Binary Hallucination

My mom’s birthday was a few days ago and I went to dinner with my parents. As I was sitting at the table, across from my aging progenitors, all of a sudden I saw myself sitting on the trunk of a car on the side of the road with the parts under the hood smoking. A dust storm swirled around me and crossed the deserted road. I waited for something, anything, to come along. There was no water. I sat sweating and wishing I had planned better. After a while, I began to see things: animals, pools of water in the distance, people that didn’t respond to the sound of my voice. Their visages seemed friendly but when I extended my hand, they disappeared.

Isolation is a strange drug; whether in a crowded room or trapped in a desert squall, you begin to question your reality. Your brain begins inventing. Maybe you see more clearly? Perhaps it is all a dream? Who is to say?

There was recently a real illusion, one veiled by ones and zeros. I perceived closeness with something that was not really there. I shouted to the mirage that slid past me and slipped into the distance, just to raise its awareness. There was no response, just a continual steady gait away from me. Then I screamed at it. Nothing. I began to throw things to attract attention but to no avail. The image crossed the horizon and was gone. I sobbed, feeling more discouraged and alone than when I had the company of an apparition, even for a fleeting moment.

The hallucination was more comforting than the truth. Now there is nothing.

Public Service Announcement

After much thought, deliberation and stress eating, I have decided to make my blog private. Congratulations Reader, you have made the cut. Happy Holidays! All those other suckers have the option to ask for permission to read my private thoughts and ridiculous stories or find someone else to stalk/psychoanalyze.

It is possible that I have become a wee bit overprotective but I want my privacy, at least for a little while.

Hoping to See Queen Frostine

My house smells like Christmas: pine boughs, apple cider, cinnamon, and the smell of warm food. The aroma is mostly my doing, although the tree was a family project. When we brought it home, set it up in the stand and cut the netting, it unfolded into the most full and beautiful tree we have ever had. I decided that we should invite Scott, Amy, the babies and the Hathawastills to help us decorate. I made the phone calls then I went grocery shopping. We had a inaugural holiday bash with citrus-honey glazed chicken, risotto, red potatoes, carrots and guacamole from scratch (random, I know).

After the tree was wrapped with ribbon, lights and dripping with ornaments the guests left and I found myself lying in the dark. The only illumination in the room was the glow from the tiny twinkle lights. I breathed in the familiar evergreen smell. What a perfectly obnoxious time for unwanted thoughts to bombard one’s brain.

I remembered last Christmas, one that I thought at the time, marked the beginning of a new life, a holiday that wasn’t colored by solitude. I felt like I was nearly to the end of the board waiting to meet up with King Kandy and then I drew the freaking purple Plumpy card and had to go back to the very beginning. That green monster with a smirk always made me want to throw a tantrum.

Being an adult is hard, especially when you are stuck at the first square again, hoping to draw a pink and blue snowflake with the face of cartoon royalty.

What Thanksgiving Means to Me- A Brief Essay- Part 1

Thanksgiving means friends and family gathered in the kitchen:

Wednesday night Heather walked in through the garage with a casserole dish. In the dish was an unceremoniously positioned, skinny, dead chicken that they had slaughtered in 19-degree weather. The feet were still intact and there were several tiny feathers that looked like black and grey hair. When Greg picked it up by the wings to show me the entire body, it was in full rigor mortis and looked exactly like a rubber chicken with a hairy chest. Although Greg claimed her name was Tanya, I was secretly suspicious that it was an elderly chicken named Frankie who got whacked for squawking too much.

I watched Greg cut off the feet and feed them to my dog. Who chewed them for a long time, unable to figure out what to do with the tough, hand-like bits. Finally, he realized he could just gulp it down and swallowed it whole. He made quick work of the second foot. It was all kind of gross but really funny. I was laughing and delighted while Sara cringed. Later, when I told John about the chicken looking like a novelty toy, his comment was, “I wouldn’t have been able to resist slapping someone with it; the temptation would have been too much to resist.” That thought never would have crossed my mind; leave it to a dude to bring the Marx Brothers to Thanksgiving dinner.

Thanksgiving means sharing your food and culture like the pilgrims and the natives:

So we tried to go to dinner Wednesday night. Matt suggested Munchies (Chinese, I think), so we drove over and found the windows dark and the restaurant empty. I suggested Shoga (Japanese and, of course, a surprise to anyone who knows me;). So we trekked over to Orem to discover that they were closed, too. Then I said something ignorant, “Wait a minute, if we have learned anything from Ralphie’s family it is that Asian restaurants are open on Christm…. Crap. Wrong holiday.”

We ended up at Pho and consequently the Vietnamese are now the only Asians I trust. They can come to my Thanksgiving any time; this is an open invitation. Bring on the Jalapeño Bombs!

Humanity Disappoints

This morning, as I was stepping into the shower, I heard a knock on the door. It was an aggressive, incessant knock: the kind my older brother does when he is too lazy to walk around to the garage and open the door with the key code. I was alone in the house and undressed. The front door was locked.

As I stepped out of the shower I heard a stranger’s voice. Slowly, I walked out into the hallway, dripping in a towel, to find a person I have never seen before standing at the bottom of the stairs. Lies and a confrontation ensued.

Now, this person was immature and incredibly stupid, possibly coming in third for the Most-Ignorant-Person-I-Know Award. So I decided to be merciful and tell the police officer that despite the fact this person had been hostile to me, endangered my life with a moving vehicle and committed a felony, I wasn’t going to press charges or make him file a report that would lead to an arrest.

As furious and as violated as I feel, this halfwit does not need a felony charge to ruin their future life. Although, this is another example of why the mastery of standing one’s ground versus exercising leniency evades me. Was I unreasonable? Was I not hard enough on this twit? All I can do is hope I did the right thing.

Before Chanel

A thought hit me while watching Audrey Tautou dressed in boyish clothing, teaching herself the art of millinery and tailoring dresses. Gabrielle “Coco” Chanel, never married, never raised children, never had a steady and fulfilling relationship that lasted, but she did become valuable member of society. By learning to trust her instincts and letting go of what she thought her life would be, Chanel led the shift from restrictive, Victorian clothing into an era of comfort, grace and elegance.

The portion of her life, before her great successes, was fraught with restriction, male oppression and discouragement. I felt a great deal of empathy for this woman who was socially prescribed to behave in a certain way, mostly by men with whom she was intimately involved. The fascinating part about the kind of oppression I have experienced is that it has come from the most ironic of sources: men who think of themselves as progressive. The truth is, their idea of liberation is just another phallocentric construct: defining a woman’s freedom by the opposite of what tradition has dictated. The framework is still male designed, forcing a female to fit into their understanding of how she should think and behave. This understanding is completely at odds with the idea of a woman defining her own identity and forming her own life, the thing they claim to support.

