my life. I think I've kind of lost sight of the starting point, but somehow I'm not sad. Dead poets speak with tongues of lovers, and the soft vibrations of steel strings over a hollow body warm my belly.

There was an excitement - which was fun - an anxiety - which served as a reminder that I can still feel wholly - and now a calm - which is good for what it is and what I guess I need it to be.

It's painfully hard, though, for me to come to terms with the concept that the method of connecting with people isn't something that I'm going to discover by burrowing further into myself. Up until now, that seemed like a perfectly viable coping strategy; When the fragile, fragile people all around are so close to breaking, it's easy to duck down behind a barricade of consciousness and give them exactly what they ask for, nothing more or less. But what happens when what they ask for has been with you so long, it's almost a part of you? What happens when they ask you to tear down the wall?

I'm struck a little bit by the irony that I was conceived on November 9th.

Also, I take some twisted comfort in knowing that Pink Floyd understands.

I suppose it has to come down sometime, huh?

Memory

2010-01-10T12:04:00.000-08:00

So so so so happy.

:)

Prophecy

2010-01-05T12:05:00.000-08:00

On Love
"When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep,
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.
For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you.
Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.
Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast. All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.
But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.
When you love you should not say, 'God is in my heart,' but rather, 'I am in the heart of God.'
And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.
Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night,
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips."
-Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

Religion

2009-12-29T08:35:00.000-08:00

The Religion of Literature

I entered the field of literary study simply because I loved it. I had no desire to experience the critical debates that so inspired Gerald Graff, nor did I want to kill the author, “confront greatness,” or actualize my literary-community role in any capacity; the ability to enter a new world was more than enough for me. However, after meeting scoffs and laughter when I proudly announced my decision to study Literature, I began to think that love alone might not be a sufficient basis for a lifelong study. This hesitation prompted me to take the first steps on a path to understanding: I began to ask questions. And in the words of Robert Frost, “That has made all the difference.”

While attempting to justify my choice of study, I found myself justifying the entire premise of my life. “Why do I read?” became synonymous with “Why do I live?” The act of opening a novel became a reenactment of my premortal choice to enter this world. The standards I brought to each work were a perfect copy of those I practiced in my real life. Seeing the literary realm juxtaposed with the physical one highlighted the similarities much more than the differences. It became apparent that, as a creature of both worlds, my choices in one absolutely affected the other.

This concept of our decisions influencing the outcome of a scenario is part of what makes literary studies so unique. Seldom are the results of our work so completely part of us. In mathematics, a problem solved one way or another will equal the same thing. In history, regardless of what opinions we bring to a past event, we cannot change it. Literature is one of the few fields in which we are given an absolute – a text in print – and then we are allowed to determine what it accomplishes.

Another benefit of experiencing life in two worlds is the potential for progress. We can learn things through literature that would be much harder to learn in reality. For example, by reading something as fantastical as J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings, we begin to understand perfectly real problems, such as addiction or betrayal, without a physical jeopardy. That is, we can face dangerous trials from a safe distance. Thus, experiencing a removal from the author (not necessarily an authorial death, but a distinct separation), we are given an agency with the text that mirrors our agency in reality. The ultimate lesson we learn depends entirely on our own decisions.

We need not forget the inherent beauty of good literature. Reading something we find personally inspiring or lovely is as important as reading “the classics.” While the actual definition of “great literature” is completely subjective, the idea that it exists is fairly universal. Many books contain elements of greatness. We shouldn’t operate under the assumption that a book must be completely perfect; those books are few. Rather, we should focus on appreciating the small pieces of beauty that exist in an imperfect text-world, much as we are advised to appreciate the things “of good report or praiseworthy” in the physical world. This task to seek out the good and confront it may seem daunting, but it is also marvelously rewarding.

Why, though, is it so important to study at a university? Reading is a simple enough process, and as previously mentioned, the ultimate take-away is based on personal decisions. The answer, simply, is because one crucial element in literary study cannot be accomplished alone: communication. Upon entering a classroom setting, we are entering into a community of people with the same designs. It provides not only a way to communicate with the texts themselves, but also new methods of communication with other people who appreciate literature. Indeed, our chances of meeting the author of a text are fairly low. Literary communities, then, have the responsibility of actualizing debates. Completely alone, we have a hard time approaching a text with different points of view. With the help of a community, however, we can learn to expand our outlook. Teachers and peers who belong to this literary community present us with new ideas – concepts that we might never have discovered on our own.

It is this development of viewpoint that truly validates the pursuit of literary study. We enter into critical discussions because we desire to grow. As Gerald Graff said, “Nobody lives or thinks in this world without theories.” It is true that theory is inescapable. But by acknowledging our own entrance into the world of discussion, we allow those ideas to work upon us. And ultimately, if we enter the critical debate with an aspiration to grow beyond ourselves, we can create the exact character that we desire: one that functions soundly in both literature and reality.

English Professor Zina Petersen once said, “If someone asks you what you’re going to be with a degree in English, look ‘em in the eye and say, ‘Educated!’” That is precisely what I intend to become. But I am not merely studying literature; I am studying life. An understanding of texts is an understanding of created worlds. In this regard, few other courses of study lend themselves so wholly to the emulation of divinity. This emulation is the greatest thing we can ever hope to achieve. C.S. Lewis wrote, “A mole must dig to the glory of God, and a cock must crow." I would add to that, a student of literature must read, for by reading with the desire to learn, we expand ourselves on every level. I entered the field of literary study simply because I loved it. I stayed because I’m learning to live it.

I think, for the very first time, I truly comprehend what it is I'm doing.

I've been absent from my kingdom for so very long. But words have restored worlds.

It's good to be home.

Truth

2009-12-26T21:45:00.000-08:00

In a drowning world of apathy, I search only for feeling.

Happy

2009-12-04T18:13:00.000-08:00

This week has been crazy, especially with preparation for finals. But I absolutely subscribe to Socrates' theory of Pleasure and Pain being hung together.

Prof. Westover asked me to stay after class today. He just told me that he's recommended me to the writing center for a job/internship next semester (or next year? I'm not sure). He said that they're losing some of their best writers to graduation, and he felt that I would be a wonderful replacement.

Warm fuzzies. :)

And guess what? I love people, heartfelt connections, and discovery.

Plus, I currently have a pair of french pastries which will be consumed whilst watching The Diving Bell and the Butterfly with a friend that I've taken too long to appreciate.

"And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make." -John Lennon.

P.S. OMD, I've never really gone through that experience, but when I do, it's good to know that you'll be there for me.

Reality

2009-11-27T20:36:00.000-08:00

See, what I love about '80s movies is that they're so beautifully contrived that they're almost more real.

You know?

Seriously, I'd marry the guy on the spot.

Could a Loyd Dobler really exist?

