Everything's holy-everything, even me

So I finally finished reading Grapes of Wrath. I actually finished about 3-4 weeks ago and have since read Boy in the Striped Pajamas. Had to make up for lost time.

So Steinbeck is incredible. I would say that I can't get enough of him but that's not entirely true because I have lists of unread books that I won't let him get in the way of. But honestly, it was an inspiring tale. The night I finished it I spent probably two to three hours online reading reading guides and character/plot/historical analyses. It felt like being 17. Delicious. Especially because I didn't have to write a ten pager afterward: I could be affected by the writing but free from the task of forming my own conclusions.

In my reading I marked some of my favorite passages. I had intended to type them up anyway, since the book I marked isn't actually mine. Then the other night I was going through some of my writings. I have a few word documents that are kind of the equivalent to moleskin notebooks (which I love but never use because they are so beautiful. too beautiful.) in that they are depositories of verbal sketches; I usually only resort to them when I have some itch to get stuff out before I forget. The stuff is pretty raw and it usually stays that way. And I forget often enough about half of what I wrote.

So, I stumbled into this. And it is interesting because even though I wasn't yet reading the text of Grapes of Wrath, while typing up the quotes, I noticed some serious parallels between what I wrote and was trying to express and what Steinbeck wrote and did express. And beautifully. No surprise really that I loved it so much.

Given the parallels, I thought I'd present my writing alongside what I thought were kind of complementary quotations. Any other quotes worthy of mention will serve as a finale.

Written sometime in December, maybe the end of November:

Today I went back to the room whose clutter had lain untouched during the years I went from a child to an adult. It was recently hallowed out, had gone back to its skeleton frame. And I walked in, picked up scraps of sheetrock and started to haul them away. My size hasn’t changed much in the past 10 or so years. I’d like to think I’ve gotten stronger but it was hard to say. I didn’t want to overdo things so I hauled in small loads, much like I probably did back when work was being done in my room, those long years ago. But my gait, my grip, even my step as I took to the stairs, had a different energy to it. Call it purpose if you will. It was clear to me in a hushed kind of way that this time around it wasn’t about my room, wasn’t about me at all. Though my house is still my home, it is not my universe.

Today, I was helping my parents with what was theirs: our house, yes, but their universe. Somewhere, in a hundred different moments, I had lost ownership in that purpose. I understood as I did not or perhaps could not then, that building a house was more than slabs of sheetrock, putty, paint, trim and the perfect shade of carpet and furnishings. It was about building something, about creating. We all live in houses. We clean them, maintain them. And there is something to be said for that. But me, I grew up with my house.

I was flooded with memories of shovels, blisters, and hot summer days. Of cement trucks, nails, and the smell of sawdust. Of grubby clothes, some of the workers and their cute sons that I never managed to talk to for several reasons; one being those same grubby clothes. And how the sound of hammering or sawing on a Saturday morning was often the alarm clock I slept through because they were just the sounds of home.

As I worked I realized that my hands still remembered how to swing a hammer, drive a screw and that I knew the order of finishing things. I don’t know what most girls grow up learning. I imagine some of them, most of them maybe, learn about cooking. Even though I didn’t realize it, I had my own kind of education. And today I came to find that it had kinda stuck with me.

"How can we live without our lives? How will we know it's us without our past? No. Leave it. Burn it.

They sat and looked at it and burned it into their memories. How'll it be to not know what land's outside the door? How if you wake up in the night and know-and know the willow tree's not there? Can you live without the willow tree? Well, no, you can't. The willow tree is you. The pain on that mattress there-that dreadful pain-that's you."- Ch. 8

I am reading Steinbeck’s “Grapes of Wrath” right now. To tell you the truth, I’m still stuck in the introduction. In it, the writer explains Steinbeck’s drive to write, saying that he lived for it and that it was, for him, a redemptive or transformative act. I couldn’t help today but think of that explanation. I wish I had the same drive for writing but I’m no Steinbeck and that’s okay with me. But I think that writing is just another way of creating something out of nothing. Or of putting together the right pieces. Building a house, or building anything else for that matter, feels the same way to me. There is something so fresh, albeit exhausting at times, in the working of it.