And so we flock together: intelligent, opinionated women. There is nowhere else for us to go. What average man would want to take on such a female? How can one partner with someone who does not want to live within the social or theoretical structures built by the most treacherous of enemies: a man who thinks he works for the cause of women? There seem to be only a few places for such a person.

I had these two depressing conversations, on separate and recent occasions, about what kind of person would make a good match for me. Sadly, from the perspective of these two men I spoke with, the only person who would want to live with me would essentially be a pushover. I have never really liked bobble headed, “yes-men” but considering my past experiences with stubborn, narcissistic men, it may be an undesirable truth. I am on the lookout for someone gentle and kind with patience to match…. (funny story, I have been sitting here trying to think of the right man to finish this metaphor and the only people who are coming to mind are women… curses.) Maybe I could tolerate a pretty boy who just did what I said? No relationship is perfect. Right?

Before I wax theoretical again, let me close by saying, this feels like my “Before Chanel” period… that I am on the cusp of the real beginning of my life. A long, discouraging trail before something wonderful, of my own creation, begins.

Someone Call a Doctor

My subconscious might be trying to send me a message and that message might be that I am a creepy person.

Yesterday, I went to the grocery store on my lunch break and wandered through the produce section. Craving the crisp crunch of a refreshing cucumber (I have been stuck on alliteration lately. Annoying, right?), I grabbed two of those and put them in my basket. I looked at apples and berries and really wasn’t feeling up for any of them, but when I walked past the bananas, I decided the yellow, self-wrapped fruit would be a good snack and easy to transport. I got two of those. The meat section offered me steak, which I was craving and after wandering through the rest of the store I ended up with those three items (five if you count the duplicates) in my basket. First of all, that is a weird lunch; second, what does this say about my subconscious?

But wait, it gets weirder. I go home, grill the steak and while I am waiting for it to bake in the oven, I turn on AMC. What is on? The Silence of the Lambs. What do I do? I sit transfixed, shoving bloody steak into my mouth while Jodie Foster is chased around Ted Levine’s chamber of death and Anthony Hopkins talks about “having old friends for dinner.”

Today I am writing a short, silent film treatment about Lizzie Borden as I chomp on the other half of that bloody steak. Gross.

It is possible that I am a sick woman.

Stir-Crazy

It is possible that I have spent so much time in front of my computer, pounding out documents other people have assigned, that my eyes are crossing.

I did spend some outside yesterday, clipping, kicking at, jumping on, and cutting down a 10 foot-tall bush to make room for a garden plot. There is nothing like manual labor to keep a body from going completely bonkers. Thank heaven for soil, leaves, saws and a touch of brute force.

From time to time electronic devices become manacles and telephones, shackles to responsibility. I read this article in the Smithsonian magazine by J.R. Moehringer; he says, “…I don’t enjoy writing, but I enjoy having written.” I know I will feel that way when December 1st comes around, but right now all I want to do is chuck my implements of bondage across the room.

Try Not to Panic.

New building. New processes. New project. High profile production. Intimidating producers. Abundance of variables. Different style. Cannot screw up.

Applications. Deadlines. Ridiculous hoops. Hope mashed with fear. Desperation for change.

Weird health stuff. Stress worsening symptoms. Avoiding grumpiness. Barely.

Stupid stumbling around. See something. Rage and sorrow course through veins. A reminder. Situation precarious.

(un)tie

Divorce. Separation. Dissolution.

Marriages are ending all around me. People who seem reasonable, kind, and lovely are finding that they cannot live with the person they promised to love forever. I don’t know the details. It is not my business. Even if one party had told me everything, there would still be more pages of explanation unturned. My sympathy goes out to them, maybe even some empathy. To feel ripped apart by conflicting and coexisting emotions is how I understand hell.

frustration combating peace
longing coexisting with repulsion
laughter while sobbing
intimacy paired with distrust

There are two couples in my life that are model denizens of the connubial community. They give me hope when happiness for a man and woman seems impossible. Their marriages are not perfect but I see a flexibility in their bond. Patience abounds. When tiny threads are severed they retie their knots forming:

Cohesion. Accord. Unity.

For this I am grateful.

Snippets

Potential House Fire Avoided:

Sunday, Greg and Heather came over to do their laundry, as per usual. Greg was pulling the clean laundry out of the hamper to fold when he discovered a nylon stocking, tangled and wedged in the tightly packed clothing. He yanked the pantyhose and after a few tugs he lost control of them. The elastic stocking went flying up and hit the light fixture and stuck. As he walked over and retrieved it from the chandelier, he yelled, “Heather, I tried to light your socks on fire! I failed.”

Distracted Week:

After work on Tuesday, I exercised my 19th amendment right and then went to an appointment. As I was sitting there chatting with my doctor, I touched my ear and realized was missing an earring. “Damn it, this is the second earring I have lost this week!” I removed the lonely bit of silver from my ear and stuck it in my purse. When I got home that night I walked upstairs to my room, began undressing and glanced at the dressing table where my earrings were sitting this morning. There, gleaming up at me, was the “missing” earring. I had walked around all day without anyone mentioning to me that I was only wearing one. Are people polite? Unobservant? Apathetic? I don’t know. It doesn't say much for me, though.

Out of Place:

I went to buy a hard drive at the BYU bookstore this morning. As I approached the aluminum and glass that composes the entrance of the Wilkinson Center, I came across a black, furry blob that turned out to be, upon closer inspection, a feral cat stretched out in front of the door. It (I respected its privacy) looked at me like I had no business being there; undaunted, I reached down to pet the surprisingly soft fur. It began to purr then after a minute of petting, it bit me. Lately, that seems to be what I get for trying to be nice.

(West) Indian Girl -What Are You Afraid Of?

"To jump on a plane and land a
Thousand miles away
Just to see what we came to be"

The wanderlust hit me last night while I was shopping at the Bollywood Market for saffron. I had been in this store before but it was nostalgia, not a pull to return, that made it delightful. It was a place in my life when I had more reason to stay than go. Less distracted by normalcy this time, I wandered the aisles looking at their yogurt, okra, and dhal, read packages and bought way more than I should have. India, I miss you.

This morning I made upma (Cream of Wheat/farina is the closest equivalent) with coconut, raisins and honey. As I stood over my cook top was reminded of squatting outside on Matthew and Jeeva’s porch trying to ignite that finicky gas camping stove and the thrill of excitement when it finally lit. We would toss in whatever we had- sultanas, coconut flakes, bananas and ate it as a sweet breakfast cereal. Indians don’t eat it that way; they usually put things like peas, tomatoes and curry leaves in to make breakfast. There must have been a plethora of oddities that our hosts tolerated and never commented on.