Addition

2009-11-24T10:07:00.000-08:00

An Addition to Plato’s Phaedo
By: Tana M. Frechem
Pen & Sword

ECHECRATES: Are you quite certain that nothing else was spoken? Socrates said nothing else before he took the potion?
PHAIDON: Yes I am sure that I have accounted for all that passed between Socrates and the others present. Do you doubt my memory, good Echecrates?
ECHECRATES: No, not at all. I merely wanted to be certain that I had missed nothing.
PHAIDON: Hold a moment. Perhaps I spoke too soon. It seems to me that I have left something out. Yes, I have forgotten something indeed. After Socrates had spoken a bit about the nature of body and soul, he called Criton to his side.
“Criton, it strikes me that this discussion may relate very closely to our conversation of laws. When you left me the other day, I did not feel that you were quite at peace with my decision to remain in prison, despite what I said to you. Is this true?” said Socrates
“Indeed, you are right,” said Criton. “I am not at peace that my dear friend willingly submits to such an unjust treatment. For all your praise of Justice, I see none here.”
“Ah my friend, Justice is the very heart of the thing, no, even the very Soul!” replied Socrates with a small laugh.
“Socrates, I do not see any cause for laughter. This day is a somber day if ever I knew one.”
“As I have said, this day is not a somber one. But perhaps the laughter was out of place. I laughed only because I spoke more truth than I knew!” said he. “Let me explain myself. Maybe one you see Justice robed in all the glory she deserves, you will understand.”
“I will listen to you, Socrates,” said Criton.
“Excellent. Now, we have already spoken a bit on the relation to soul and the body, correct?”
“Yes, but I do not see how that relates to this present topic,” said Criton.
“All in its proper time, dear friend. In my explanation to Simmias upon the nature of body and soul, we determined that they must be two separate, but both important things, did we not?” said Socrates.
“We did.”
“And what did we decide was the nature of death?”
“Only that it would be the separation of the body from the soul. Nothing more,” replied Criton.
“Precisely. And while we have made the case that the soul lives on, in our physical existence, at least, the body is equally important to life.”
“It would be folly to think otherwise. But the body, as you said, ought to be the slave to the master of the soul.”
“Well remembered!” said Socrates, “But regardless of the extent to which the body obeys the soul, without a body, a soul has little effect within the physical world. Likewise, without a soul, a person ceases to live and is therefore dead.”
“All correct, Socrates,” replied Criton.
“Now, let us discuss Laws. There must be two separate parts in order for Law to function correctly. There must be a physical body of people to be governed, and then the Law itself, correct? And without one, the other cannot perform, also correct?”
“Of course.”
“And it is understood that if a body of people exists and functions, there must be some form of a Law that gives their societal group a life. Even for the most savage of people, living in a society where every man looks after himself, that is the law, and man is expected to conduct himself in accordance with those guidelines.”
“I have found no place for disagreement, thus far,” said Criton.
“So you would agree that the relationship of dependence of Law on governed body is the same as the relationship of Soul and body?”
“Well, yes, I suppose in that regard I would. It would go against logic, if I were to disagree.”
“Yes, logic, and other powers as well,” said Socrates, laughing again. “But now, let us soldier onward. I will make you understand my reasons for remaining a prisoner yet.”
“I listen still,” said Criton with a sad expression.
Socrates sat for a moment, choosing his words, and then began: “Alright. If we are agreed that the relationship is precisely the same, then it is safe to call Law, or Justice, the Soul of a civilization, correct?”
“I suppose that makes sense,” said Criton.
“Indeed, it does, because as a body of humans, we are mastered by Law. It is the omnipresent. And Law, too, is eternal as the Soul. The man who lays it down may die, but his Law continues onward, supported by a healthy society. And even if a society were to fall, the concept of Law would still live on. It ends never. That, my dear Criton, is why I could not and cannot bring myself to trespass against the Law. It would not only be a matter of a child striking a parent, which is bad enough on its own right, but also a matter of a body breaking his own Soul. This I cannot do.”
Criton looked down for a moment, pondering what Socrates had spoken. Then he said, “I agree with you, that such a relationship is sacred and ought not be broken, but how is it that Law can change?”
“You always thought well, Criton. I am impressed with your desire to understand. I will answer your question with another question: Can a Soul change?”
“I do not understand, Socrates. Change in what manner?” answered Criton.
“Very well, I shall assist you. The Soul itself will always be a Soul, made from the essence of Soul-stuff. But the nature of a Soul is absolutely subject to change. We have discussed that the Soul, being on a higher level, ought to be master over the body, have we not? But as with a real slave, the body is capable of rebellion. As I told Simmias, a body that revels in the physical things and does not heed the divine whisperings of the Soul, can, indeed, become master. But this is an unhappy circumstance. Neither body nor Soul is in its proper place, and the result comes down to nothing more than misery. It is the very same with Law,” said Socrates.
“I think I am beginning to see,” said Criton
“Good! Let us continue, then. Law is like the Soul: subject to the rebellion of the physical body, because the physical body holds a power in a physical world, is it not true?”
“Perfectly true,” said Criton.
“Then if the body of the governed becomes corrupt and no longer concerned with the eternal welfare of the people as a whole, it is the same as a body becoming a master over a Soul. Misery is the only possible outcome.”
Criton was very still for a moment, and he looked very sad. Suddenly, he turned to look at Socrates.
He said, “Socrates, I think I have finally understood you. All this time you have been talking, I was angry with you. I could not see how you could be so blind. You would break the express orders of the Tyrants. Indeed, it was that breaking of their Law that landed you in here, despite the excuses they used in court. We all know it. They still bear a grudge. And I could not understand how you could break their Law, but when they put you in prison for breaking it, you could not break that rule as well.”
“I see your confusion,” said Socrates.
“But things have become much clearer. When the Tyrants reigned, their thoughts were not on the eternal welfare of the people. It was a rule of body. And the rule of the body need not be heeded. But now that our government has been restored, the focus is once again on the betterment of the whole. That Law, that Soul, is truly a righteous one. You cannot disobey.”
“My dearest friend,” said Socrates softly, “ In all of the explanations I have put forth, I have never been more grateful for true understanding than I am right now.”
They embraced, weeping, Criton shedding many tears of sorrow for knowing so little, and Socrates shedding a few tears of joy for knowing so much.

Cowboys

2009-11-22T15:44:00.000-08:00

Cowboys and Indies was the best. Well, maybe not the best, but pretty dang close. I challenge you to go to an ER show and try not to dance. Just try it. Seve vs. Evan was epic, too. Moses was a lot more mellow, so I wasn't quite as drawn in, but the other Cowboy band, Code Hero, was fantastic. Unfortunately, the crowd sucked. Droves of insolent, rude high school seniors talked over both Code Hero's and Moses' sets; I think part of the reason that ER and SvE stuck out was because they were loud enough to drown out the chatter. Also, apparently there's an ongoing joke betwixt the members of Seve vs. Evan, that involves the removal of shirts:

On another note, I am pee-my-pants excited for the Dec. 4 show. The Russel brothers, as mudbison and Isaac Russel, will be playing together, and I cannot wait.

Come on Wednesday. You're almost here.

Desire

2009-11-11T12:57:00.000-08:00

Life life life.

My goodness, where to begin?

I'm in love. With Walt Whitman. As if you couldn't already tell. I've got several poems taped up around my room.

Hair Peace sign is in development.

Reading the heck out of Plato. I also know what I'm doing for my next Pen & Sword project (after this blasted exam is over): I'd like to take over Plato's style and create a "lost dialogue" of sorts, entitled "Justification." I have this idea that in Crito, Socrates is (without directly stating it) equating Law with Soul, and the governed body with the physical body. It's a multifaceted concept, and I think I could pull enough out to satisfy Griggs.

I desperately need to go to the Cinema. I haven't been in so long! After this crushing week is over, I think I shall. Pirate Radio looks good. Then, too, if Bright Star is still anywhere around, I might see that. Also, whenever it gets out, Fantastic Mr. Fox, because I'm actually still a fourth-grader at heart, and Roald Dahl is one of my favorite authors, and the animation style looks gorgeous!

I'm euphoric. The almighty internet told me that Good Earth Natural Foods stocks Tofurky! Hoorah! This Thanksgiving is going to be excellent.

Lastly, I am seriously looking for a nature-oriented job this summer. Somewhere in the mountains. A paid Hermitage would, I think, be most premium, but those aren't super common anymore. Alas and alack, I will search on.

Pioneer

2009-11-08T18:02:00.000-08:00

Dear Walt,

Thank you.

Love, Tana

Pioneers! O Pioneers!
- Walt Whitman

Come my tan-faced children,
Follow well in order, get your weapons ready,
Have you your pistols? have you your sharp-edged axes?
Pioneers! O pioneers!

For we cannot tarry here,
We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger,
We the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

O you youths, Western youths,
So impatient, full of action, full of manly pride and friendship,
Plain I see you Western youths, see you tramping with the foremost,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Have the elder races halted?
Do they droop and end their lesson, wearied over there beyond the seas?
We take up the task eternal, and the burden and the lesson,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

All the past we leave behind,
We debouch upon a newer mightier world, varied world,
Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and the march,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

We detachments steady throwing,
Down the edges, through the passes, up the mountains steep,
Conquering, holding, daring, venturing as we go the unknown ways,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

We primeval forests felling,
We the rivers stemming, vexing we and piercing deep the mines within,
We the surface broad surveying, we the virgin soil upheaving,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Colorado men are we,
From the peaks gigantic, from the great sierras and the high plateaus,
From the mine and from the gully, from the hunting trail we come,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

From Nebraska, from Arkansas,
Central inland race are we, from Missouri, with the continental
blood intervein'd,
All the hands of comrades clasping, all the Southern, all the Northern,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

O resistless restless race!
O beloved race in all! O my breast aches with tender love for all!
O I mourn and yet exult, I am rapt with love for all,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Raise the mighty mother mistress,
Waving high the delicate mistress, over all the starry mistress,
(bend your heads all,)
Raise the fang'd and warlike mistress, stern, impassive, weapon'd mistress,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

See my children, resolute children,
By those swarms upon our rear we must never yield or falter,
Ages back in ghostly millions frowning there behind us urging,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

On and on the compact ranks,
With accessions ever waiting, with the places of the dead quickly fill'd,
Through the battle, through defeat, moving yet and never stopping,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

O to die advancing on!
Are there some of us to droop and die? has the hour come?
Then upon the march we fittest die, soon and sure the gap is fill'd.
Pioneers! O pioneers!