"The last clear definite function of man-muscles aching to work, minds aching to create beyond the single need-this is man. To build a wall, to build a house, a dam, and in the wall and house and dam to put something of Manself, and to Manself take back something of the wall, the house, the dam; to take hard muscles from the lifting, to take the clear lines and form from conceiving. For man, unlike any other thing organic or inorganic in the universe, grows beyond his work, walks up the stairs of his concepts, emerges ahead of his accomplishments. This you may say of man-when theories change and crash, when schools, philosophies, when narrow dark alleys of thought, national, religious, economic, grow and disintegrate, man reaches, stumbles forward, painfully, mistakenly sometimes. Having stepped forward, he may slip back, but only half a step, never the full step back. This you may say and know it and know it.

This you may know when the bombs plummet out of the black planes on the market place, when prisoners are stuck like pigs, when the crushed bodies drain filthily in the dust. You may know it in this way. If the step were not being taken, if the stumbling-forward ache were not alive, the bombs would not fall, the throats would not be cut. Fear the time when the bombs stop falling while the bombers live-for every bomb is proof that the spirit has not died. And fear the time when the strike stops while the great owners live-for every little beaten strike is proof that the step is being taken. And this you can know-fear the time when Manself will not suffer and die for a concept, for this one quality is the foundation of Manself, and this one quality is man, distinctive in the universe."- Ch. 14

I know that there are more factors than the walls of my house, but today I became aware of that transformation in me; that what I was building was no longer mine even though it is a part of me just as I am a part of it. It made me kind of emotional, which seems weird, I know. But that feeling you get when you’re outside, in the mountains, in the country, on a boat or anywhere in nature where you feel embraced or where you feel like embracing it all or maybe it’s the same feeling altogether-that is the feeling I get from my house.

"No-the stars are close and dear and I have joined the brotherhood of the worlds. And everything's holy-everything, even me." -Ch 23

Those walls have so many memories in them that weird as it is, sometimes, I just want to lean against them, hug them, even.

And so today, in a very poorly articulated way, I am especially grateful for what my parents have built and have created. If it makes it any more simple, I could just say that I am grateful for my house. For the work they put into it, the work they taught me and the pieces of their universe that they have given to me in the building of it.

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There is some serious food for thought here, (and can I just say I love how Steinbeck views women, he's so right on) but I won't get into it. I'll just whet your pallet with the following words:


"I figgered about the Holy Sperit and the Jesus road. I figgered, "Why do we got to hang it on God or Jesus? Maybe," I figgered, 'maybe it's all men an' all women we love; maybe that's the HOly Sperit-the human sperit-the whole shebang. Maybe all men got one big soul ever'body's a part of.' Now I sat there thinkin' it, an' all of a dussent-I knew it. I knew it so deep down that it was true, and I still know it." p.24


"An' I got thinkin', on'y it wasn't thinkin', it was deeper down than thinkin'. I got thinkin' how we was holy when we was one thing, an' mankin' was holy when it was one thing. An' it on'y got unholy when one mis'able little fella got the bit in his teeth an' run off his own way, kincin' an' draggin' an' fightin'. Fella like that bust the holiness. But when they're all wornin' together, not one fella for another fella, but one fella kind of harnessed to the whole shebang-that's right, that's holy. An' then I got thinkin' I don't even know what I mean by holy." He pause, but the bowed heads stayed down, for they had been trained like dogs to rise at the "amen" signal. "I can't say no grace like I use' ta say. I'm glad of the holiness of the breakfast. I'm glad there's love here. That's all." p. 81


"Ain't you thinkin' what's it gonna be like when we get there? Ain't you scared it won't be nice like we thought?"
"No," she said quickly. "No, I ain't. You can't do that. I can't do that. It's too much-livin' too many lives. Up ahead they's a thousan' lives we might live, but when it comes, it'll on'y be one. If I go ahead on all of 'em, it's too much. You got to live ahead 'cause you're so young, but-it's jus' the road goin' by for me. An' it's jus' how soon they gonna wanta eat some more pork bones." Her face tightened. "That's all I can d. I can't do no more. All the rest'd get upset if I done any more'n that. They all depen' on me jus' thinkin' about that." p.124


The men were silent and they did not move often. And the women came out of the houses to stand beside theirn men-to feel whether this time the men would break. The women studied the men's faces secretly, for the corn could go, as long as something else remained.