So in light of the current pull Eastward, the internal debate rages on, what do I do with the next chunk of my life? Yoga instruction? Travel to a foreign land? Is it reasonable to do this before film school? I have this escapist impulse when things are just… normal. Most people appreciate predictability, but for me it represents stagnancy. Maybe I need to grow up.

Maybe go to India?

Living Just to Keep Going. Going Just to Stay Sane.

There are a lot of changes happening: some that gently tugged on my sleeve, some that popped up and surprised me like a room full of friends and some that spanked me on my blind-side.

When I was in Seattle, a couple of friends took me to a butterfly house. Inside we were exposed to their life cycle and habits. Three times I watched a creature break out of its tight chrysalis and open its iridescent wings. It was surprising to see butterflies eating bananas, oranges and drinking straight from flowers. Perhaps the most curious habit I observed was the insects lying very still on the ground with their wings spread open. Parents, children and other adults were asked to watch their step to keep the animals from harm. While I was there, someone had made a misstep and crushed the delicate body and wings of a Cethosia biblis, commonly known as a Lacewing. Orange and black wings were askew and its body mangled.

There was a Morpho peleides, a Mexican butterfly with ragged wings that landed on my friend. As she walked around, the butterfly stayed with her despite the evidence that it had been battered, likely by human contact. As I considered the appearance of the Common Blue Morpho, I couldn’t tell if I thought it was brave and hardy or stupid and stubborn.

What was it thinking? Why was it so careless to not protect itself from harm? When things started going badly, why did it not leave? What could have been its motivation? Is this adaptation in the works? All I could decide was perhaps there wasn’t much judgment involved and that instinct was its guide. Maybe it just did what most animals have to do: survive and not hold out for something more.

New Building

The official tour of the new building was today- well, the one that I got invited to anyway. We wandered around the facilities and onto the roof. The contrast between the old building and this new one is like a gas-station bathroom to Versailles. That may be a bit dramatic, but in the new building I won’t have to worry about the possessed plumbing (the toilet that won’t stop flushing or the water fountain that sprays the wall and any person who dares depress the button), or that my co-workers are vampires (there are a few people I have never seen in daylight… the windowless, concrete cave has proved an excellent lair for the possibly undead.) Holy run-on sentence, Batman!

The lobby/entrance is design genius: beautiful, practical and impressive with a full view of master control behind bulletproof glass. I do not, however, envy those who work in that fishbowl; I would feel paranoid with my back to a huge hallway where people can see what you are doing at all times. The producers area (where I will likely sit) has huge vistas of the mountains and the temple. I may actually need sunglasses as I got a headache from the light (and maybe the smell of paint/glue/new carpet etc.) And since our cubicles don’t appear to have very high walls, so as not to obscure the view, I may be forced to bring in a jungle so I can get some freaking work done and not get distracted by other people.

For now, I am excited to have a cool building with lots of great technology and toys. Wahoo!

Weekend

Another weekend has passed and I have nothing application related to show for myself. Crap. There were a few highlights, though.

1. Downstairs bathroom= finally painted respectably and has proper hardware/fixtures (There are a few little things to touch up but you don't see purple around the fixtures and through the first layer of paint. My mother is not a painter and it has been obvious to everyone who has used that bathroom since July. Whoops.)

2. The idea of doing yoga teacher training has become very appealing and now I am seriously considering that addition to my list of random-sauce skills.

3. Waffles tonight at the Hugheszabawas with the Hathawastills. We always laugh so hard I think I might cry- sometimes I do. Thank goodness I burned off some of those calories, I had a very bad eating day today- waffles, cookies, cheese, pasta, chocolate chips, and whipped cream. Roll me over.

4. I played with my amazing nieces. They have recently acquired a hamster which they call Tito Horatio Bandaras- that's right, he is Latin. (Insert Salsa Music) When Scott brought him out from the cage while Emily (the 3 year old) was eating pineapple sherbet, I requested that she wash her hands before she touched the rodent(in order to keep the stickiness and the fur from mixing.) She stood in front of me with her palms up, flipped them upside down, and proceeded to wipe her dirty hands on my skirt. Then she stuck her face into the bowl with her hands behind her back and started lapping up the cold dessert like a dog. I guess that is what I get for being an OCD clean freak. Heaven help me if I have my own children, I can't handle pets, the food getting everywhere and the sticky hands. Yet I feel the same way about kids that I do about domestic animals: drawn uncontrollably to them, but my body has an adverse reaction when I hang around them for too long. Maybe it is best this way.

5. Primary Presentation Sunday!- That is right, small children, so dang cute you can hardly stand it, saying hilarious things over the microphone. Some of the highlights are as follows: one kid shouting into the mic about the importance of reverent voices, a girl who was getting prompted by the teacher quoting what was fed into her ear saying, "Repeat after me," and another kid announcing, "We are grateful for the revolutions of the prophet Joseph Smith." AMEN.

Mixed News

This last week has been full of news, some good, but mostly bad.

My project has been "put on hold indefinitely." Which is television speak for canceled. My job is not in danger, but some others on my team will be leaving, which makes has been a struggle for me. I see really talented people being let go because decisions are not being made quickly enough or there are personality conflicts with upper management. Bureaucracy is incredibly difficult for me to manage emotionally. Seeing this organization limp around like a three-legged dog has garnered my sympathy but also caused me lots of frustration. On the up-side, I got to direct a piece the day before yesterday that has beautiful footage and an interesting story. I am thrilled to see the final product come together. We also got a new creative content director whose work I really respect, so I have hope.

In more news, yesterday evening, I got a diagnosis that I have suspected, but feared for some time. As my doctor described my symptoms, things that he could have hardly known about, I began to cry and laugh simultaneously. A strange sensation passed over me: relief and fear. To know what is happening is comforting but now I have some difficult decisions to make about my health (things that will effect my future spouse and children if I should have them) and that is a large burden to carry considering I can hardly make decisions for myself and my life. So I followed an unhelpful coping strategy and went to sleep for hours and I am now am wide awake. Thanks, Brain.

So, despite the fact that I have been bombarded with the kind of news I would like to avoid, there are at least a few shreds of good news, which is something of a consolation.

Sick

So I have been sick for... maybe a week and a half. The kind of sick where you just stare into space and try not to move for fear your stomach will turn itself inside out. This is the kind of sick where you get so tired of feeling sick you start to punish your body for treating you this way.

