Brand New Pair of Wings

I am feeling a point of departure at hand as far as this blog is concerned. As you might have noticed, the past few months flew by before I could take a pause long enough to take it all in.

I have a lot I want to say (surprise). But I find myself spending too much time deliberating between not having the time to commit it to writing in the first place and then auto-censuring myself as I consider what I want to say and to whom. Much as I like to hold to the egocentric belief that people care what I have to say, most of what I want to say is to everyone. And yet no one. Mostly to me: the simultaneous everythingness and nothingness of me. I also should say that I find myself wanting to write in French.

All various explanations of why, with so much to say, nothing has been said. And now the eternal question of a blogger who, like a friend who has been away for a long time, doesn't know where to even start. There is no beginning in all this, though I sometimes wish that there were; that I could pinpoint and place in time, like words on the first page of a book. It's no secret to anyone that I think of my life as a book. Nor that I sometimes foolishly judge the quality of that life by how interesting the various episodes would be to read. But I feel like I'm repeating myself here and that this is a reoccuring theme or topic on these electronic pages and that no one really needs to be told this because it is probably a universal truth: novels, journals, and blogs would not exist otherwise.

So maybe I'll start with a chapter. It would be titled (and here I shall refer to myself in the 3rd person, just to make things weird for everyone): Brand New Pair of Wings.

I wrote the above over a month ago, toward the end of September. About a week ago I was reading this article about History for my Critical Theory class, a course which, by definition is designed to make us think more. Yeah, well, some of us don't need to learn how to think more, we need to learn how to think less. As is manifest in the fact that most of these amazingly intelligent theorists whose works we are reading lived lives of debauchery and usually ended up killing themselves. I've said it before and I'll say it again: some people are just too smart to function. And I don't know about you but I'd rather be functioning that brilliant. I mean, let's be practical. By extension, I'd also rather be living. As a matter of principle.

Lucky for me, I don't think I'll ever really have to choose between the two, no matter how much I learn. As far as I'm concerned, brilliance demands a sort of disregard for, or the ability to see beyond, conventions that I just don't have. As far as I'm concerned, brilliance comes down to creation. Look at Steve Jobs, for example.

Anyhow, back to me thinking too much. I must say that there is something entirely more productive in this line of thinking than in my usual near obsessive compulsive analysis/worrying. But I think that the fact that I am now thinking about so many different things-in this as in my other classes, not to mention in conjunction with a handful of other rather foreign experiences-that I have barely the time to think things through, let alone document them. Which is a real shame, really, because I actually feel like I have something productive to say versus the usual mumbo jumbo that goes on here.

Going back now to my passage from September and the article on History. The irony is that my desire to literacize (neologism is my best friend) my life by assigning chapters with titles is completely in line with Hayden White's theory on History. He writes on the writing of history and on the narrative form(s) involved. To summarize, he basically contends that history-its perception as well as the writing of it-is a literary act; that the facts do not and cannot speak for themselves.

To really drive this point home, I'm just going to directly quote the article. You'll see why it's pertinent in the duration of a few lovely paragraphs.

"The fundamental meaning of all fictions, their thematic content, consist, in Frye's view, of the "pre-generic plot structures" or mythoi derived from the corpora of Classical and Judeo-Christian religious literature. According to this theory, we understand why a particular story has "turned out" as it has when we have identified the archetypal myth, or pregeneric plot structure, of which the story is an exemplification. And we see the "point" of the story when we have identified its theme.

The events [in a history] are made into a story by the suppression or subordination of certain of them and the highlighting of others, by characterizations, motific (see, other people make up words too) repetition, variation of tone and point of view, alternative descriptive strategies and the like.

How a given historical situation is to be configured depends on the historian's subtlety in matching up a specific plot structure with the set of historical events that he wishes to endow with a meaning of a particular kind."

Some kinds of the plot structures he mentions are romances, tragedies, satires. You know, the kind of categorization you learn in highschool. Basically, these are the narrative structures by which we frame, not only history, but also our lives.

And here's the kicker. "We do not live stories," he tells us "even if we give our lives meaning by retrospectively casting them in the form of stories."

Isn't that what this whole blogging/journaling/facebook status-ing thing is? It's us giving our lives meaning by retrospectively casting them in the form of stories. Not only that, but WE are our own historians and we choose the narrative emplotment for our own stories. Our lives aren't inherently satirical or tragic until we choose that plot form with which to frame our lives.