I'll be ever'where-wherever you look. Wherever they's a fight so hungry people can eat, I'll be there. Wherever they's a cop beatin' up a guy, I'll be there. If Casy knowed, why, I'll be in the way guys yell when they're mad an'-I'll be in the way kids laugh when they're hungry an' they know supper's ready. An' when our folks eat the stuff they raise an' live in the houses they build-why, I'll be there. See? -Chapter 28


"Woman can change bette'n a man. Woman got all her life in her arms. Man got it all in his head. Don' you mind. Maybe-well, maybe nex' year we can get a place"

"We got nothin', now," Pa said. "Comin' a long time-no work, no crops. What we gonna do then? How we gonna git stuff to eat? An' I tell you Rosasharn ain't so far from due. Git so I hate to think. Go diggin' back to a ol' time to keep from thinkin'. Seems like our life's over an' done."

"No, it ain't," Ma smile. "It ain't, Pa. An' that's one more thing a woman knows. I noticed that. Man, he lives in jerks-baby born an' a man dies, an' that's a jerk-gets a farm an' loses his farm, an' that's a jer. Woman, it's all one flow, like a stream, little eddies, little waterfalls, but the river, it goes right no. Woman looks at it like that. We ain't gonna die out. People is goin' on-changin' a little, maybe, but goin' right on." Chapter 28


The women watched the men, watched to see whether the break had come at last. The women stood silently and watched. And where a number of men gathered together, the fear went from their faces, and anger took its place. And the women sighed with relief, for they know it was all right-the break had not come; and the break would never come as long as fear could turn to wrath. Tiny points of grass came through the earth, and in a few days the hills were pale green with the beginning year. -Chapter 29

So I held her hand: the worst date ever according to a boy.

This is the honest to goodness transcript of a voice message left on my sister's phone by a 24 year old (correct me, Lis?) guy friend that she had set up with one of her girl friends. Blind date, yes. I would maybe feel a twinge of guilt for publishing this except that anyone who leaves this long of a message on someone else's phone is a) asking for it and b) suffering from an overgrown ego. When I heard this, I knew it had to be documented. And shared.

Guess I'm glad to have reinforced the fact that when it comes to boys, they never cease to amaze. Or to reach new lows. But they never cease to entertain me either, so the love/hate relationship is perpetuated:

So the date with X. Hmmm. Hmm. Alright, let’s lay this out straight- you and I can jam. Um. Huh. I might have given her some signals… that I was interested in her; BUT, I wasn’t interested in her. Now-why would I give her signals then? It might have been to keep her from talking. I know that sounds so mean, and it sounds so bad, but (don’t ever let her hear this. Delete this) because that was probably, no, not probably: that was the worst date I have ever been on.

I don’t blame you. When two people don’t hit it off-it was just-oh man, our personalities. She, she wouldn’t stop talking. Oh man, that, this is gonna sound so bad but she had no concept of physical space-personal space. She kept running into me and I realize that she wanted to be close to me but I wasn’t really interested in her because she kept on talking and she then kept talking during the movie. And I realized she was nervous and you know she did this whole thing with her hand and I could tell she wanted me to hold her hand and I was hoping it would make her stop talking. So I held her hand. And she stopped talking. And it was nice.

And then on the ride back home, we pretty much cuddled a little bit in my truck as I drove. But it kept her from talking! It sounds so bad. Um… So now the plan to let this roll off easy is, I’m gonna be nice to her in text and then I’m gonna talk about like a conflict of interest and how you know-oh I didn’t know then but she was in highschool. And she came out with it at the end of the date so I’m gonna use that and say like “how I have like I can’t date a girl in highschool and I don’t want this like 18 year old girl but it’s gonna be nicer than that. And it’s just gonna be me wanting to hang out with her then having plans and then slowly fading away. Huh. Is that bad? Am I a bad person? Whatever…. Whatever. You would have done the SAME if you were in my situation. Guaranteed. ..Guaranteed…. Guaranteed! ….Maybe. Also, I went out on a date with the girl who um pretty much turned on me over new years . Yeah I went on a date with her and we cuddled in the basement. Again. Agh. I know. I‘m weak. I fold. Oh well. She was good looking enough and I figure that if all I am is some boy toy to her when she’s lonely then I’m some boy toy to her when she’s lonely. But then, am I, am I willing to accept being a boy toy? I don’t know?Oh man, I’m so confused right now! Um, what should I do, that’s a good question. I’m still looking for a job, if you know any openings that would be cool.