The first stage is in denial, in which you get ready for the day, put on makeup, dress in cute clothes, go to a store and immediately want to vomit because you are surrounded by people and smells.

The second stage is acceptance, but with anger. I walked around in the sunlight and listened to The Black Keys really loud because I had a headache and ate solid food despite the protests of my stomach. Take that, body! For some reason I always lose these battles.

The third stage is apathy. You go and lie completely still in a dark room feeling like it would be a blessing to be hit by a train or hoping that cell phones really do cause brain tumors and yours has finally ripened to a good, grapefruit sized malignant tumor of death.

That is where I am right now, feeling horrible and a bit loopy. I have to go to work tomorrow, I have missed too many days without an identifiable illness to call in sick again. Damnation.

The one thing that has made me laugh are these blogs about sickness; they have made me feel a tiny bit better, although the stomach jostling laughter is uncomfortable, to say the least. Warning, there is some language for comedic effect. Please enjoy:

I'm Definitely Not Dead

The Party

Texas

From the Ashes, the Death of a Dream

I found this among some of my old writing and it felt appropriate.


The words seem harmless enough: "the death of a dream." A friend of mine tosses them out with regularity to describe painful situations, usually when something longed for is lost or never realized. It seems to fit, but I hate that phrase.

What are dreams, anyway? Gentle curls of smoke that dissipate when touched? So clear, so thin, that their very existence is a matter of serious debate among bearded scholars in smoking jackets? Are they given life when expelled from the mouth into some willing ear? Is the inkling of a connection, the whisper of a form, a glimmer of a plan enough to will them in to existence? If they are just that, fine beyond palpability, are they born to die unfulfilled? Unrequited? Or in their very fulfillment, shatter into innumerable pieces?

There is one dream that I keep repeating, one that haunts my head during waking hours and those spent in restless sleep. Sunday I watched it gather cinnamon twigs and myrrh then meticulously arrange them into a nest. Before I could stop it, the slender twist of gray blossomed into flaming death. The smell was fragrant. The golden plumage was arresting as it combined with the blazing petals. My eyes watered from the smoke.

I pronounced it dead and pressed my fingers to my forehead. A noise. A stirring came from the ashes. I was left with that emotion, coveted when life is most dim, hope.

Tonight, I am a Film Director

It is official, I am legit. Tonight was the first shoot of the piece I am directing for the "Be the Good" series. I am simultaneously terrified and thrilled. Say a little prayer that my footage looks good!

Bad Behavior

Things I Did Instead of My Budget Reports:

-wrote this blog
-jogged two miles
-groomed eyebrows
-laughed
-ate three eggs with salt and butter- gross, you say? Not so. Delish!
-battled with my dog about where he chooses to sleep (victor = dog)
-lazed around

Things I Can’t Do Now that I Have Not Done My Budget Reports:

-sleep

This Weekend/Today Warranted a Playlist

Someone I haven’t seen in a long time came into work today. I anticipated this meeting but I wasn’t really prepared. When I saw him he gave me this look, like it was the first time he had seen my face, my wrists, my jaw, my shoulders. As he was leaving I smiled and told him it was good to see him. “Yeah, it’s been years. You’ve grown up.” “I don’t know what that means, but thanks, I think.” “I don’t know what it means either.” He smiles. I walk upstairs. Confusion. I can’t stop thinking about it all day. What did he mean? By the time I clocked out I wanted to punch his perfect face. Speaking of dredging up ancient feelings, this weekend someone close to me was sorting out theirs and all of a sudden I was empathy crying and reliving six months ago. What a teenage-angsty thing to do... the playlist and the crying. Maybe I am not that grown up after all.

“Worn Me Down”(the EP version)–Rachael Yamagata
“Heartbeats” Jose Gonzalez
“One Red Thread” Blind Pilot
“Babylon” David Gray
“West Coast”- Coconut Records
“Best of my Love” Eagles
“Call and Answer” Barenaked Ladies
“Gamble Everything For Love” –Ben Lee
“Black Mirror” The Arcade Fire
“Dear Sarah Shu”- John Vanderslice
“High and Dry”- Radiohead
“I Like You Most” Slowreader
“Silver Lining”- Rilo Kiley
“Anywhere with You” Saves the Day
“Black Star” Radiohead

Bullet Proof Derby

It was 90 degrees and I was trying to run in a pencil skirt. Commenting on the stupidity of this act is unnecessary. I mention it only as an indication of how well I fit in with this crowd of tank-tops and t-shirts that boasted "SAUNTER" as their fastest gait.

The announcer's voice crackled over the loudspeaker. A round of smashing was about to begin and we were half a mile away. A quick word with the event staff for directions and we were off to the other side of the park, past the Ferris wheel, the camels, and cotton candy machines. Winded, we arrived and I practically shoved money in the hands of the gruff ticket-vendor. I practiced breathing as my friend produced her checkbook. It is no big deal, breathe. You can wait. Just out of sight I could hear the cars revving their engines the crowd barking like wild animals. The announcer screamed, "Three, two, one, GO!" Within a few seconds I heard the first crunch of metal. She was checking the date on her phone and filling in the lines. Breathe. Patience. She was working quickly but I felt like a kid waiting to peek around the corner on a December morning. We grabbed our purple wristbands and raced into the arena. A man with a shaved head, sunglasses said to Jennifer, "Want help with that wrist band?" "Uh, I think I am good." Friendly but weird.

We ran to the edge of the fence and started circling, looking for a seat or standing room where we didn't block anyone's view. Dirt was flying from under the wheels of the cars. Flames were coming from the exhaust pipes funneled directly from the engine. Cars were speeding across the field and narrowly missing their targets. Smashing, stalling, flag pulling and the round was over. Tow trucks and pit crews flooded the circle pulling the cars out into an adjacent parking lot.

We wait a half an hour and then next heat begins.

A neon green car with a double digit number spray-painted on the door came barreling through the arena, kicking up dirt as it went. A two seconds later it crashed into the side of a teal car with "I *heart* Autumn," scrawled on the hood and pushed it into the four-foot-tall, dirt barrier surrounding the driving area. A member of the pit crew jumped from the top of the barrier, barely escaping the crash. A station wagon from 1984 dressed up as an American flag rammed into the two cars struggling to get started after the impact. Number six, an orange hatch-back, another familiar car from my childhood, slammed into the sloppy stars and stripes. The collision made that stomach-turning crunch that no one wants to hear outside of this field. But somehow, despite that natural reaction to flinch,the crowd bellows for more. The man sitting a few benches down in the tier of metal bleachers is wearing a pair of Wranglers, a camouflage hunting hat, a t-shirt that features all capital letters and a crescent wrench. His wife, who outweighs him by two hundred pounds, hands him their baby. The ruddy-nosed man in front of me glugs down his his third Bud-Light and cheers for the car that is so beaten up that from the side it looks like a "U."