This reality was especially fascinating to me. Not only am I writing a paper about it, but I am also procrastinating the writing of that paper by writing this blog entry about blogging about the assigning of narrative form to my life. The circle of life, my friends.

The reality that we retrospectively cast our histories seems yet another explanation as to why this blog has been neglected of late. I have this tendency, especially of late, to think of certain things, certain events going on in my life as being "pivotal". I also have the obsession with analyzing (again retrospectively) the moments in my life and in others lives' when "everything changed". And as I've been having so many awesome experiences these past few months, it's as though I can't decide which facts to suppress, which to subordinate. It's as though I'm still trying to identify the plot under which my life is currently framed. Not knowing how my "story" is going to turn out, I don't know how to cast the story. I feel like there are all these pivotal things but how can I know, just yet?

I should probably insert here, for the sake of unabashed authenticity that this whole narrative casting thing explains PERFECTLY my (and a great number of girls, and well, guys I know and probably ones that I don't know as well) obsession with a "good story" when it comes down to "relationships". (Yeah, that's right, that word did just make it onto my blog. I've been a closet lover of analyzing relationships up to this point but I'm ready to set the record straight. You probably saw right through me anyway.) Back to this "good story" nonsense.

I may be the exception here but how many times does the "idea" of a relationship, the fact that it looks and feels and acts like a relationship does and should, contribute to our "buying in" of the relationship? I mean, there are symbols, gests, which for us cast our relationships into certain narratives. The narrative of "the one" for example, the narrative of "love at first sight", the "Mr. Darcy" narrative where you can't stand the person at first but insults, passion, and most of all chemistry get the best of you and before you know it you're looking the narrative of "happily ever after" squarely in the face, and let's not forget the "meant to be", that one's the most dangerous. (Meant to be what, exactly? Never underestimate the damage done by lack of semantic precision) Not gonna lie, I am totally guilty of saying to myself in frustration "but this isn't how it's supposed to look, this is a LAME story" or I can't even figure out which narrative to cast for the thing and so I oscillate, not knowing how to feel without the narrative to allow me to feel thus.

Let's not get carried away with the whole R word crap. I do have a paper to write, after all. The point that I'm trying to make here I guess is that I'm still struggling for a narrative in which to cast my current ongoings. Maybe it is the giant unheaval that is, for once, of a more permanent nature (versus summer escape plans), but I feel like I've been going through a lot of growth lately, some of it painful. Some of that growth has been the mere recognition of the fact that I have a lot of growing up to do.

Right now, I have a set of facts that I don't know how yet to emplot necessarily. I present them for your enjoyment and for the sake of my procrastination:

I am an aunt. My baby sister has a baby. She is an amazing mommy. He is my favorite.

When I think of the "idea" of school, the image of a bench behind the U of U library floats to my mind. And somehow, I relive those feelings (which yes, I am not sharing) associated with that image, that bench, and a few moments from years ago, almost everyday.

This summer, for unidentifiable reasons, constituted some of the hardest few months of my life. Probably my life has been easy and well, everything is relative. Hopefully, they have made me softer around the edges.

I moved in June. I move in August. I made the right choice both times. (A shout out to my roommates, with love).

Somehow I manage to do everything I need:

• I have not missed or been significantly late to any class.
• I make dinner almost every night with real, delicious, and healthy food, and it is one of my most dreaded and yet favorite moments of the day. Funny how once school started I suddenly became a chef.
• I am not behind (though not ahead) on homework.
• I am back to running 3 times a week and have found my stamina again. The feeling: gorgeous. I have suspicions that the reason I feel sick often despite gluten free (and recent sugar free) eating comes down to my running. I have imaginary conversations with me and various doctors telling me I need to find something else. They always end with me yelling at them, rolling my eyes, or slamming the door. Various degrees of defiance. Such imaginings only bring home to me the fact that (probably because it is so mental) I love running. And I won't be told to stop. Especially by people who only exist in hypothetical conversations in my head.
  
• I have more of a social life than I have had in years, even though sometimes that just entails me staying on campus late on Friday nights chatting with other student instructors. Shout out.
  

All of the (just) above, when I think about it, literally amazes me. So much worrying for nothing. On my mirror are written the words "Avec Dieu, tout est possible". I'm pretty sure that is the only rational explanation I have.

I learn so much, everyday, from so many people, many of whom are my peers. There is not enough time to write all of life's lessons.