So this is me scratching: a collage of thoughts I found undeserving of their own post.

Dear Google and all subsequent 'g' entities,

You are a godsend. I think I might love you, you and your autosave versions of everything. Your spell check, I also love your spell check. It's just more attractive than Word's. Less menacing? I can't explain it. Love is just like that.

Yours truly,
Buns

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My brain has been going a million miles an hour lately. I think I might have to make this a daily thing. Not necessarily the posting thing, but the writing. The more I do this, the more natural it comes. The more natural it becomes, the more it starts to feel like a journal.

Samuel Lover wrote, "When once the itch of literature comes over a man, nothing can cure it but the scratching of a pen. But if you have not a pen, I suppose you must scratch any way you can."I should confess that I have about 5 posts I am in the process of writing. Only half of them will see the light of day. You see, a journal.

I could never have a journal any other way but this way. And by this way, I don't mean electronically. I've tried a Word document and it just wasn't doing it for me. And writing on a page requires so much commitment; I can't just jot notes to make coherent later. Like I said, it's hard to explain.

But I attended this thing last week about family history and it made me realize that even if all I do is quote lyrics that speak to me, I want to leave something behind, for family, for posterity, for me. And sometimes what speaks to you can speak volumes about who you are. If I believe that art, literature, history can shape a person, a character, and an entire culture, then if all I do here is talk about music, books, and my present, well, that can't be a complete waste of gigabites. And if the saying proves true that you are what you think about, well, this will give an honest representation of how little I really am because most of my thoughts, like my actions, aren't great. Maybe this will help me to better filter. Qui sait?

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Remember how 2010 was supposed to be my YEAR? Yeah, well, I don't even know where it's gone. May already, are you even serious?!? And I think it (2010) will be over before anything monumental happens.

Not that it has to be monumental to be good.

But I do quite enjoy monuments. I like crossroads and turning points and cruciality. Which is not a word and I don't know why it isn't because it is nice and it should be.

I want to say that I have a good feeling about Colorado this summer. (Oh yeah, I'm nannying for a French family in Colorado Springs starting June 6th). But I have good feelings about a lot of things and I have had good feelings about a lot of things and good feelings rarely add up to monumental.

However, in my experience, the most crucial moments of my life were the least monumental. If that even makes sense.

So I guess that means one thing: 2010. You're still my year.

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I've been to Barnes and Noble and libraries a lot recently. Every time I do there I have this insane desire to simultaneously abandon everything and read or to abandon everything and write. Except that my writing improves with the quality of the books I currently read.

But honestly, the dreamer in me is awakened with a vengeance and I repeatedly promise myself "One day, you'll see your name in print on a hardback". Because hardback books are the ones with real life to them. Don't even get me started on that though; I could write a dedicatory poem to hardback books.

Well the other day I was visiting with a friend's sister in law and she had maintained a blog and then had it printed. Hers was more concise and related to events and not nervous ramblings but still, there it was, her words: in hardback.

And I decided then and there that if all other dreams failed me, having my blog in print would probably do the trick.

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I heard one of my second graders pass by me after school saying with authority to his friend, "Doctors recommend a square of chocolate a day".

He has undeniably captured the essence of the French that I like best: their ability to enjoy the little things in life. If I had doubts as to the success that he would have in life, they were instantly dispelled.

It was a little thing that made me smile.

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A live version of U2's "In the Name of Love" just played on my itunes. I don't think I ever really listened to it, or it I did I never could get Ewan McGreggor out of my head and his "one night in the name of love". Cuz see, I never knew it was about MLK Jr. or Christ or anything metaphoric like that. I also thought the lyrics were "women" every time it actually says "one man", making women the martyrs of the entire song. Which is of course why I liked it.

Not only does my newly acquired knowledge change everything but it shows how egocentric I am.

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I tutor for a lovely, talented girl named Clara who has four musically gifted brothers, also known as Les Sages. Their CD just came out and I was reading the little blurp on how positive it is and all and I realized that if I were to write songs they would probably be like my poetry: themed in irony, lined with sarcasm, and saturated with general angst.