I am out of place but I am so happy. I scream like a white-trash soccer mom, cheering for random cars and bad mouthing the announcer/ref. Number six locks grills with another car. They turn sideways and rev the engine trying to unlock. A car comes and smashes into them. They are still stuck. A minute passes and they are both out. "BOOOOOOOOOO!" we scream as he says, "Number six, pull your flag." "BOOOOOOO!" A lady behind me yells,"Stupid ref! Number six is has the best engine in this whole derby!" We scream for justice, but the ref says, "He's out."

We are defeated. Tow trucks come. The grunge match starts. All of the cars that had their wheel-wells hammered out and their spark plugs changed are back, fighting to the death. One car turns off its engine while waiting for the last car to join the battle. His engine never turns over again and he sits while the other cars wallop each other and send bursts of engine-smoke fifteen feet in the air. Then it is over. I am hoarse.

As we leave the parking lot La Roux comes on the radio. "This time baby, I'll be bullet proof."

Two Words.

Demolition Derby.... More later.

The Eels Say I Need Some Sleep

It is time for a quick post instead of going to bed. I am exhausted but I am going to share my good news and gratitude from the last couple of weeks. The highlights are as follows:

Heather and Greg are finally married. The wedding came off beautifully. I wish I could take credit, but I got so much help from other people, I really think I should say it was a family and community effort. Thank you so much to all! I will have to do a blog entry dedicated solely to that event, but it requires more effort that I can muster at this moment. Here is something to pique your interest and prepare you for the excitement that will be that blog.

Lovely visits from friends and family punctuated the beginning of this month. It felt like home to have them all here. Now it seems that I have to get married to sucker them into coming back. It may be a while.

On Friday I got to hang out with about 20 llamas as we filmed teenagers feeding them, brushing their hair and walking up and down the steps of the Hare Krishna temple. They are normally very docile creatures, but two of them got in a fight and one spit hay on the other one. They had to be separated, like in elementary school. It was a delightful day. I missed India. I think I am going to go back soon.

“Inception” was the FHE activity on Monday; it was a beautifully crafted film. I find it creepy and cool that I had a dream within a dream about two weeks before it came out. The “Royal Wedding/ floating on the ceiling stuff was brilliant. The way they handled water in that film? Gorgeous. I have always wanted to do that in a motion picture… now I have to wait a few years. Bah.

I ate a deep dish margarita pizza from Nicoitalia’s with the house Italian dressing. Heaven in your mouth! I have been craving it all week. Maybe I will treat myself again this weekend. In other good food news, I had a Stone Bowl and beef bulgogi with a dear friend. I don’t think I have eaten Korean food in a year. YUM.

Jenn is coming to visit on Friday. I love that girl. Camping is possibly in the works. Woot!

I get to go to San Francisco and New York in a couple of weeks, compliments of BYU-B and some fancy budgeting on my part. I am such an adult right now, traveling for work. Take that, former juvenile lifestyle!

Bed awaits me. I need some sleep before another crazy long day.

Amazing Grace/Til the Chicken

"If the angels is gonna come in, we should sing a song the angels know, George. They don't know this song."-Tori

I am in a position to neither confirm nor deny these events:

1. The rumors are yet unconfirmed, but it seems that I might have eaten Kashi shredded wheat, milk, blackberries and… chocolate chips mixed together, for breakfast.
2. I may have had to chase chickens during a bridal photo shoot. Some genius thought it would be “so cute” to incorporate them in the bridal/groomal portraits. Exercise for the day= a big, fat check.
3. It is possible that I choked on water during sacrament meeting today and it could be that afterward, the young man passing the water spilled it on my back. Does God have a sense of humor? I am going to have to go with, “YES.”
4. It is possible that three of my favorite people in the whole wide world are coming into town this week. Happiness? I think so.
5. The jury is still out but this week might make me one big ball of stress. Fingers crossed this one isn’t true.

Outta Mind (Outta Sight)

I saw him last night. It took me by surprise when he walked into the kitchen as I turned the corner to go outside. His smile was friendly and gentle…familiar. My knees were surprisingly sturdy and my feet carried me past him and out to my car. My friend Melanie followed me. Normally after an encounter like this I panic and cannot breathe. It is different this time. I pull out some “stained glass” projects I have been working on and set them up on the trunk of the car for her to see. She is sunshine embodied. She showers me with, perhaps unwarranted, praise. I am grateful. He comes outside and strikes up a conversation. Stumbling through a description of my job and my plans for more school I shift weight from my left to my right. I try to find a place to put my hands. On my hips? No. On the trunk? No. I start putting the glass away. He tells me he is moving to the Midwest. He introduces me to his wife. I didn’t really see her until this moment. I guess she had been there all along, following him around. She seems quiet… nice. Not like me… maybe my opposite. They leave. Okay. All right. Okay. All right.

Keep the Car Running

A portion of this week was spent up at a little piece of wilderness heaven near Mount Pleasant. Most of my energy was exhausted by setting up, making/serving food, decorating and doing other campy things: attending flag, applying mosquito repellant, starting things on fire, attempting to sing songs I thought as a teen (and still do think) that I am too cool for i.e. “Sippin’Cider,” and “Wadaliacha.” Really? Who wrote those songs? They are an embarrassment to American culture. Well, maybe I don’t really mean that. It is good for people to do silly stuff, it might be too indecorous for me, though.

Anyway, because I just got the serious-person job, I had to show up at the office 3 days this week, so Tuesday night I drove home. The way to the campground is curvy and next to a cliff most of the way. As I was driving down at sunset I got to see the trees in this incredible, golden light. Each conifer was luminescent and although the light was fading, the details of each tree were clearer as the sun passed into the distance.

It is times like these that I think, I wish I had an incredible camera so I could capture this moment. That thought is immediately followed by the knowledge that even the most talented photographer can never really capture this moment: visceral reaction to light and chlorophyll and oxygen and the fuzzy-horned deer that lifts its head from the tall grass. I am grateful for those moments; I consider them a benefaction from above.