All of these things and so many more, are, I feel, changing me; though I don't know, can't feel, how or to what end. But I want to get them out, like Zeus throwing out stars to be caught in the night sky, so that later, maybe much later, I can connect the dots and see a constellation.

Or two.

Checkity check check check

Self-compelling obligation is a two-edged sword.

I'm referring, naturally, to chocolate. You see, as Dove so wisely put it, keep the promises you make yourself.

Setting your mind to doing something and actually accomplishing it is one of life's finest feelings.

But (Beforeyouknowitit'sallfuss.) the lengths one goes to to accomplish said goals can be frightening. Which is why realisticivity is so important.

In case you haven't inferred, I set out to write on this blog once a month. I wrote it on a list. Cushioned boldly between a half-dozen other seemingly possible-but-lacking-realisticivity things.

Isn't the English language great? You put hyphens between sentences and all the sudden you have an adjective! A sentence long adjective!

The moral of the story, which I know, has been enthralling, is that never in my right mind with hours of homework in front of me and hours of lost sleep behind me, would I undertake to write a blog post.

But I promised myself. And I actually have a lot I want to write about.

So, here I am. This is my post:

I will write it tomorrow.

(Maybe).

Pass me the polyjuice potion

To really set the scene for this blog, I think you should know that I am writing from a bathroom.

A conversation I just had:

Sister: "What are you doing here?"
Me: "Typing."
Sister: "Why?"
Me: "Because I am too lazy to move."

In case you were wondering, I am definitely NOT on the toilet. I just moved my computer to the bathroom counter today so that I could avoid boredom while getting dressed and doing my makeup. Consequently, getting dressed and doing my makeup took well over an hour. Bathroom acoustics, you see.

And I didn't realize it until I was actually done writing this thing that the fact that I am in the bathroom is really ironic, given some references made here. True Hogwarts fans will figure it out.

Now, let's do this thing.

I have come to a few harsh (re)realizations this week.

1) I have little internal self control. My self control goes as far as putting myself into auto-constraining situations; imposing upon myself a rigorous work schedule, a race deadline, a limited grocery list, a restaurant full of nothing with gluten in it that smells better than its gluten free alternative menu items. Without the initial imposition however, this is what happens:

When I set my own hours 8 AM comes far too early. Before noon and I'm either eating breakfast or fixing lunch, getting on the internet then taking an afternoon nap because well, I deserve it. After that, I have to check to see that nothing happened on the internet or on my phone while I was sleeping. Then I have to decide what to make for dinner, recipe browse while I listen to music and get lost in a song or two that I put on repeat five or six times, decide that I will let myself be inspired at the grocery store and that it would probably be a good idea if I put a bra on, make a delicious dinner that makes me want to photograph and blog all about it, at which point I check the internet to find out when that next photography class is, write a post-it note that I will lose within 24 hours, avoid the computer though because I have to work, when conveniently I find an opportunity to hang out or run because I need to invest in my social life and my physical health and then look it's time for bed and this goes on every day until Saturday and now when people actually want to hang out I have to tell them, no, I'm sorry, I have a whole week's worth of work to do. Tonight. Wow, I'm such a winner.

When I go to the store, I usually end up with some new expensive health or gluten-free product that will change my life or else a bulk bag of chocolate covered: dark chocolate caramel chews, cinnamon bears, acai + blueberry goodness, or pomegranate seeds. And I tell myself that said bag will last me weeks, no, probably like 2 months, and is worth paying the $10 I just saved by not going to that movie with friends. I'm lucky if whatever bag I caved for lasts the week.

When I don't have a race deadline, I find that my stomach hurts an awful lot. Or my foot. Or my head. Or maybe I should do pilates or yogo to get ready for running. Except that I probably should have done that this morning and well, now it's too late, I'm already showered and well, it's really hot outside anyway. Strangely enough, the only time it's convenient to go running is when I should be working on Saturday night. But it's twilight and really I shouldn't push myself or run too long because it's getting late and could be dangerous.

And let's not talk about going to restaurants. If there is pizza or pastries involved, I am gone before I walk in the door. And then of course I am sick two days following.

2) All of these problems have solutions (make a list, deadline, and don't go out to eat ever again) except the first and probably most crucial. Because come September, I will be a student again. Which means essentially setting my own hours. If you just read the former paragraphs, you may understand why my recent track record does not exactly inspire confidence. My trick back when I was a student the last time (just, oh, you know, 5 little years ago) was to exile myself to the library or at my work, and not allow myself to come home until the work was done.