And I can't figure out why I can't write fully positive, happy things. Why I don't like to read that bubbly stuff unless there's a lot of conflict between the fluff. Why my happiest music, at best, takes on a sort of "I've been looking in on the good life I might be doomed never to find" effect when I listen to it. And that's what makes me feel more alive.

Some people just come like that. And me, I am what I am (and it ain't that bad).

Or at least I hope so.

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Lie # 2

Color my life with the chaos of trouble.

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Yes, that is another line from (500) Days of Summer. What can I say, I'm totally obsessed with the soundtrack, and the movie in general. I analyze it like it's my job, dead serious.

Further proof of this is the fact that I researched interviews and found some things that satisfied my curiosity about music cues and tone and other things you really don't need to know. I'm just putting this out there for any of you who liked the movie or weren't totally satisfied with it. This interview, for example, was telling.

Another article pretty much brought about an epiphany. Not the kind where you're like "Wow, that had never occurred to me"; but the kind where you think "Yeah, that sums up what I've known for a long time and chosen to ignore".

Here's the ephiphonic quote:

"If you bond over the Smiths, for example, that's not good," Neustadter said. "That's a recipe for disaster."

This principle pretty much describes my propensity for disaster. And yet....

Anyway, these ramblings have nothing to do with Lie #2. I just wanted to justify my title. And obsession. And, well, that's enough justification for one day.

With no explosions and no surprises; preform a series of excercises.

Today and yesterday have been too awesome to not write on this thing. The best part is, nothing awesome in and of itself took place. I've just had two, I daresay three, "full of life" days where I felt that I had time enough and I was, in spite of myself, quite satisfied. I even jotted down a couple of ideas for writing (outside of this blog). And so, in no particular order, the particulars:

I think a lot of this floating feeling is that my plans for this summer, next school year, and the following year have become more concrete. The difference in my stress levels is alarming, almost. It's brought home to me that I am what I am (and it ain't that bad) and what I am is someone who is deliberate, thorough and needs maybe more structure than the next person as much as I try to be spontaneous. Some of this said floating feeling is also due in all likeliness to the fact that I had spring break and had a nice fun trip in Arches. And even though I came home sick and couldn't deal with much else besides work, I think it did me an immense amount of good to have 3 days of taking things light and leaving real life behind me.

So in light of the eventuality of me moving out, I thought about making the goal of trying out a new recipe a month. I am small thus I aim in accordance. Well for Easter I already made some African style carrots. I can't remember the exact name, okay. And they were really good. I had the leftovers probably five times. They probably were void of any nutritional value the last 3 times but they did add some zest to my accompanying dishes. Well Saturday night I was feeling a-social and all I really wanted to do was stay home and make food. And lo and behold this was the very selfsame desire of previously mentioned friend, Mr. Smart. So we made chicken asparagus quiche. And, you guessed it: delicious. And easy. And, and this is the best part, we got the recipe while browsing in Barnes & Nobles and copied it out of a cooking magazine because we are hooligans like that and cheap sons of guns who didn't want to buy an otherwise lousy $10 magazine. We copied it on a note card I had stowed in my purse, wrote only about half the instructions and only managed to throw it together successfully because it was more or less our destiny. Now I still have a third of the month left and should the mood strike, I may successfully complete 3 new recipe attempts in one month. Go me.

Today was gorgeous. I think I got a sunburn during recess. It's going to be a great summer. I went on a barefoot run with Lisa because we called off tutoring for the day. I got blisters which means I will have to seriously consider shoes because the conundrum of barefoot is that in winter your feet freeze and in the summer they burn. You really can't win.

After running and a quick shower the fam went to see How to Train Your Dragon, which I of course adored. I raced to FHE and had Creighton there luckily to make me feel social and I met some new people, said hi to a couple others in my ward and alternatively congratulated and cursed myself for not being awkward and for then being awkward. Besides my Gemini mind powers, that is my superpower: the instantaneous creation of awkwardness in the most improbably circumstances. But a little bit of socializing can go a long way for me, so despite my social prowess I'm feeling like senior class president. I know that is a wretched simile. It's deliberate; I'm going for irony.....?

Yesterday my brother-in-law gave me one of the best compliments I've gotten in a while. He said I reminded him of a Gilmore girl. He said it was because I talk so fast. But I'm sure the implications of the parallel are all encompassing.