By the time I arrived at the bottom of one of the curvy roads leading from the camp turned the wrong direction. There are apparently two ways to drive up to the camp. One was outlined on a map distributed that morning and the other was the direction given by one of the 16-year-veteran girl’s camp leaders in the car with me on the way up. I saw a sign for Route 6 (a road from the map) and thought I would be less likely to get lost, now that the evening had turned from gold to purple. The road was made of dirt, rocks and potholes and began uphill. Up mountains and into valleys, past groves and open fields into a herd of black cows sitting in the middle of the road. The calves, still unsure of what vehicles are all about stood until I got within a few feet. When I got too close they did this unnatural sideways skittering with a look of terror in their eyes. The bulls and cows just stood there, unflinching, forcing me to drive around their solid, substantial bodies.

Then I drove and drove and drove on this road into what felt like a horror film. There were no houses, no lights, no signs of life just a few abandoned trucks on the side of the road. I kept thinking of Ed Gein, that creepy guy who Jame “Buffalo Bill” Gumb is based on in “Silence of the Lambs.” I have got to stop reading about serial killers. I decided I was only driving this direction for 20 minutes and as soon as 9:00 hit, I was turning around no matter what. Well the time came, it was still the middle of nowhere and I made a U-turn, back through the woods, past the trucks and the stubborn bovine and 45 minutes after I had made the turn, I was back at the sign. The one that alleged that Route 6 was the direction I had just come from. I glanced to see if I had made a mistake. Nope. It was 28 miles that way, meaning I was probably almost there when I turned around. I drove home in the dark and got home nearly an hour later than I had planned.

There are many ways to get to the right place but occasionally you take the Robert Frost road and end up in arboreal arches surrounded by your own fears and obstinate livestock. Mistakes, decisions and getting lost are part of the process of making it back to where you started or maybe just back home.

I am growing tired, so instead of telling more stories I am making a list of this week's highlights:

-I built a fire in the rain. . The score at the end of the night was Team Heidi + Fire = 1 Team Water + Wind = 0 Take that nature!

-An albino cat crossed my path on the way to a party. I think that means I am supposed to have good luck, right?

- Heather told me The Arcade Fire is releasing a new album next month. Wahoo! I have been listening to Funeral and Neon Bible to prepare. Also, in other good music news, Brandon Flowers of The Killers is releasing a solo album, so Hot Fuss, Sam’s Town, and Sawdust have been keeping me up on long drives.

- Lots of deer were seen this week, which normally wouldn’t be that cool because they walk into my neighborhood all of the time, but there were two that caught my attention. The first one I already gave a shout-out to, but still deserves some consideration. He was a teenager and consequently had fuzzy horns. RAD! I also saw a super-tiny baby deer. It was only about 3 feet tall and had the white spots. It was trapped on the cliff side of the road so I drove very slowly as it scurried to the side and front of me. It finally got up the courage to cross the road and it hopped with such speed that it brought its legs in and out at the same time. It looked like it was bouncing! Baby deer are so dang adorable I could just squeal. (It is possible that I might have.)

-I held two babies (human) this week and cooed at them. Their moms must think I am nuts but infants make me crazy happy.

- Car Talk- Those guys crack me up. I caught the end of this week’s show driving up to Salt Lake yesterday. If you don’t listen to that radio program you should. Also, This American Life is pretty much the best thing that ever happened on the radio (and possibly TV). I think I have heard about every episode they have ever produced and I have realized that I am annoying at parties or in conversations when I constantly reference that show. Nerdiness abounds. Thank you Sara, for the introduction.

-Diane Rehm – Apology-
This was a show about, as you may have guessed, is the art of apology. The most poignant thing they discuss is the “I am sorry if…” statement. They point out that it is not a real apology if you shift the focus from your mistakes to the feelings of the injured party. For example saying, “I am sorry if I hurt your feelings,” isn’t a real apology. A real expression of regret sounds more like, “I am sorry I said those things about you, I was wrong.” It was great to feel validated. I am tired of the “I’m sorry if…” statements! Granted, I do this too so it was a real wake up call to me. I am going to try and be more careful when I express remorse.

-I stumbled onto this blog and it made me laugh. That was me as a teen, more or less.

-I have been thinking about doing this. It might be the only time my stuff ends up in a museum.

That is it for the week. More soon.

High on a Sunday

It’s an Aimee Mann day; her melodies have drifted through my plans, my successes and my setbacks this past week. Her voice puts ice on my stinging skin and sets a light bulb up at the end of a dark hallway.

All week I have been trying to maintain my equilibrium on the tip of my toes, attempting to shift my weight away from the edge of tears. Here is a short list of things that made me tear up or cry this week (possibly for no explicable reason):

Hearing The Association’s “Never my Love” on the radio while driving past a cemetery
Watching a short doc on Stephanie Nielson
Reading the edible Wasatch website
Talking to a really nice person at the San Francisco Film Commission on the phone
Having timed something perfectly today
Eating a fresh tomato with salt
The Extras Special Series Finale- that bit where Andy apologizes and tells
Maggie he’d be a penguin so he could eat the “glidey-flappy fish”
Sitting behind a baby at church

At work, we are producing mini-docs on people who are trying to make the world more habitable through kindness and good deeds. Under normal circumstances the cynic in me might do a little eyeball-hula but I love the project and my team and all this inspiring stuff makes me feel a little less suspicious of people. I know that human beings are capable of unthinkable things. Even trusted people can betray us in surprisingly cruel ways, but seeing people give up their time and energy to do their part has reminded me that people are good, too. There is this scene toward the end of P.T. Anderson’s Magnolia, and if I remember correctly, there is a montage of all of the tragic characters underscored by, you guessed it, Ms. Mann herself. At the end of their destructive paths there is this narration:

“Most people don’t know how hard it is to do the right thing. Sometimes people need a little help, sometimes they need to be forgiven, sometimes they need to go to jail.”

That line has stuck with me. It is hard to do the right, kind, and good thing. I fail. A lot. Everyone does. But there is joy to be found in reaching out for help and also in extending an arm or hand in a gesture of love. All we can do is just try and sometimes give in to the tears.

Cubicle

I moved into my cubicle. The contents of said cubicle are as follows:

one red pen
one blue pen
one black pen
one yellow, clicky highlighter
one fat pink highlighter
one stack of yellow, 3x3 Post-it notes with 100 leaves
one ample, white notepad significantly thicker than the Post-its
one small yellow legal pad
one box of paper clips
one semi-functional, green, office chair (I am sitting significantly lower than my desk)
one personal computer to be replaced by a work computer within the next week or so
one stack of paperwork filled out with my name and a hundred numbers that help identify me
one pamphlet geared at telling me what behavior is off-limits in this establishment
one purse
one water bottle filled with ice water and cut strawberries (when Heather found out I did this she called me a snob- to my face)

and me, one employed, Unit Production Manager.