3) That exiling tactic for productivity only worked because my phone didn't get service in the library. And my job was talking on the phone, so when I stayed late from work, the last thing I felt like doing was picking it up again.

4) And this is perhaps the most disturbing realization: Facebook did not exist when I was in college, at least not in it's matured form. Nascent, it lacked the following dangerous features: chat, wall activity, and, the most potent: the fil d'acualité. The best part: now that I have a laptop and smartphone, this infamous distraction is accessible at all times that I am in class and "studying" with a simple tap. I am unequipped to deal with that kind of temptation!

All these realizations culminated in the following: If I was Harry Potter and the upcoming school year was my Voldemort, I would most certainly die a slow, unforgiving death at his hand. Probably somewhere in 5th book, when my lack of self-discipline makes me miserable to read about and pretty much ruins things for a whole bunch of other people involved.

In short, I needed and still need (they need to invent a tense that entails that a past tense as well as an ongoing present) to get a hold of myself. Really, it wouldn't be such a bad thing if I could just stop being Harry and be Hermione instead because she's perfect, brilliant, prepared, never distracted, incapable of procrastination, immune to the lure of petty gossip and wall posts, highly logical, genuinely courageous, and well, mostly just really self-disciplined. And really, who wants to read about Harry anyway?

You should know that I scoffed to myself when I read about programs such as RescueTime that block the internet and certain sites, popup reminders letting you know you are doing distracting stuff and to get back to work, let you setup goals, time slots, schedules, and send you a weekly report on how productive you have been compared to other users. "Honestly" I told myself, "has it really come down to this that people actually have to invent and pay for a program that forces them to have self-discipline."

Now, as I am looking myself in the bathroom mirror, (yes, I'm still here) nodding my head, the only person I'm scoffing at is me: "Yes, you have really come down to this".

Except that I'm far too stubborn and too cheap to admit to a need for such a program. I'm about to reform myself. Single-handedly. In true Hermione and Regina Spektor style, I shall be my own heroine. Thank you very much.

Step one in my recovery program is to curb the addiction. In following with a tradition I unintentionally started last summer, I'm going off of facebook for not one but TWO WEEKS.

Heroic, I know.

Here me out: this week marks the beginning of my life without deadline-imposed work. I have essentially 30 hours I will need to put in from now until Sept. 1. For me, that's basically the same as unemployment. I'd like to see you unemployed and not in school and then stay off facebook for 2 weeks. No, but really. I would love to see how it's done.

Last year's theme of facebook deprivation was Walden. Guess what, I never read it. This year, I'm going with something more practical: Wizards.

That being said, Facebook, I have one word for you: Expeliarmus!

I wait and I tell myself, 'Life ain't chess'.

It should be known that thanks to Room on Fire, my favorite Stroke's album, I do actually stop and tell myself "Life ain't chess" when I am freaking out (frequently) about this or that. And it totally soothes. The imagery is perfect: I imagine the chess board set and laid out in front of me as I scrutinize and try to plan my next move. The futility of the scene is exaggerated by the fact that I don't know how to play chess. Like, at all. Most of what I know I learned from Harry Potter and let's be honest, so did you. Naturally, in a jest slightly more vehement than throwing up my hands in the air, I imagine myself knocking the chess board off those dainty chess tables and watching it fall to the ground, a storm of black and white. "Life ain't chess". With such violent imaginings (I love this word, by the way) it should come as no surprise to those who know me well that this kind of phantom role playing should soothe me.

The irony is perhaps that other thing that helps me in moments of wannabe crisis is repeating what M's mom says: "Am I on fire? No." Which is to say that I'm not a gonner (yet) and so not only could things be worse, but I am in a place to stop all the inward worry and turn it to outward action and make things better. Maybe I should, in honor of Julien Casablancas, rephrase that one: Am I in a room on fire? No.

Oh Julien.

Today's post is a direct result of my being a self-help book junkie. I'm not going to divulge the book I found myself reading (in my defense, it came to me through a set of old books someone asked me to go through and take what tempted me) but I'll indicate that the title of the chapter is: Get Comfortable Not Knowing. I'm just going to type it in here and let it speak for itself. As for me, I will now be adding the mantra "maybe so, maybe not". Third [mantra] is the charm, right?

"There once was a village that had among its people a very wise old man. The villagers trusted this man to provide them answers to their questions and concerns.