On second thought, maybe it wasn't even a compliment. I must really lack humility because I usually just assume people think I'm awesome. But Ryan is so nice. Of course he meant it as a compliment.

On a totally off tangent, today I was thinking about how gender of nouns in languages (camel was the word that inspired this pondering) and that made me think of how some animals, even in English, instead of having a male or female article to specify gender actually have their own separate masculine and feminine nouns. Examples: stag, doe, bull, hen, rooster. I know there are lots of other ones and these usually have French or Spanish equivalents. And I started to wonder, "What makes those animals so special? Why don't all animals have different names according to their sex? Like a snail for example. Or cats. (Cats don't, right?)" And then I wondered if the name-allotting powers that be just got lazy and decided they'd had enough. Or, I proposed, mayber there is some rhyme to this reason. I'm going to investigate. But my immediate theory is that those special few animals relate to hunting or breeding. Just a hunch. Thought I would share that with you and maybe get you thinking about something totally useless.

I hope you all however fully appreciate now the workings of my mind. Because all this went through my head in about five minutes during snack time today and then I was off thinking about some other equally useless inquisition for another few. I remember in France James and I talking about how girls are always thinking. And it's true, we are. I just think in circles or lines that trail off and never intersect. And I wonder why I don't get any sleep. And why I consider Google to be one of my most intimate friends.

Well I was going to share more, but I think I'll leave that for a post on it's own. It will be concise and as such will probably make more of an impression. Plus I have all those delicious, newly acquired books to start into. Hurray for teacher's appreciation week and early birthday presents to yourself.

By way of a cheesy toast to this post, I'd like to add that I am so glad I have nice friends. I was reminiscing the other day reading through some old emails. I don't know how I managed to find so many people who are so genuine and good to the core, but I did. Despite all the differences and the fact that I am often self-centered, I know a lot of people whose goodness goes deep and who like me anyway and for that I am grateful.

That's all. Translation: C'est tout. Definition of tout: (adj, adv, noun, pronoun) - every, very, all, everything. Sometimes the French just say it better.

Lie # 1

I'm the hero of this story. Don't need to be saved.

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I'm on a roll here. Two entries in one month. Boom bam, baby.

I'll explain the first line with these two: Last night I needed writing therapy . Today I had an epiphany.

(That is for the teachers and others who have commented on my inability to summarize. There, you go, I did it. Go along now and jump to your own conclusions. Happy? Did you learn anything useful? No. Of course not. Because summaries are useless. Why? Because people make the wrong conclusions even when the have all the facts. However, the percentage of wrong conclusions is increased when there is a decrease of facts. Summaries are mostly factless. Facts are useless without context. Context is impossible without details. I would cite examples of this , but that might just overwhelm you. Conclusion: summaries are good if you want to taunt the reader or listener with promises (sometimes vain) of properly directed conclusions on the condition that you manage you untangle yourself from own misguided and misinformed ones. And really, teasing, that's just plain rudeness.)
*This has been a shameless attempt at justification and a good example of overcompensation. And of exaggeration; I only pretend to hate convention.

You see, last night's piece of work was a chef-d'oeuvre. That's "masterpiece". In case you are wondering if I know what it is, l'humilité is humility. But a fait is a fact and chef-d'oeuvre is what it was.

And it was such because it did what I intended it to do: I was therapized. Honestly, I felt so much better afterward. The only thing that made me feel better after the fact was the fact that I wrote it while playing "New Slang" and when I was done I played it again. And the betterness was cemented.

Just as most of my best work comes as the product of moments pregnant with the urgency of necessity, this free-write was no exception. It was ripe with over-dramaticism and words that don't exist (I'm up to my third in this post). It's no mean feat, you know, to turn off the auto-editor in my brain long enough for the words to come out as the raw sentiments they are somewhere deep inside. Not to mention that those depths are usually closed to me.

Incidentally, when I undertook last night's therapy session, I initially thought I needed blogging therapy. So I started a post. Now I honestly have no idea who reads this thing. Often when I sit down to blog I imagine that no one does, and that I can just send it out to the universe and it comes back to me, pure and untouched: a well-kept secret. Of course, other times, I write with people in mind. Not specific people, but an audience of blurred faces. The problem is, one of those faces may be yours, dear reader, and you might just get your dirty paws on my secret sentiments. So it should be no surprise that the brain-child born in last night's therapy session will never see the light of day. Not in its current form, at least.