All the pulses of the world,
Falling in they beat for us, with the Western movement beat,
Holding single or together, steady moving to the front, all for us,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Life's involv'd and varied pageants,
All the forms and shows, all the workmen at their work,
All the seamen and the landsmen, all the masters with their slaves,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

All the hapless silent lovers,
All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked,
All the joyous, all the sorrowing, all the living, all the dying,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

I too with my soul and body,
We, a curious trio, picking, wandering on our way,
Through these shores amid the shadows, with the apparitions pressing,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Lo, the darting bowling orb!
Lo, the brother orbs around, all the clustering suns and planets,
All the dazzling days, all the mystic nights with dreams,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

These are of us, they are with us,
All for primal needed work, while the followers there in embryo wait behind,
We to-day's procession heading, we the route for travel clearing,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

O you daughters of the West!
O you young and elder daughters! O you mothers and you wives!
Never must you be divided, in our ranks you move united,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Minstrels latent on the prairies!
(Shrouded bards of other lands, you may rest, you have done your work,)
Soon I hear you coming warbling, soon you rise and tramp amid us,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Not for delectations sweet,
Not the cushion and the slipper, not the peaceful and the studious,
Not the riches safe and palling, not for us the tame enjoyment,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Do the feasters gluttonous feast?
Do the corpulent sleepers sleep? have they lock'd and bolted doors?
Still be ours the diet hard, and the blanket on the ground,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Has the night descended?
Was the road of late so toilsome? did we stop discouraged nodding
on our way?
Yet a passing hour I yield you in your tracks to pause oblivious,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Till with sound of trumpet,
Far, far off the daybreak call--hark! how loud and clear I hear it wind,
Swift! to the head of the army!--swift! spring to your places,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Autumn

2009-10-14T13:11:00.000-07:00

The old forest was nearing the time of talking.

Sap ran cold, and the first hints of color tinged the foliage. The tame trees in the field bore their fruit, and the men plucked the children from their reaching arms. Year after year, the future was lost. The cold hit the hearts of the tame trees, same as the others, but the tame trees said nothing, and died silently, without complaint.

The wild old trees, on the other hand, pumped their blood with hearts too slow for ears to hear, and awaited their voices.

Hush.

The first autumn breezes blew. The cold October gray smeared away the last of the green, and the ancient tongues began moving.

The oaks spoke first, in their solemn groans. Old men, they twitched their leaves and encouraged the young to whisper along. One by one, the others breathed the wind's breath and sang the wind's song. Maple, ash, birch, twitchy as crickets, and talking soft.

The great pine said nothing. His needles held nature's gold, fresh as July clippings. The other trees paid no mind and sang on.

A week passed, and the milky cotton of the sky turned sick and poured out rains. Leaves fell, and the voices became quieter.

Still, they talked. The nature of their words was changed. The impending sleep weighed heavy on their minds, and they began to envy the old pine for his immortality. They hissed questions to him, but his needles offered nothing, and their queries went unanswered.

The wind that had given them their voices was as steadily taking them away, plucking their leaves, their tongues, and burying them in time. The once full aspens that had quivered in ecstasy at the discovery of expression now shuddered, empty and afraid.

Days passed, each hour bringing deeper desperation. Leaf fluttered, broke, fluttered, fell.

The final minutes of speaking were disjointed and weary. Then the wind took back its gift, and the last tree fell silent.

The old pine sat alone, buried alive, caressed occasionally by an old corpse hand. His center ached, and his blood ran cold as all the others, but he found no rest. A bleary haze of loneliness descended.

The pine stirred at the sound of footsteps. Two men were picking their way through the graveyard. They drew near.

Swish-thunk, swish-thunk, the silver blade flashed. The survivor was too cold to feel at first, and the men swung their hatchets unhindered. Soon, they reached the tender core, and sap trickled more and more from each blow. The tree shuddered, but his needles gave no cry. He suffered in silence.

Swish, thunk, crack. The heart was pierced. The pine wheezed, shocked at his own sudden voice. He whimpered a moment, unsure.

And with one breaking groan of agony and relief, the old tree fell.

Fall does weird things to me. This was just some cathartic writing, not edited or anything. I wish I was more capable of expressing these feelings. They're really exquisite.

Update?

2009-10-06T07:05:00.001-07:00

I feel like a crappy blog owner, because when I started this blog, I wanted to use it as a sort of e-journal thing. Because unless I feel particularly passionate, I don't usually write down my experiences. Lately, it seems to have become a dumping ground for all of my random whims and notions; half finished essays and semi-thought-out ramblings litter the "drafts" page. I'm not saying I'm upset about it. On the contrary - I'm quite pleased with the result of some of the stuff. I just feel that perhaps, once a month at least, I can actually come out and say what's going on in my life.

And so we go!

I work, and go to school, and sleep sometimes.

Wow . . . Now I remember why I focus on ambiguous metaphysical stuff. It's a heckuva lot more interesting.

People

2009-10-02T22:11:00.000-07:00

"Father McKenzie, wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave; no one was saved."
-Paul McCartney, "Eleanor Rigby"

Ouch

2009-09-22T13:31:00.000-07:00

Prof. Griggs ripped my draft apart. He said that I have a beautiful style, but that I can't quite control it. I think he also accused me of "logorrhea." He said that my first paragraph was full of crap statements that didn't really mean much (my words, not his). It wasn't all bad. He commended me on being literate, and told me that he was going to hold me to a higher standard than my colleagues, because I was obviously more capable. He fussed over a few phrases I had used, and challenged me to closely examine every word to make sure it has the feeling and definition that I need and want. He also jokingly said that I would be really good at writing really bad novels. :)

Thus, after two more hours of work and rewriting:

Trading Blood for Tears

Sorrow has long been one of mankind’s closest companions. Whether it sprang from a box, or trickled with the sweet juices of a tempting fruit, bitter sadness has plagued humanity for centuries. Because of this longstanding relationship between mortality and tragedy, sorrow is often a central theme in ancient writings. Homer’s Iliad – despite the fact that a large portion of it is devoted to records of violence and hostility – is not the quintessential “war epic” it first appears to be, but rather an astute commentary on the import of sorrow not only in mortal lives, but in immortal lives as well, and in the drawing together of the two.

The lives of the humans in The Iliad are much more complicated – and more importantly more sad – than is sometimes acknowledged. Two particular scenes leap out of the continuous stream of battles and bloodshed: the discussion between Hektor and Andromache, and Priam’s plea to Achilleus (Il. VI, XXIV).

The scene between Hektor and his family is one of the most moving displays of emotion in literature. Hektor’s dear wife, Andromache, entreats him not to go to war, as she fears for his life. She cries, “For me it would be far better to sink into the earth when I have lost you, for there is no other consolation for me after you have gone to your destiny – only grief” (Il. VI:410-413). Hektor replies that he will not surrender his honor, and intends to fight (Il. VI:440-461). Homer then goes on to describe Andromache’s state after hearing her husband’s decision: “[She] mourned in his house over Hektor while he was living still, for [she] thought he would never again come back from the fighting alive” (Il. VI:500-502). And so the wife of Hektor spends the last few days of her husband’s life as if he has already passed on, living in a state of sorrow for what will come.

The second memorable scene from The Iliad involves two enemies. Priam, king of Troy, has lost his son Hektor to the warrior Achilleus. With the help of divinities who pity his sorrow, Priam approaches Achilleus to beg for his son’s body, that he may properly bury him (Il. XXIV:485-506). The true tragedy of the situation is summed up in one line: “The two remembered, as Priam sat huddled at the feet of Achilleus and wept close for manslaughtering Hektor and Achilleus wept now for his own father, now again for Patroklos” (Il. XXIV:509-512). Two men, divided by a war, share the tears that are blind to such division. Together, they weep for what has already come to pass and cannot be undone.

These two examples portray the raw human pain that springs from the fury of war. While the audience is accosted with accounts of battle after battle, until they all run together into a mass of angry chaos, these two interludes are quite distinct (Griggs, class). Homer describes these sad scenes with a softer tone, and the gravity of such emotion is evident in its contrast to the repetitive feeling of the war passages. When tragic situations such as these arise, those same battle accounts that cause the sorrow seem to be nothing more than a tool to convey the emotion of the poet’s true concern: the utter consumption of mortal life by tragedy.

However, it is not only mortals who suffer in these old stories. Gods, too, are vulnerable to sorrow. In the very beginning of The Iliad, the mother of Achilleus shows surprising sympathy for her son’s grief and shame. We see the depth of her pain when Homer says, “Thetis answered him then letting the tears fall: ‘Ah me, my child. Your birth was bitterness’” (Il, I:413-414). Thetis, a goddess of Olympus, sits beside her mortal son and weeps for the pain he must endure.