One day, a farmer from the village went to the wise man and said in a frantic tone, "Wise man, help me. A horrible thing has happened. My ox has died and I have no animal to help me plow my field! Isn't this the worst thing that could have possible happened?" The wise old man replied, "Maybe so, maybe not." The man hurried back to the village and reported to his neighbors that the wise man had gone mad. Surely this was the worst thing that could have happened. Why couldn't he see this?

The very next day, however, a strong, young horse was seen near the man's farm. Because the man had no ox to rely on, he had the idea to catch the horse to replace his ox-and he dd. How joyful the farmer was. Plowing the field had never been easier. He went back to the wise man to apologize. "You were right, wise man. Losing my ox wasn't the worst thing that could have happened. It was a blessing in disguise! I never would have captured my new horse had that not happened. You must agree that this is the best thing that could have happened." The wise man replied once again, "Maybe so, maybe not." Not again, thought the farmer. Surely the wise man had gone mad now.

But. once again, the farmer did not know what was to happen. A few days later the farmer's son was riding the horse and was thrown off. He broke his leg and would not be able to help with the crop. Oh no, thought the man. Now we will starve to death. Once again, the farmer went to the wise man. This time he said, "How did you know that capturing my horse was not a good thing? You were right again. My son is injured and won't be able to help with the crop. This time I'm sure that this is the worse thing that could have possible happened. You must agree this time." But, just as he had done before, the wise man looked at the farmer and in a compassionate tone replied once again, "Maybe so, maybe not". Enraged that the wise man could be so ignorant, the farmer stormed back to the village.

The next day troops arrived to take every able-bodied man to the war that had just broken out. The farmer's son was the only young man in the village who didn't have to go. He would live, while the others would surely die.

The moral of the story: If we keep our cool and stay open to possibilities, we can be reasonably certain that, eventually, all will be well.

Veni vidi vici

Fact: I live in Provo.
Subfact: I have no job, know only a handful of people, still cannot go running, have 4 new roommates. In Provo.

I'd like to welcome you to summer blogfest 2011. It will be a lot like summer 2009, only less exotic though perhaps just as foreign. This is Provo, after all. It will probably also be a lot like summer 2010; then as now, I had no social life to speak of and had to undertake little adventures and blog all too frequently to feel like I was still getting my kicks. Let's just hope I watch less television this year and read more books.


At least for the first part of the summer, I think you can expect my posts to deal with my limited surroundings; namely, my house.

I'd like to take this time to blame my parents for spoiling me with a suite-like bedroom peppered with aesthetic flare. Because of them, I have prematurely acquired a lot of stuff, some of which serves no other purpose than to look quaint. (Conversely, I take all blame for the six boxes of books I just unpacked). Then there is whole British empire thing I've got going on: the need to have lots of room and then to take it over! (With French paraphernalia, obviously) Thus it was that my search for an apartment orbited around these deeply ingrained needs.

Last time around, I scoped out a ward, find a girl that I thought I could live with and respect and almost agreed to living with her before even seeing the room itself. The whole thing was seamless: I walked into a ward and felt good about it and one of the few people I knew (and most of what I knew about her was that she liked to read and had served a mission) happened to need a roommate at the exact time I would be needing one. Something like fate, right? This time I didn't have the energy to indulge that kind of scoping. I just didn't want to feel like the walls were closing in on me.

Well, guess what: I got just what I wanted! After 5 or 6 or Ican'tkeeptrackanymore carloads, I now have MOST of my things. Since we're talking imperialism, I might as well just say that I feel like Napolean, the midget conqueror.

De la Roche wasn't always so generous in his depictions of Napoleon.

I moved a 6x6 bookshelf single-handedly (ok, so maybe there were some feet involved) all the way across my (have I mentioned?) very large room. I made a series of decisions with regards to how my room would be set-up without consulting anyone! I assembled a desk, a set of drawers, three lamps. Got my man on with the nail and hammer. The real feat was that of using an electric screwdriver. The wall may or may not bear scars from my first attempt when the screwdriver decided to jump off of the screw and into the wall. No big deal though, right? And let's not talk about how I struggled for a full 10 minutes because I had flipped the thing into reverse and the screws would just not go in. As my Dad said, everyone's done that at least once.

No offense Bonaparte, but I'm pretty sure Rosie out-mans you.

So that's my room, my little kingdom, in all its splendor. Now onto the rest of the house.