So there it sits, a draft in my dashboard; unpublishable because it is too honest to share.

And therein lies the epiphany. One of my past posts dealt with the idea of keeping with a discretion policy and mentions the creation of a blog entitled Monstrous Liar that would be a depository, ironically of course, of honesty; of my anger, fear, and private thoughts (See Nov. 2, a Hendry classic: http://www.angryalien.com/amys_diary.html). In that post I threatened the secret creation of that blog, leaving it as an inheritance for my those lucky individuals who find themselves in my will (which I of course have yet to write).

Well, after much overdone anticipation, I am happy to announce the creation of my blog: Monstrous Liar. Guess what? You are currently visiting it. It is the posts between the posts; the unpublished ramblings that exist behind the scenes. It lives and breathes and hums on my dashboard next to my account settings.

In honor of the comings and goings on this here blog that will remain unaccounted for I have a proposition. Mostly I just want to tease you, I think, with all that I'm not telling. My proposition is this: future unpostings on Monstrous Liar will make a shadow of a cameo on the Bell Tower. They will appear under a subject line of numbered lies. And they will have as their text the title from the original post. The titles likely being lyrics, or quotes, or French: contextless nonsense.

Thus, while last nights posting even included the full text of the song I was playing at the time because it was so integrally connected to the text, it's title was the first line of this post, a lyric I'll leave you to figure out because it's more fun that way.

You've just had your first taste of Monstrous Liar: the unblog. Delicious, n'est-ce pas?

Bienvenue my friends, bienvenue.

Take it slow, take it easy on me. Shed some light, shed some light on me please...

So I've been needing a change on the look of my blog. I may keep playing around but for now I'm out of energy and so I'm going to leave it at this.

I have too many random musings to make them cohesive. And let's be honest, I always muse randomly and I am rarely cohesive.

My plans for this summer are not progressing as I would like them to. I feel so scattered, no direction and fewer and fewer options. I have become obsessive compulsive about checking my inbox, and no, it is not to see who has commented on my facebook. I'm starting to realize how lucky I was last summer in finding options so quickly at the relatively last minute. I think a lot of that has to do with my determination. Last year I was fulfilling the promise I had made to myself to return to France. This year, I merely want out. I'm a big believer in boldness making things happen. I have too many directions this time around for boldness. Hmmm.

In another life, I might have been a maker of maps, methodically plotting and measuring in scales of estimation. Of course, a proper geographer must also be an explorer, a lesson so pointedly learned from Le Petit Prince who meets a geographer who misses the point entirely:

"Exactly," the geographer said. "But I am not an explorer. I haven't a single explorer on my planet. It is not the geographer who goes out to count the towns, the rivers, the mountains, the seas, the oceans, and the deserts. The geographer is much too important to go loafing about. He does not leave his desk. But he receives the explorers in his study. He asks them questions, and he notes down what they recall of their travels. And if the recollections of any one among them seem interesting to him, the geographer orders an inquiry into that explorer's moral character."

So I would undoubtedly have been a captain of a ship and I would have slept with the lull of the sea, the sea, the sea! to ease my restless mind. But in this life I'm here, waiting, and lacking patience. (Not to mention the fact that I have a terrible fear of the sea. But that doesn't mean it doesn't call to me.) I don't do well with a lack of precision, without a destination. All this goalless-ness has gotten me to attempt to figure out what to do with life beyond the summer.

I went skiing the other weekend with mon ami Mr. Smart and we were talking about life and how we would do things differently if the goals and anticipation of future responsibilities were different. I realized I would do whatever it takes to go to school as long as possible, putting aside a nice apartment, home, fancy job, etc. Which, naturally, made me rethink my current position. I kind of concluded that my current life enables me to do more by way of being the "eternal student" since I have summers off to have learning experiences of the traveling variety. It felt good to know that I am where I want to be but I have to admit, I mused over this conversation and my conclusion for days afterward.

I think a lust for learning is a great thing. Not being satisfied with where one is can be both a blessing and a curse as far as progression goes. But I think that the time comes when it is it's time to stop becoming and to start doing. Because the becoming is in the doing. And for me, much as I feel that there is more to be seen, more to learn, that time for me is now, or not far from now. I can't be selfish in the idea of a lifetime indulging myself with knowledge that is rarely applicable and benefits mostly me. I don't feel ready and I'm not sure what it is I need to do but I think it's time I move from the passive learner to the active participant. Self, I've been telling myself, you will never feel prepared enough. Et ce n'est pas la fin du monde ça.