This Greek story bears a semblance to the account of Enoch in Heaven. According to Moses, “it came to pass that the God of heaven looked upon the residue of the people, and he wept” (Moses 7:28). The great and powerful God of men sat and wept on behalf of all his children. One cannot read such a passage and remain unmoved. The pain of a deity, in whom we wholeheartedly believe, is incredibly poignant. It is relatable; as humans, we can read such passages and draw from our own experience to try to comprehend that divine mourning.

So what is the purpose of sorrow? What could possibly be the benefit of living such a tragic existence? Simply, we experience sorrow to relish the deific connection it creates. If mankind didn’t know sorrow, deities would have no need for pity; conversely, if gods knew no sadness, they would not understand humans, and man would be left alone. The role of sorrow is absolutely crucial.

As humans, our earthly endeavor is to please our gods, and ideally, become like them. We emulate our deities in every manner we can conceive. The race of men is a race of creators – albeit not yet functioning at a level of deific proficiency. Every experience we have is a step in the process to achieve divinity. We read histories of our gods, learn how they speak, and how they act. We lay out rules and guidelines for living in a manner agreeable to these higher beings, in the hopes that they will take pity on us, and that their sorrows will sympathize with our own. Thus, as our gods weep, so do we.

Unfortunately our mortality gets in the way, sometimes. Rather than seeking to emulate our gods through appreciation of divine joy in addition to sorrow, we may be tempted to settle for the sorrow alone. This pain, while as passionate as joy, will not suffice. Only by ending our search for new causes of sorrow, and acknowledging the divinity of sorrow itself can we hope to discover its opposite, and truly trade the lowly shedding of blood for the shedding of pure, divine tears of both sorrow and joy.

I think it reads much better now. Yay constructive criticism!

Liar

2009-09-21T21:59:00.000-07:00

I'm a liar. I didn't post this dumb thing this morning. Rather, I spent the majority of the day screwing around with it myself, before actually getting it down in a form that other people can comprehend. Still, here it is, to read and enjoy.

Trading Blood for Tears

Sorrow has long been one of mankind’s closest companions. Whether it sprang from a box or trickled with the sweet juices of a tempting fruit, bitter sadness has plagued humanity for centuries. Oddly, though humans have lived with it for so long, the role of this sorrow is frequently downplayed. People tend to view it as nothing more than the result of a larger issue, the unimportant aftermath of a more noteworthy situation. Despite the fact that a large portion of ancient texts are devoted to records of war and hostility, sorrow itself is often the writer’s true focus.

Homer’s Iliad is a perfect example of this idea. While at first it appears to be the quintessential “war epic,” upon further examination of the story, concepts far beyond simple contention become apparent. The lives of the mortals in this epic are much more complicated – and more importantly more sad – than is generally acknowledged. Two particular scenes leap out of the continuous stream of battles and bloodshed: the discussion between Hektor and Andromache, and Priam’s plea to Achilleus.

The scene between Hektor and his family is one of the most moving displays of emotion in literature. Hektor’s dear wife, Andromache, entreats him not to go to war, as she fears for his life. She cries, “And for me it would be far better to sink into the earth when I have lost you, for there is no other consolation for me after you have gone to your destiny – only grief” (Il. VI:410-413). Hektor replies that he will not surrender his honor, and intends to fight (Il. VI:440-461). Homer then goes on to describe Andromache’s state after hearing her husband’s decision: “[She] mourned in his house over Hektor while he was living still, for [she] thought he would never again come back from the fighting alive” (Il. VI:500-502). And so the wife of Hektor spends the last few days of her husband’s life as if he has already passed on, living in a state of sorrow for what will come.

The second memorable scene from The Iliad involves two enemies. Priam, king of Troy, has lost his son Hektor to the warrior Achilleus. With an entirely broken heart, Priam approaches Achilleus to beg for his son’s body, that he may properly bury him (Il. XXIV:485-506). The true tragedy of the situation is summed up in one line: “The two remembered, as Priam sat huddled at the feet of Achilleus and wept close for manslaughtering Hektor and Achilleus wept now for his own father, now again for Patroklos” (Il. XXIV:509-512). Two men, divided by war, share the mutual tears that seep up from battlegrounds, born from the blood of the fallen.

These two scenes portray the raw human pain that springs from the fury of War. But when the audience is confronted with situations such as these, those same battle accounts that cause the sorrow seem to be nothing more than a tool to convey the emotion of the poet’s true concern: the utter consumption of mortal life by tragedy.

This Greek story mirrors almost exactly the Christian account of Enoch in Heaven. According to Moses 7:28, “it came to pass that the God of heaven looked upon the residue of the people, and he wept.” The great and powerful God of all men sat and wept on our behalf. One cannot read such a passage and remain unmoved. The pain of a deity, of one in whom we wholeheartedly believe, is incredibly poignant. It is relatable; as humans, we can read such passages and draw from our own experience to try to comprehend that divine mourning.

But why is mankind doomed to sorrow? What could possibly be the benefit of living such a tragic existence? Simply, we experience sorrow to relish the deific connection it creates. As humans, our earthly endeavor is to please our gods, and ideally, become like them. We emulate our deities in every manner we can conceive. The race of men is a race of creators – albeit not yet functioning at a level of deific proficiency. Every experience we have is a step in a process to achieve divinity. We read histories of our gods, learn how they speak, and how they act. We lay out rules and guidelines for living in a manner agreeable to these higher beings, in the hopes that they will take pity on us and allow us to be raised up to more than we naturally are. Thus, as our gods weep, so do we.

Such a pursuit – to actualize our potential – is hardly of small import. Unfortunately, as humans, we are often overwhelmed by the intensity of our task. Rather than seeking to emulate our gods through divine joy in addition to sorrow, we settle for the tragedy alone. This pain, while equally as passionate as joy, will not suffice. Only by recognizing our mistake of searching for new causes of sorrow rather than appreciating the divinity of sorrow itself can we hope to discover its opposite, and truly trade the lowly shedding of blood for the shedding of pure, divine tears of both sorrow and joy.

Phoo. It's sort of ambiguous, no? Hopefully the teacher is into that sort of thing.

Overanalysis

2009-09-19T22:34:00.000-07:00

I was driving home from work, thinkin' about my Civ paper and how I wanted to word different parts, when suddenly, Snow White popped into my head.

So then I was thinking about Snow White, and how the 7 dwarfs must be a metaphor for the 7 days it took God to create the world, and how the poison apple was a symbol for . . . well, duh. And then the whole "true love's kiss" was a representation of the love of Christ, and that His is the only way to salvation.

And then I remembered that Snow White is a Disney movie, and that I was really tired. Then I felt foolish.

Such are my thought processes on a daily basis.

P.S. My paper is due on Tuesday, but I'll hopefully have a finished draft on Monday morning, so comments and editing things are welcome. :)

Beatlemania

2009-09-10T10:25:00.000-07:00

Over the past month, I have come to a realization that I feel will be a defining shift in my life:

I love the Beatles.

I've always liked them, but something just snapped and now I absolutely ADORE them.

Especially Paul McCartney. He's a lyrical god, and a vegetarian. How awesome is that?

Hard Days Night is now one of my favorite movies, and Help! wasn't bad either. The LRC folks think I'm a bit crazy, though, as in the past two days I have come in and rented two Beatles movies, and then sat at the desk laughing my butt off at the Fab Four's crazy antics.

Sure, I've missed the "real" Beatlemania by about 45 years, but what I lack in timing I intend to make up for with passion!

Art

2009-09-05T23:02:00.000-07:00

"The artist is the creator of beautiful things.

To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim.

The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.

The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming.

This is a fault.

Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope.

They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written.

That is all.

The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.

The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass.

The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved.

No artist has ethical sympathies.

An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.

Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art.

Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.

From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician.

From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type.

All art is at once surface and symbol.

Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.

Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.

It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.

Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital.

When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself.

We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.

All art is quite useless."

-Oscar Wilde, Preface to "The Picture of Dorian Gray"

So, what is art really? I'm intrigued by this whole idea. I wish I could meet Oscar Wilde, and shake his hand, and talk to him about life.

Also, should literature be considered art if you accept Wilde's definition? "All art is quite useless," makes me think that if something is used as a teaching tool, it's no longer art, as it serves another purpose. We can criticize it, sure, but we mustn't learn. Or, on the opposite end, if we do learn something from it, it is useful, and therefore shouldn't be admired.

I, personally, am of the opinion that something can have both beauty and purpose, but Wilde portrays his ideas with such gorgeous writing, that I can't help being a bit giddy. All through that book, Lord Henry spouts off the most immoral things, but they're so lovely, I find myself nodding along.