Commencement

So much is happening I am feeling excited and apprehensive. Between preparing for girl's camp and the wedding, this morning I am starting a legitimate real-person job. Not a waitstaff, free lance, flexible hours, on your own time position but one in an institution with bureaucracy and a boss who isn't someone I've been friends with for years. This is what I have been saying I should do forever, but now that I am here, I am unsure. Commence chapter one of adult life... four...three...two...one...

Tangled Dreams of this Mortal Coil

When I woke this morning I realized that I had a midsummer night’s dream within a dream. In the beginning, I was roused by the patter of tiny, padded feet on my bedroom floor. Cloaked in a pall, my mind reached for the switch to illuminate the quiet, unknown guest but my arm stayed limp on the mattress. A heavy weight pinned my chest and limbs; I could neither move nor see. My lips formed a whispered plea but the calm did not come quickly. Panic rose as the padded feet approached and leapt from the floor to my bed and landed near my feet. The animal was small, lithe and boasted four delicate paws that started between my immobile ankles toward my face. Struggling harder to reach the switch, my arms stayed in place. I would not be able to confront the creature in the light so I lay helpless as my mind darted around for a solution. The animal stepped onto my abdomen and walked a few more steps to settle on my chest. With some difficulty my hand broke free and reached up to feel the conical ears and the silky fur. A distinctly feline purr revealed the nature of this guest but not its identity. This cat, although unknown, appeared to be amiable so I stroked its fur to calm us both until I woke up in another dream.

Stepping out of bed, climbing the stairs, splashing my face with water and brushing my teeth, I begin a new morning. Bread slides into the toaster and the fridge opens. Confronted by bright light and an electric hum, I scan the shelves for preserves and milk. I shut the door, comestibles in hand, and begin to assemble my breakfast on the counter. My sister enters and I ask her, “We didn’t get a new cat, did we?” A quizzical look crosses her face. “Why do you ask?” I proceed to detail my dream while pouring myself some milk and she tells me, “I have heard of that before. Some cultures say it’s the devil sitting on your chest.” “Wait, the cat?” “No, that feeling of being unable to move even though you are wide awake.” “An apt name, I must admit, it was paralyzing. Pun intended.” She rolls her eyes. I offer her toast and then I wake up.

Now I am sitting in front of a bright screen in the dark of my crowded room. The books I have been reading are encroaching upon my side of the bed and I keep pushing them toward that empty space on the other side. I keep thinking about how that feeling, the “devil sitting on my chest,” is familiar. It was as vivid in my dream as it was when I was awake and having the same experience. I am in awe that my brain can produce such elaborate reproductions of reality. What a strange thing: to be both delighted by and suspicious of one’s own brain, attempting to untangle verity from fantasy.

Once (or maybe a few times) I read this play, in which, the protagonist is caught in a loop of questioning. In the most famous soliloquy, perhaps the best known in the English language, death and suicide becomes knotted up with images of sleep and dreams. You may have heard it:

To be, or not to be- that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them. To die- to sleep-
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die- to sleep.
To sleep- perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub!
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death-
The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns- puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.- Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia!- Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins rememb'red.

Painted by scholars in shades of yellow, he is a tragic figure to be pitied. Critics have called him a coward, saying he could not commit to a decision but I have empathy for this man. He is bold enough to ask if there is something worth the trouble that life brings. He grapples with despair and gets caught up in confusion but at least he is asking, thinking, reasoning and wrestling. When paralyzed by panic and desperation he reaches out even with one nearly powerless hand in the dark and finds comfort in a friend and a prayer.

Breathing In Nurture and Nature

Greenhouses are lovely. I spent some time breathing in a warm, fragrant, and colorful air of diffused light today. My muscles slackened as the oxygen rich atmosphere enveloped my body. I passed the sage, thyme, fennel and basil, all aromatic and delicious. I admired the blooms of the lilies, foxglove, and lantana. Walking through a space surrounded by verdant life is yoga: deep and controlled breathing, relaxed muscles and meditation.
In and out.
In and out.
In and out.
Tranquility just enters and stays.

In my dreams I have a space filled with trees, flowers and a bounty of vegetation, a place to wander and reflect. This nursery to rear small plants makes the corners of my mouth pull upward because flora paints the soul with bright splashes of lemon, fuchsia, periwinkle and lime. I was glad to take a small bit of that peace home with me to tend and nurture myself.

Byrds in the Garden

Over the last couple of days intense gratitude has washed over me and filled my brain with clichés. Even as I am writing this, I have to hit delete repeatedly because my fingers keep clicking out language that usually makes me roll my eyes. How do people express these feelings without using sun-shiney words that make people want to gag? Here is my attempt:

Plants are sprouting in my cedar boxes. There is something satisfying about perfect and round, little green bits peeking up through the soil. Knowing that by putting a seed in the ground, coaxing it out with water and sunlight, I can reap fragrant foliage or ripened fruit when it has reached maturity. It is a simple principle: at the right time, with the right care, good things come when you nurture them.

Life is falling back into place and serenity is a welcome side effect. Recognizing my role in my family, friendships, neighborhood, and church organization has reminded me that I am not, nor do I want to be, an individually functioning unit. I am connected to beating hearts and that interaction yields happiness. Having socially isolated myself for a long time it is wonderful to open my arms again and hear that steady beat when I get close.

I am indebted to my friends and family and counselors for their unwavering support through all of my emotional, spiritual and physical difficulties. They haven’t flinched or become frustrated and have been patient with my cautious pace (one where I drag my feet or dig in my stilettos) and my over-thinking brain that sends me in intellectual circles without letting me come to any conclusions.

Stepping down off the fence, despite trepidation about some unanswered questions, is inciting growth. I am making informed choices and find happiness in the results. This is a huge step for me. Looking forward, instead of craning my neck to keep an eye on an unfinished past, has guided my feet down this untended path, even though I might have selected the wrong shoes for the walk.

As I find delight in gardening and social interactions, this Byrds song streams through my brain. I think they might have stolen the lyrics from some uncopyrighted material (possibly some ecclesitical/preacherly person?). I think I am going to leave out some of the more repetitive lyrics but it goes something like:

To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven.
A time to be born a time to die, a time to plant a time to reap,
A time to kill a time to heal, a time to weep.

A time to build up, a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones, time to gather stones together

A time a war, a time of peace
A time of love, a time of hate
A time you may embrace, a time to refrain from embracing

A time to gain, a time to lose
A time to rend, a time to sew
A time a time to love, a time to hate

A time for peace, I swear it’s not too late.