Inclined to place blame or rather trace the root of my mentality I turn to French. Because of French, learning another language, I am at home with the overwhelming lack of knowledge, of preparedness, of completion. But I can't let that stop me. Believing, as I do, that heaven is the opportunity for endless progression, I am somewhat relieved that I do not have to "do it all now", but prioritize. Which, while no mean feat, is far more manageable. At the same time, I am more aware that this life is a gift, that I am eager for it, hungry for it, but that I will only get so much out of it if I don't share it.

President Packer's son quoted in our stake conference the other day a poem quoted by his father in GC 2000. I had never heard the poem, "Man-Making", whose author is Edwin Markham but I think it's all too appropriate with what I've been thinking about so I'm including it:

We are all blind until we see
That in the [universal] plan
Nothing is worth the making if
It does not make the man.
Why build these [buildings] glorious,
If man unbuilded goes?
In vain we build the [world], unless
The builder also grows.¹

This began as a travel blog. Some journeys are more easily documented than others. But really, whatever the kind, the journey of a thousand miles begins with one step. And that step is born of mental exertion, of knowledge and decisions and visualizations. I think of all that most go on in the brain for the foot to move, the circuits, the nerves, the synopses, the muscles, all working in harmony toward movement. Right now my brain's just processing. But make no mistake, the first step is on its way.

I feel like this post has been pretty heavy and I don't mean it to be. So I'm going to add some mix things up with excessive randomness.

1) I went barefoot running on Wednesday and got my shoes snatched up by some still unknown hooligans. Who takes an old pair of ugly black flats is beyond me. I mean, every girl out there owns a pair. And now I have to buy new ones. I went back Saturday and ran around the whole track area, including garbage cans in vain hopes of finding them again. But no such luck.

However, since we're talking about luck I should probably mention that after leaving my shoes on the side of the track I had put my car key in them, walked away, had that funny feeling in my gut, turned around and picked up my key and stowed it safely on my person. See, I could have lost my shoes, my key, and potentially my car. Thank you, uneasiness.

2) I could go off on a rant on the uselessness and misguidings of emotions. Easily. I could go as far as to say that they go against the instinct for self preservation. That's counter evolution! I could then juxtapose and say that they are the one thing that sets our species apart and that I wouldn't have been happy as a monkey. Although I probably wouldn't have known the difference anyway. I could make a metaphor out of them, comparing them to a one party agreement. However I could then juxtapose that as well and argue that logic rarely agrees on anything anyway. And I could cite, in outline form if you'd prefer, why (despite my rather convincing counter-arguments) emotions are still totally useless. But then I'd have to find a way to explain away the uselessness of aforementioned "gut-feeling" (feeling being a synonym of emotion). And since I can't tackle that I will let the beast lie.

For now.

3) Last year just before St. Patrick's day one of my preschoolers (Undeniably, one of my favorites; even though I don't have favorites. Of course) came up to us with green magic marker not quite washed out all under his chin. "Miss Hendry," he said, with unusual sobriety and a trace of genuine worry, "I think I'm turning into a leprechaun."

Friday, during lunch, I caught the kids comparing food. One held up a cheese stick, turned to their neighbor and said, "Look! We have the same!" The neighbor held up his or her cheese stick. Both mouths gaped, wide open as if it was the most fantastic thing in the entire world to have the same thing for lunch. Then that neighbor turned to the other and, matching food of some kind held high and mouths gaping, the wave of enthusiasm swept through the entire classroom. Funny how eager kids are to find reasons to find similarities. And to smile, no, gape. I tried remembering the last time I gaped over something because it made me so happy.

All this to say, I love my stinking kids. They make me laugh and keep me young.

4) Saw Vampire Weekend in concert this week and for some reason I can't get enough of Feist. In fact, I haven't listened to much else this week, and, it being a concert week, that is really saying something since usually I listen to nothing but the artist the week before and after.

A lyric I can't seem to shake: "Leave on a high note, there's nowhere to go but on".


And I think that pretty well sums it all up.