If the devil is a poet, I need to watch out.

School

2009-08-31T13:53:00.000-07:00

"If someone comes up and asks you, 'English Major? What are you going to be with an English Major?' look them in the eye and say, 'EDUCATED!'"
-Prof. Petersen

I am in love with my classes, my teachers, my books, my fellow students, and just about everything else.

My schedule this semester is pretty much the best one I could have ever conceived:

German 102- Kajsa Spjut
French 101- Randy Demetter
English 251- Paul Westover
English 291- Zina Nibley Petersen
Honors 201 (The Pen and the Sword)- C. Wilfred Griggs

Consequently, I am fairly euphoric.

Hilarity

2009-08-18T18:40:00.000-07:00

Okay, I'm gonna have a super-post about this last week on the east coast, but I want to document a few instances of utter awesomeness with my most adorable cousins:

Unknown Adult: What would you wish for if you could have anything in the world?
Anna: Um, that this next year would be good, and I could have fun in school.
Maya: I want a big fat monkey eating a chocolate milkshake!

Casey: Get a birds eye view to do the puzzle.
Maya: What's a birds eye view?
Tana: It means that Casey is crazy.
Maya: Casey, you're a birds eye view.
Casey: Correct usage!
Maya: Yes. Correct sausage!

Anna: I like to sleep on the floor sometimes.
Tana: Yeah, I slept on the floor a lot when I was younger.
Anna: . . . Did they have beds back then?

Tres: I'm really hungry, Tana. I need something sweet and fresh!
Tana: Like what?
Tres: Well, um, like, Cheese-its!
Tana: Those are neither fresh, nor sweet.
Tres: Yes they are. Well, maybe not, but they are salty and delicious.

Tana: Oh, boy, Tres-butter. Whatcha got there?
Tres: [motioning to his growing sponge dinosaurs] This one is a Trioctagon, and this one is a Giggassa Rapper.
Tana: A Velociraptor?
Tres: No! A Giggassa Rapper!

In addition to a hundred other awesome stories of a similar variety, all three of them know the Thriller dance.

Isolation

2009-08-07T23:37:00.000-07:00

"Other than my eye, two things aren't paralyzed: my imagination and my memory."
-Jean-Do Bauby, Le Scaphandre et le Papillon

Stop reading this blog and go watch The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.

Right now.

Still reading? Tush!

It's a wonderfully inspiring film, documenting the paralysis of a man's body, and the liberation of his mind. Jean-Dominique Bauby, former editor of Elle, suffers a stroke, and when he wakes he has lost all sensation in his body, save for his left eye. His brain, miraculously, remains unaffected, leaving him with a rare condition called "locked-in syndrome." His immovable body becomes a prison for his desperately active consciousness. The major part of the movie deals with his struggle to accept his situation, and his attempt to trade his lonely diving bell for butterfly wings. (Oh! It makes sense now!)

I've been reading Letters to a Young Poet, and I was surprised by the discrepancy in Rilke's view of isolation and Bauby's view of it. Rilke stresses, again and again, the need to remove oneself from the world, to become as foreign as a child in a land of adult thought. That, he proposes, is the sole method by which we truly comprehend "self." Bauby unquestionably found that solitude after his stroke, but was unable to live a life without some form of communication. I agree with Rilke that the most intimate understanding of myself is found at the end of a path which only I can follow, but without some interaction with others, I've lost all standards for comparison. I mean, could I define myself without the people who have given me basis for not only desire and appreciation, but loathing and detestation as well? Would I really want to?

I have always advocated a degree of isolation (though I rallied under the banner bearing the title, "self-efficiency"), but perhaps not as vehemently as I would like to believe. I write, don't I? That in itself is a cry for human interaction, a cry to be known. It's my attempt to draw those around me into my lonely world of dreams and beauty. I want to give them a set of lenses to see the world as I see it, and once they have, we can sit back together and savor the spice of whispered secrets.

I suppose that, as with all things, a balance must be obtained. I've got to keep one foot in the real world, and one in the world of my mind, and be cautious to never (or very rarely) stray completely into one or the other for any extended length of time. By dancing around the borderline, I can live as both the natural, uncensored creature of my consciousness, and the tame, civilized woman of society. I have the beautiful opportunity to select the building blocks of my own reality, which is, assuredly, as real as any other, since I opt to make it so.

Now, what shall I choose?

Neverland

2009-08-05T11:01:00.000-07:00

"Some say that we are different people at different periods of our lives, changing not through effort of will, which is a brave affair, but in the easy course of nature every ten years or so. I suppose this theory might explain my present trouble, but I don't hold with it; I think one remains the same person throughout, merely passing, as it were, in these lapses of time from one room to another, but all in the same house. If we unlock the rooms of the far past we can peer in and see ourselves, busily occupied in beginning to become you and me."
-J. M. Barrie, A Dedication to PETER PAN or THE BOY WHO WOULD NOT GROW UP

In summer, time is a funny thing. Moments of hot breath under twilight stars hang immovable and delicious around a sun asleep on the horizon, until the great orb wakes, blushing the sky crimson, and rushes below my line of sight. The world sits dark and endless, waiting to be tasted, touched, lived.

I am unquestionably up to the task.

The strange passage of time excites me. It's a new experience to actually comprehend the steady trickling away of existence - or the collecting of it? These seconds by which we measure our lives will indefatigably fade away; that is inevitable. But every tick of the clock is another step towards eternity, and within eternity. I don't want to lose any of it. Each moment is spent growing a little more into myself, expanding onward, upward, and inward in search of some potential to be actualized. And without a doubt, in the casual step of time, I will find it.

Words of advice from Rilke: "You are so young, so before all beginning, and I want to beg you, as much as I can to be patient towards all that is unsolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue . . . And the point is, to live everything."

That's the secret, then, isn't it? Appreciating the locks? Because, like placing the final piece of a puzzle, there's a unique gratification that comes from personal accomplishment. And when you've found just the right fit, an entirely new scene unfolds, ripe with unpicked thought and discovery.

I used to envy people who were older than me. I longed for their experiences and wisdom. Lately, though, I've begun to realize how much room is taken up by the emotional baggage of jealousy.

Awe of pure sensation (and I mean my own sensation) is so much more worth the effort.

O Embleer Frith!

2009-07-28T21:08:00.000-07:00

Guybrush Threepwood: Do you know anything about lifting curses?
Murray: Oh, right. I know a lot about lifting curses. That's why I'm a disembodied talking skull sitting on top of a spike in the middle of a swamp.
Guybrush Threepwood: You seem bitter.
Murray: I'm sorry. It's been a rough day.

-Guybrush and Murray, The Curse of Monkey Island

I'm still alive. I was playing Perseus for a bit, battling a hideous Medusa, and I fancied myself turned to stone. Not to worry, fair Readers; The gorgon is slain, and I am no worse for wear.

A longer, more intelligent post is hopefully forthcoming.

Love, Tana

Soliloquy

2009-07-10T08:11:00.000-07:00

Good friend, and knows she what her heart doth seek?
For time and trial will all attest, that all
Done naught but for its sake will naught but dregs
Of bitterness impart. And mark it well:
'Tis true for bitter hearts that cup is sweet,
But for the summer's youth 'tis poison'd draught
Which cannot in its life deliver breath, but steal away
That heated breath of maids, and leave them none
Save widow's ice to fill their hollow breasts.
To cast off what she were, and seek instead
A mask : oh ho! now that is folly sure!
So tightly has she set the thing upon
Her face that 'fore a fortnight has been pass'd,
A common friend should pass her by
All unaware of who it is beneath.
The dev'lish front will quickly turn what dwelt
As gentle smiles and nods to gruesome frowns.
Yes, 'til at last her dearest kin, the flesh
from painted mask, will, by no chance, divine.
Why want you that the ends be change? 'Twould best
Be that the means be so, to some new good,
Else I am learnéd not, in thoughts or deeds.
Here, thinking for a change, now that is great,
I'll there concede; but doing for a change -
And naught but for a change - now that is false.
If sport be sport, and prize be sport, who then
should want to play? Or play, indeed, they should,
But hopelessly. And one who calls his change
Both means and ends, has traded pay for work.
At none and two, and ten and two, has she
Been given golden chains to wrap about
Her throat; yet calls she these by what they are?
Oh nay! She calls the pretty things as cords
That bind and cut her skin in malice cold.
Instead, in search of new and fresh, she takes,
For gems, dead iron cuffs, and cries that though
They seem to bear less worth by rite, that they
Are new must give some value to their weight.
Stand I by what I spoke before: that wise
Is one who takes his prize as prize, and names
It by its name, and adds his wealth to that
Which hath he so already earn'd in faith.
An heed this not, nor live by 't shall you find,
A swift right death to heart and might and mind.