Hope

I have written maybe 7 posts that I cannot bring myself to publish. They are about everything from growing tomatoes to wheeled Mayan toys to serial killers but despite my efforts to unearth deeper truth about life and human nature, everything sounds preachy or hurt and angry.

Faith has been on my mind and its association to relationships. This topic has consumed me for almost a year. Some conclusions are presenting themselves but they are fragmented. A friend, Courtney, posted something on her blog, and I wanted to post a link because it discusses something that is impressive to me: humility. Although everyone is guilty of pride in some way, when the dearth thereof is characterized in film or television, we connect to that person; we love them.

I have faith that there are people who take responsibility for their actions and not push blame on other people. People who say, "What can I do to make this relationship better?" instead of saying, "It is your fault." If they make a mistake, they try to fix it. These people are more worried about what others feel, more than their own discomfort. They exist. Their qualities of kindness and humility are more important than any achievements or wealth they accumulate. They have my respect and I want to say, "Thank you."

This is the blog.

If I Were One of the Seven I would be the Grumpiest

I need to vent and everyone I know is asleep. Curses! So listen up internet world! Here it goes: I know this happens to everyone, but right now I feel uniquely screwed. I spent hours working on something brilliant to post, but something got in my way. Something insurmountable if I wanted to retain any scrap of dignity. Why do I care so much? Since when did anonymity become so important in sensitive subjects? Am I a coward? If I have something to say, I should just say it, right?

I considered the last question and decided that the best move was to stay with propriety at present. Forgive me if you mistook me for a bold woman this morning.

Please know that I know how easily love can turn to anger and then back into love. I am concerned about a few people in my life who are not worried about themselves at all. There are, in fact, two people whose lives and choices are running parallel at present. I can see what specific decisions have led them to exhibit the same characteristics. If I pointed these things out, which I am tempted to do, they would not listen and be even more furious, pushing us farther apart.

If you are one of these people and reading this blog, something I doubt highly, know that the anger back to love part is the most important step. My attempts to not get stuck in the space before that transition have mostly proved successful. My wishes of good luck are extended; I say that in earnest even though I might kick you next time we come into contact.

XOXOXO,

Heidi

Okay

I ran into someone today at a toy store, a friend of a particular friend. He asked me how I was. The question was innocent enough. Casual greetings are tossed around by lots of people. “How are you doing?” hardly qualifies as earth shaking material. We chatted for a few seconds and he asked me again.

Everyone does this when distracted, they ask the same banal question to someone again. Even when there is genuine interest, it is common to repeat formalities.

We talked for a few more minutes and he repeated, “How are you doing?” Surrounded by plush animals, a wall of candy and novelty toys I realized that this wasn’t a mistake. “I’m okay,” was the real answer and that is what I said.

This I Believe

I have been doing a lot of thinking about religion lately. A lot. Most of this rumination has stemmed from a relationship that I wanted to preserve but could not. My guess is that the other party would attribute our falling out to religious differences. Although I am not confident that that is the whole reason, I cannot deny that faith has played a part in our separation. This is a true tragedy. For me, love has always been connected to faith in God and inexplicably, these two could not co-exist. Every thought since our separation has been devoted to figuring out what went wrong. Admittedly, my impulse after so much hurt and disappointment is to give up on everything. It is in my interest to let go of what I believe to be with someone I love but no amount of argument or logic can make me feel settled about that choice. Consequently, separation is the best decision but heartbreak is the only thing that I feel.

Because of this relationship, I am currently unsure of what I believe; having been sure for so long, it is terrifying to step into the realm of uncertainty. Never in my life have I felt so insecure about what I want for my life. If you have made my acquaintance, you will know that I am socially liberal but theologically conservative and have been able to negotiate many circumstances that would make these two perspectives seem mutually exclusive. I have finally made it to a place where I have to make a difficult decision. Standing in a field of uncertainty with contradictory voices shouting their opinions, abandoned by the one I thought would stand with me, armed with nothing but some books, life experience, and a few pieces of paper to help me form my future life, I am left to find a path out of the center toward something. The beginning of a decisive me is emerging.

At the start of my public pondering on the most painful decision of my life, I am going to lay bare my current beliefs, Edward R. Murrow/Jay Allison style. This is not the entirety, but it is a starting point:

I believe that forgiveness lies on the other side of mistakes. Whether it is from God, family, strangers, friends, enemies, or oneself, there must be mercy somewhere for the most human of traits: imperfection.

I believe in change: the kind that cannot be controlled and the variety that must occur of our own volition. Both are good, but how much we kick and holler determines our happiness.

I believe that there is nothing like time and separation to award perspective. It is only the collective “other” that can see the truth when we are blinded in the moment.

I believe in art and its power to see the good and beautiful in the mundane and ordinary. It is a way to connect with something beyond oneself whether it is a higher power or another human being or perhaps, both.

I believe pain is protection. Bodies are programmed to send signals to the brain when there is a problem. An emotional life works the same way. Agony teaches us to avoid similar stimuli in the future.

I believe in selfless love and its power to take us from mortal to divine. Putting the needs of others first, especially one other, is the most rewarding way to live.

As for theology, I am working through it. I am not sure where I stand, but I know that people need to be loved and empathy is the key to understanding. I am working on those two things. As a somewhat private person, public journaling about such sensitive subjects seems like a departure from my nature, but I can’t be the only one who is struggling in this way. Perhaps an open dialogue of this nature already exists, but if not, maybe my musings will give someone else comfort.

Zombie with a Boom Box

I started listening to techno music again, sort of by accident. My nineteen year old brother listens to thumping music all of the time as he practices his glowing stick/baton twirling act in order to impress the ladies at Mormon raves. This act of swirling glow sticks has its novelty, but I mostly hate the noise that accompanies it.

This was not always the case; when I was in high school I developed a taste for electronic music after hearing Moby's Play. After a bit of exploration I realized my interest in this genre was narrow and now, in my old age, I have more or less sworn it off. That doesn't mean I can avoid hearing it. On the contrary, the walls of my parents house tremble daily from his pounding bass and in my rage I can't help but brandish my cane and shake it at the whippersnapper.

Yesterday something awful happened, something unspeakably painful. After a 2 am apocalypse, I got up early and had a grueling work day, then a rehearsal, followed by a stint of painting into the night with only a boom box to keep me company. With no other option but the radio or an unlabeled disc from the car, I fed the machine sitting among cans of paint and brought it to life. The speakers walloped my ears with noise. Alone with the once intolerable cacophony, I lay on the ground and slid the black mass of plastic onto my chest. Breathing slowly, my brain flat-lined. On a day that I thought my heart might stop beating, gratitude for a pacemaker filled my chest.