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, no?

Sir Bard, I love thee.

P.S. Iambic Pentameter is fun.

Dinge

2009-07-08T08:25:00.000-07:00

Cool things are going down:

1. The Payson Scottish Festival -Every year, I hear about this awesome festival, and somehow manage to miss it. Not this year - oh, no! It's on Friday and Saturday, and it's going to be phenomenal. I can barely contain my excitement. There's even going to be a bunch of highland event things, like a caber toss! Should be good times.

2. The Winter's Tale Workshop - Grassroots Shakespeare Co. is doing it again! Only this time, it's a workshop, meaning that if you're interested, you email them, and if there's a spot left open, they'll give you a script and stuff. It's on July 16 (rehearsal starts at 6, if you're participating), with the sole performance beginning at 9. I have taken a gigantic leap outside my comfort zone, and signed up to play a part; I don't know which one yet - they'll send my script this weekend. It's going to be splendid!

3. Hot & Sour Soup - This isn't really an event . . . It's just a personal undertaking. I'm still pretty excited for it. I've got a recipe to use, but it's not exactly vegetarian friendly . . . yet. If it turns out decent, I'll post my version, so that you may all enjoy the Hot & Sour goodness.

Loves!

Edit: Well, I made the soup, and it worked out excellent. Here's the recipe:

3.5 cups vegetable broth
1/3 cup rice vinegar
2 Tbs soy sauce
1 tsp sugar
1 tsp ginger root (finely grated)
1/2 tsp pepper
4-6 oz. tofu (bite size)
1 Tbs corn starch
2 Tbs water
1/2 cup frozen peas (they probably don't need to be frozen . . . Just what I use)
1/2 cup carrot (grated)
2-3 Tbs green onion (chopped)
1 egg (beaten)
10-15 dried red chili peppers

1. Cook the tofu. I take half a block, dice it, press as much water out as I can, then dry fry it with a little bit of salt until it's firm.
2. Combine the broth, vinegar, soy sauce, sugar and pepper in a pot and add the cooked tofu.
3. In a separate bowl, mix the water and corn starch until thin, then add to the pot with other liquids and cook over medium-high heat.
4. Add peas, carrots, and green onion.
5. Drizzle in the beaten egg while stirring.
6. Break the peppers into a sieve or a tea strainer and then soak them in the hot soup. Do NOT put the peppers directly into the soup (unless you are a masochist). Let them soak until the soup is spicy enough for your taste, then remove.
7. Continue cooking over medium heat until warm all through (usually when the frozen peas are all thawed out and hot in the middle). If you cook it for too long, the vinegar will start to boil out, so just be aware.

Sorry if the details aren't great; I'm kind of a haphazard cook. I ended up adding more vinegar, more ginger, and more carrots. For those of you who are carnivores, feel free to replace the tofu with any kind of meat (my friend uses pork a lot), and use chicken broth instead of veggie broth.

Note: It doesn't have much to do with the actual recipe, but it's really awesome if you cook this while listening to a mix of Cut Copy and Chromeo. Just sayin'.

Collectivism

2009-07-07T15:26:00.000-07:00

I am endlessly fascinated by the concept of collective human consciousness.

I was introduced to the concept by my AP Biology teacher. He told us about an experiment where a group of chimpanzees were split into two separate troupes and taken to opposite ends of the continent. Both groups of monkeys were put in identical cages, and taught how to use a key to open the door. In the next phase of the experiment, they placed the key a few feet away from the bars (out of the chimps' grasp) and gave them a pole with a hook. For a month, the chimps remained oblivious to the simple tool that would so easily facilitate their escape. Then, the scientists taught the first group how to use the hook to grab the key, and within a week, the second group - on the other side of the continent, mind you - figured out how to use the pole without any human assistance. Jesse mentions a similar experiment dealing with crossword puzzles in Waking Life.

To be completely honest, I love the idea. It gives credence to a lot of little things in my life; things like the euphoric sense of oneness with an author who somehow manages to define an idea I've wanted to vocalize but couldn't, and the unshakable feeling that when I'm sitting completely alone at the top of a waterfall, dangling my feet in the spray, that I'm closer to the essence of humanity than I've ever been before. I like the potential it has; I mean, when I'm happy, I have the joy of 6 billion other humans to feed my own, and at the same time, I have a reason to try and feel the most brilliant joy that I can, to give something back. It's also a cool new facet to explore in the understanding of personal relationships. Perhaps a friendship isn't just two people who can talk or appreciate the same things, but who are actually feeding off of the "mental broadcasts" of one another. It's a little more intimate.

You start to walk a really fine line, though. Ayn Rand seems to really dislike the concept of collectivism, and when it reaches a certain extent, I guess I'd have to agree with her. For example, in Atlas Shrugged, Dr. Ferris says, "There's no such thing as the intellect. A man's brain is a social product. A sum of influences that he's picked up from those around him. Nobody invents anything, he merely reflects what's floating in the social atmosphere. A genius is an intellectual scavenger and a greedy hoarder of the ideas which rightfully belong to the society, from which he stole them. All thought is theft." I don't agree with that at all. If we begin to look at life that way, thousands of new ways to break man's spirit begin emerging. In another of her books, Anthem, Rand discusses the possibility of the other extreme: not the concept that all new ideas belong to society, but the concept that unless all of society discovers it, there is no idea. I think that the second possibility is almost worse, you know? There's not really a way to give anything back; it's all consuming, no producing. What sort of bleak existence is that?

So, it's not that I want to become an emotional or an intellectual monopolist, but at the same time, I don't want to owe my musings to a society that demands it.

Boy, who is John Galt, huh?

Humanity

2009-06-30T14:41:00.000-07:00

"The woman had a coat thrown over a nightgown; the coat was slipping open and her stomach protruded under the gown's thin cloth, with that loose obscenity of manner which assumes all human self-revelation to be ugliness and makes no effort to conceal it."
-Atlas Shrugged

Ayn Rand makes me bitter.

It's only been four days since I last posted, but it feels like a year. Every day, I wake into this world, but slip suddenly into another, lost existence. This book, this trapdoor into an alternate universe, sits innocently open, masquerading as nothing more than dead words on aging pages . . . But I know better. Words are the last things in this world to taste death. There is no stagnation in the solemn black print; eternity, but not stagnation. Every phrase is unabashedly alive, weaving an intricate and untraceable path through my own reality. By the end, I have nothing to do but stare out across the knotted landscape and attempt to separate my anger with the human race from the crumbling precepts of true morality.

If I haven't drowned in the last 300 pages of Atlas Shrugged, I'll hopefully have a more insightful post within a week.

Exchange

2009-06-26T20:31:00.000-07:00

So . . . I've been piddling about with a bunch of disjointed ideas; writing for the sake of writing, living for the sake of living (is there a distinction?). Maybe eventually I'll post the whole big entry, and give you all a frightful insight into the workings of my mind.

But not now.

Instead, I'll tell you that I am reading Inkheart, and that I just ate one of the most phenomenal desserts in the world:

Caramelized cashews, fresh strawberries, and melty vanilla ice cream.

Makes me giddy.

Much Ado About Nothing

2009-06-23T14:55:00.000-07:00

9:00 last night found me carrying a blanket and a belly full of strawberries up a steep dirt hill towards the Rock Castle Amphitheater in East Provo. The setting sun gently withdrew his hot fingers from the back of my neck and bid farewell 'til morning.

I found a seat in the center of the theater, and spread my blanket. The rocks were warm, like living things, and I pressed my back into the step behind me, letting the sleepy calm descend. A man with a red sash paced the stage, singing The Crane Wife while strumming an old guitar. Suddenly, a group of people flooded the stage, and the performance began.

The sparse set and costumes quickly faded out of perception as the characters took over. Words flew flawlessly, and the energy was infectious. The audience laughed and applauded, hissed and booed, as if on cue. All throughout, an orchestra of crickets added their melody to the lone guitar and accordion.

This, I think, is exactly how Shakespeare intended his plays to be seen.

If you're at all interested, you should check out the Grassroots Shakespeare Company to see when and where their next show is going to be. I'm definitely gonna try to see them at least once more.

Interstella 5555

2009-06-21T07:43:00.000-07:00

Okay, if there's a better way to spend an hour, I have yet to find it.

Get up and dance. You know you want to.

Bradbury

2009-06-19T00:24:00.000-07:00

I am in love with carnivals.

There is some undefinable surrealism that dwells among the tents. During daylight hours, the thing sleeps, waiting. Then, just as the sun dips below the horizon, a surge of electric blood trickles through the veins of the great steel frames, and the carnival really comes alive.

I went out to the Strawberry Days carnival last night, and once the sky had gone dark and the firefly lights had begun dancing, everything changed. No longer did I belong to a world of sunlit frivolity. Here, indeed, was that infamous Pandemonium Shadow Show. G.M. Dark himself slunk elusively through the crowd - those roaches of society that seep up from dark basements for no other purpose than to add their own confusion to the mass of twitching chaos. Faint snatches of a buzz buzzz buzz could be heard throughout the night; perhaps from a generator . . . Or a stinging tattoo needle?

The carousel was beautiful. Angry, paint-chipped stallions screamed on their posts. I was Jim Nightshade, riding forward, counting the passes around. Once, twice, thrice - I was 21. Again and again, the years went flying past, my mind pressing against the hard walls of reality in the hope of seeing a physical change - to no avail. The broken tinkling of music that shrieked over the crowd was not the Funeral March, backward or forward, and I was still the same.

Finally, I rode the Ferris Wheel. The bench stopped at the very top, and I wiggled forward to look down at the world below. Hundreds of bodies squirmed past one another, inwardly laughing with joy at the power of even the slightest human contact. A few pinpricks of light were the insect eyes that watched the riders. They stared so intently and twinkled so brilliantly that I could not believe them to be anything but sparkling intelligences, asking and answering the very question of life with a single glance.

Hah! Everyone in this world deserves a night that neither offers nor needs an excuse to eat funnel cake and strawberries and cream for dinner.

Dribblings

2009-06-12T12:03:00.000-07:00

"Without you, today's emotions would be the scurf of yesterday's."
-Amelie Poulain, Amelie

I picked up the violin today. I am determined to tame the wild, unruly potential that resides therein. Sheer determination is the thing that is keeping me going. She's a beautiful instrument. I want the tones that come from her to be beautiful, too. Musik ist eine Sprache. Ich werde üben.

I've gone on hikes up to the waterfalls for the last 5 days. I love walking alone, because I can get wrapped up in my thoughts. I need no company. Sometimes I listen to my i-Pod, sometimes I listen to the birds. Both are marvelous.

I am becoming incredibly aware of my body and its limitations and power; and I love it. It is nothing short of thrilling to me that such elegance and strength is mine to own. Singularly mine. Each muscle is mine, each drop of blood, each tiny cell. For the first time in my life I am truly comprehending that I am a temple. A glorious, functioning temple.

Also, I'm learning to skip stones. I'm getting fairly good at it. Today, one of them skipped four times straight across the pond. It was so beautiful.

I take so much delight from the simple things around me.

Loveliness

2009-06-08T20:13:00.000-07:00

This is one of my favorite songs from The Mountain Goats:

I love the line, "In your eyes were all the colors that the rainbow forgot." It never ceases to astound me that such a simple combination of common words can evoke such a strong emotional response.

Disappointment

2009-06-07T20:56:00.000-07:00

I just listened to the (relatively) new Decemberists album, and I have to say, it was not what I expected.

I was hoping for something beautiful, and I guess in that respect they didn't disappoint; Colin's voice is divine, and his lyrics are poetic. It's just . . . Really dark. Their other CDs haven't been super happy. I'd probably go so far as to call some of the songs exquisitely tragic. This album certainly fits into that category, but I think I'd add "haunting," and "chilling," as well.

I'm not blaming them, and as I said before, it's definitely beautiful. But based on their previous albums, I wanted something different. The music was cold (especially The Rake's Song), and that wasn't what I needed today.

In other news, the travel bug that usually dies down at the end of winter is not going away. If anything, it's getting worse. I've just got to hang on 'til August and pray that a brief trip to the East coast will satiate this ever-growing desire.

Also, I'm trying not to lose my faith in humanity. I know there are good people out there. I just need to look harder.

Adventuring

2009-06-02T08:52:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was an amazing day full of Vegetarian foods, skipping stones, and candy kabobs. Also, an amazing mix CD:

1.Und Wenn Ein Lied - Xavier Naidoo
2. Les Limites - Julien Dore
3. Comptine d'un autre ete l'apres-midi - Yann Tiersen
4. New Slang - The Shins
5. West Virginia - RuRu
6. Desert - Emilie Simon
7. Nervous Tic Motion of the Head to the Left - Andrew Bird
8. The Crane Wife III - The Decemberists
9. Der Erlkönig - Schubert
10. 156 - Mew
11. This Year - The Mountain Goats
12. Red Right Ankle - The Decemberists
13. Past and Pending - The Shins
14. Love Love Love - The Mountain Goats
15. Wuthering Heights - Pat Benetar (cover)
16. Winter Windows - Sea Wolf
17. Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For - Gregorians (cover)
18. Bublitschki - Gogol Bordello

Ah, summer!

Response to a Query

2009-05-27T12:37:00.000-07:00

The following post is a response to THIS blog entry, because I didn't want to totally dominate the comment box with this beastly reply. Love, Tana

Every living being is a soldier, willing or not, in the great battle against that chaotic Entropy toward which our universe is constantly drifting. Simply by existing, we fight. Each cell in a body is something - held together - serving a purpose. Thus, we are born into this world with a responsibility: namely to be, and to add what little touch of order we can in a world dissolving around us. Maybe this destiny is of a primitive nature, as simple as a farmer planting corn in rows to ease his task of caring for the plants; but perhaps - and this is where I place my belief - it originates in an innate deific desire to create our own worlds as God did for us. Accepting this second possibility as truth, it seems logical to assume that this organization, this doling out of responsibility, is a characteristic of that holy Infinity himself.

My personal favorite part of Waking Life is the "We Are the Authors" segment. The man on the bridge says, "The world is an exam to see if we can rise into direct experience. Our eyesight is here as a test to see if we can see beyond it. Matter is here as a test for our curiosity. Doubt is here as an exam for our vitality." So, I guess, we emulate the Divine in setting those limitations, the "social roles" as you called them, and in doing so, we lay a path for the others in our lives to exceed the expectations (in the correct way, of course), and realize their own infinite potential. You can't define light if you have no concept of dark; similarly, you can't comprehend the infinite without an understanding of the finite.

It's an ideal situation, I think, especially if the relationship is reciprocated, because it allows me to act divinely while simultaneously striving towards actualization of that divinity.

So, for me personally, I try to appreciate the uniqueness of moments, but place limitations and expectations on those I really love, to preserve the holiness just for the few who are willing to make the journey with me to the Sublime.

WTF? 2

2009-05-22T23:26:00.000-07:00

Today I made infinity pizzas
and also wore a Superman costume for two hours.

If My Life Was a Novel . . .

2009-05-21T00:11:00.001-07:00

. . . I think this would be one of my favorite chapters.

The dim light painted everything golden as I slid off the trampoline and landed on my toes. The ground was still too hard to trek barefoot, and the briers had just begun to creep up through the cracked soil. The careless attitude that springs so infectiously from summer evenings kept me from putting my shoes on all the way. I started toward the old fence, hardly aware of the pebbles that had already found their way into my undone sneakers.

Once I reached the fence, I turned and followed it towards the setting sun; when I was halfway, I stopped. I peered through the chain links, pressing my nose through to smell the fresh cut grass. It was silent, as always, but in a different way. Cemeteries sleep in fright, sorrow, and reverence, but today it slept in contentment. No one cried, and no empty holes yawned hungrily; a pinwheel stuck next to a tiny headstone spun in a breeze I couldn't feel.

I turned back to my side of the fence. Looking past the old saw, the neglected cars, to the westernmost side of the yard, I saw the pile of logs. They had lain in the same spot for years, outlasting time and tragedy. The three largest trunks had become smooth with age, and each had too many rings to count. Hundreds of dandelion mourners encircled the ancient wood, heads bowed forward. Tiny, white wildflowers sprouted at the base of the trees' resting spot as nature's tribute to the dead. When I turned my head, a deer grazing thirty feet away started and leaped across the field. As he jumped, the dandelions wept cottony tears and the crickets began to keen.

I looked up at the tall Birch above me, one of the 17 that lined the fence between the two graveyards. His new leaves quivered as the sun finally dipped below the horizon - a timid watchman!

I turned back to the house, following the fence again. It's comforting to know that on soft summer evenings, even death finds calm.

Sophie Roux

2009-05-19T11:25:00.000-07:00

Love, thy name is Lady Danville.

Okay, not really, but still, this song is nice:

This was written when one of the band members went to Paris and fell in love.

Awww! ♥

P.S. Why doesn't Esmerelda get it? I would give my heart to a poet over a soldier any day. Poor Gringoire!

Rent in Twain

2009-05-15T12:42:00.000-07:00

Several years ago I made a decision. It was my sixth grade year, and I had just finished reading The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Consequently, I had also resolved to loathe Mark Twain until my dying day.

The hatred was not difficult to cultivate. Over the next few years I was forced to read Huckleberry Finn, not once, not twice, but three more times. Each reading served only to feed the blazing feelings of contempt I had for Mr. Samuel Clemens. [It should be noted that when I was in seventh grade, I read A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, and did not object so violently. I'm still unsure why.] In eleventh grade, in the midst of Anger and Disagreement 101 (Junior English, to those who didn't have P.H.), at the mention of reading Huck Finn again, I very nearly became sick on the spot. Vehement objections were made, and Trent and I were allowed to read a different book (what a rebel I was, eh?). Yes, my distaste for Twain had grown so uncontrollable that I took refuge in My Antonia. Oh the desperation. Upon completion of the novel, I determined that I had never read anything so droll in my entire life (with the exception, perhaps, of David Copperfield, read at the beginning of sixth grade, although in the book's defense, I was only 11; I ought to give it another chance) and promptly forgot everything I could about the story - except for the wolves . . . What I wouldn't give to forget the wolves . . . Ah, but I digress; this is the tale of my relationship with Mark Twain, not Willa Cather. So, upon returning to class and hearing my fellow students' tales of woe, I nodded knowingly and shared their indignation.

Now, here I stand, two and a half years later, holding on to - no, clinging to - the traces of loathing that are slowly trickling out of my hands like river water. A hatred nearly eight years in the making is a difficult thing to relinquish. Yet as hard as I try to despise it, I find myself loving every Twain snippet I come across. Today, for example, he sympathized with nearly every hang up I have with the German language. Given, his objections are a little stronger than mine, but the idea is the same; He provided a way for me to laugh about it, anyway.

So, if you study German (or even if you don't), check it out:

The Awful German Language

Well, Mr. Twain, it seems that this may be the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

Can it get any better than this?

2009-05-14T11:28:00.000-07:00

I submit that it that it cannot.

Come, friends. Love with me.

And yes, I do believe that is a bassoon. A glorious, glorious bassoon.

But hey, you can't please everyone.

Set your phasers on STUNNING

2009-05-14T09:46:00.000-07:00

I attended the very first showing of Star Trek in Utah county. It was on May 7th at 7:00 PM. Being among the first to see the show, we got one thing that few later show-goers would get:

Trekkies.

Oh yes. I almost touched one.

It was so crazy, because they were so realistic. I mean, the Spock-trekkie looked exactly like Leonard Nimoy! He was 5'4", had a Mountain Dew belly, and smelled like hot pockets. I know, right? It was like we were actually on the U.S.S. Enterprise, staring into the face of the greatest Hucan (Human/Vulcan hybrid) this galaxy has ever known.

Also, watch THIS, 'cause I love you.

Timing

2009-05-07T22:00:00.000-07:00

Star Trek. Was. Awesome.

I have a complaint though: I don't understand time travel.

Hypothetical situation time.

Let's say that there's an interplanetary war going on, which began when you said something impolite to some high-and-mighty Romulan (this isn't the plot of the movie, so no spoilers, just a big mess of confusion that I can't talk myself out of). Naturally, if the option was available, you'd go back in time and stop yourself from saying whatever it was, right? I would. So, you go back and stop yourself, and the war is averted. Which means that there was never a crisis, and therefore no need for you to go back in time to stop yourself from saying anything. But if you don't go back and stop yourself, you've got a war!

Alright, let's say you've wised up a bit. You've realized that, war or no war, you need to go back and stop your big mouth. Present-you is about to blab, when future-you pops up and says, "Shut up. Okay, two weeks from now, you're gonna zip back here and stop yourself from saying what you're about to say. If you didn't (or don't?), I wouldn't (or won't?) be here. And then Earth is doomed." Aside from the fact that you've now created two of yourself, you have also, either, A) Made time into a loop (what with continually having to go back and stop yourself, present-you has no choice but to go back at the same point that future-you did), or B) Proved the multiverse theory.

Personally, I find B much more probable because it means that rather than travelling through time in one universe and disrupting everything that defines it, time travel is just an interaction between two beings from separate universes founded on the same reality. Plus I just like the multiverse theory. But really, it's the only feasible way for time travel to be possible, isn't it? I mean, option A is just a convoluted way of explaining multiple universes; every time you go back, you're creating another path to be followed.

Multiverse theory also allows for some wicked speculation on electron particle/wave duality. Sure, Schrödinger had a cat, but I'm talking interuniversal relationships on a subatomic level!

Heh, wow. I think this whole post needs a disclaimer. Or three.
1. I'm not crazy
2. I don't submit to the multiverse theory, I just like speculating.
3. I loved Star Trek and honestly, the time travel thing was so inane that it doesn't even matter. And I'm still not crazy.

P.S. I secretly adore Spock.

Move Over Judd Nelson . . .

2009-05-06T18:51:00.000-07:00

Looks like Mr. Jackman has taken a leaf out of your nostril-flarin' book!

I like it, 'cause we can tell exactly how angst ridden he really is.

Not that I don't adore both Judd Nelson and Hugh Jackman, but come on.

Bowie

2009-05-02T13:12:00.000-07:00

Alright, where was I when THIS was going down?

Oh, right.

Still . . . How awesome would that have been?

P.S. I always thought that David Bowie had two different colored eyes. As it turns out, he doesn't.

I'm little disappointed.

Life, the Universe, and Everything

2009-04-26T22:08:00.000-07:00

"Did you, too, O friend, suppose democracy was only for elections, for politics, and for a party name? I say democracy is only of use there that it may pass on and come to its flower and fruit in manners, in the highest forms of interaction between [people], and their beliefs -- in religion, literature, colleges and schools -- democracy in all public and private life...."
-Walt Whitman

These last few days have been kind of hard for me.

I'm not saying that I haven't had a place to live, or food to eat, or good friends to talk to . . . So I guess I'm better off than many. I should try to focus on that.
But, since this is my very own blog, I'm going to tell you exactly why I'm feeling the way I am.

I've been having thoughts about life, people, existence . . . All that, you know? The thoughts are kind of heavy. They're not bad, per se, but they don't exactly make me want to frolic through a field of daisies. Or maybe they do, but in a totally different, twisty way.

Anyway, mostly I'm concerned with relationships. Not romantic, but just between people. I don't know if I can vocalize this correctly . . . Bear with me. It feels like, whatever you're talking about, one person is more involved, more passionate. Ordinarily, that isn't a bad thing; it's what feeds conversations, isn't it? One person explaining, the other questioning, each adding a little and taking so much more. Sometimes, though, it gets really tricky. People don't let on to how much they care about something. I certainly don't. I wouldn't call myself disingenuous, but I definitely hide my passions from people. It's because I don't know how they feel. That, however, leads to a vicious cycle: I don't share the depth of my feelings, so the other person doesn't know, so they don't show the depth of their feelings, so I don't know, so I don't show . . . You see?

It's when I don't know stuff that I get scared. That's why people are supposed to be afraid of the dark, no? Because they don't know what's in it; the lack of knowledge is terrifying. It's the same with interactions with other people. A few days ago, I was talking with a friend. For me it was a relaxed conversation, very open. I was happy. Suddenly, my friend was crying. I had no idea that the things we'd been saying had been so moving to the other party involved.

I don't want my words to have such a profound impact. Well, no, that's not true. I would like my carefully thought-out, edited and re-edited, weighed and measured words to have an impact. This whole idea of just general conversations affecting people . . . It's alarming. I'm only human. I'm flawed (boy, howdy)! If I'm going to discuss something that's really dear to me, I'm going to put a lot more thought and effort into it. I mean, it takes me forever to write a blog entry, and I edit it several times before and after I've posted it . . . And no one even reads it. But that doesn't matter. I think it's important, so I take care.

Maybe this is just a bit of a wake-up call. Maybe I'm the one who's never as passionate. Maybe I should be better about that. It's like someone just handed me a key and said, "Here, there are six billion people in the world. That means six billion doors. You've got roughly 70 years. Start opening."

This might be fun.

Weepy

2009-04-21T21:50:00.000-07:00

I'm holding a handful of feathers, and as hard as I try, I cannot hate them.

Being Watched

2009-04-17T21:10:00.000-07:00

"My flower is ephemeral," the little prince said to himself, "and she has only four thorns to defend herself against the world. And I have left her on my planet, all alone!"
-The Prince, "The Little Prince"

Have you read The Little Prince? Yes? Then you remember the conversation the Prince has with the geographer?

The Prince asks him what "Ephemeral" means.

I just logged on to my blog, and guess what the word of the day is?

Exactly.