One house, four roommates, all of us blond. Apparently, we have a reputation: the blond house. I found that out Sunday and I'm not gonna lie, I had this "oh dear, what have I gotten myself into" moment. Originally the sheer number of girls and levels of estrogen in one house overwhelmed me when I was looking at housing. The thing that clinched the deal was the fact that I share the basement with one other girl and that we have a living room that no one really uses. You know, just in case I want to find myself out of everyone's way in a t.v. room complete with love sac. So the fact that I could retreat in typical hermetic fashion was a big plus. That and the fact that I actually really liked the girl who I replaced. Which doesn't make a lot of sense because it's not like I would be living with her, but I just liked her. The good vibe kinda sold me.


The irony here is (when is there NOT irony) that I also chose this area/neighborhood because it where the used-to-be-cool-kids-now-turned-into-mature-young-adults dwell. I didn't want to live close to campus with a bunch of 19 year olds. Before I was house-hunting I started this advertisement which was intended as a blog post:

Roommate Wanted:

The ideal candidate will:

Not judge me for my excessive phone habits.

Not object and even join in to impromptu dance parties that may or may not occur while I am doing the dishes or cleaning or doing homework or....yeah.

Not judge me for sometimes needing some Keisha and Gaga for said parties.

Like the Shins. I have met many people that do not love the Shins and I still like them. But I have never met a person who liked the Shins that I did not effortlessly like. It's pretty much the golden standard. I'd take a Spoons lover, however.

Be an even bigger health nut than I am (which is weak sauce). Preferable gluten-freakish like me.

Indulge the annual Fairy-tree and defend it (go A!) to scrutinizing visitors.

The possible grammar obsession and scattered late night conversations discussing the subjunctive and other such delicacies wouldn't hurt any.


I think it's safe to say that we are covered on the dance parties and Keisha. In fact, I think I will be the indulgent one here. I am definitely the oldest and boringest one in the joint. I don't think we will be talking grammar but I have to say, I was pretty impressed that 'demure' and 'pallet' found their way into last night's conversation.

So I live with some young blond hooligans that may or may not epitomize the provo girl experience. In a conversation over breakfast about boys, ie "bullets" they had dodged, A calls out from down that "that boy wasn't a bullet, he was a whale-harpoon!"

Can you even imagine dodging one of these?

I can't wait for the other metaphors these girls will come up with. And, after all, wasn't I just mourning the loss of the less-mature version of myself? I've been mourning the loss of my freshman year since I was 18 and it wasn't even over yet. This might be just what I need to resurrect said version of me. Also, I think it was a version that analyzed a lot less. (Probably because there were too many boys to possibly analyze without going crazy. And let's not kid ourselves, I didn't analyze anything else substantial back then) So that's a start.

Not that satire is really my style, but this move may result in a satirical documentation of the endearing sort of my life in Provo for the next two-sigh-two years. After all, I have lived in a few different places and gone through my share of culture shock, and the truth of it is that no move has been as difficult for me to swallow and no other culture has seemed so foreign.

I will miss living in QR. I will miss the stellar people from my ward and living with A, who, for the record, was the easiest and best first roommate a girl could ask for. I have deliberated on this move for the past week, living out of two night suitcase at my parent's house and sharing a bed with L[i]s. I couldn't reconcile myself to the fact that I couldn't have both my old life exactly how it was and my new one. As LP says though, the hardest part of ending is starting again.

Screwdriver in hand, I'm feeling pretty confident.

Somethinglikethis.

If work permits.

One day I will come up with my own brilliant titles. That day is not today.

I'm sorry to report that today was ridiculously productive. Yesterday was as well. Sunday night I made a to-do list that made my head whirl it was so long. Or so I thought. Today I realized that the real stress-factor was the fact that the list was a summer to-do list. As in, a list that covers 3, count 'em, 3 months. And that it had an end.

Par for the course of a hypochondriac, I'm afraid somewhere between birth and my last birthday I became inflicted with a condition: workaholism. Hear me out.

I went to the physical therapist about my foot on Friday. I was explaining as cheerfully as possible my lack of physical activity the past month. And then I realized that "I have not ran in almost 4 weeks" was a downright lie. I had run that very afternoon to my car. I had then proceeded to run the 1/8th mile to a graduation ceremony I was, well, sorta late for. I had a vague memory of my running down the corridor of my apartment complex the day before. And I'm pretty sure I ran in the vacant hallways of my school. I can't specify why exactly. In fact, I'm pretty sure not a day goes by that I don't find myself running, however briefly, somewhere. Surely, nothing is truly so urgent that running all of 10 seconds makes any sort of difference.

I think, the truth of it is that I just like to run. And that I like to feel compelled to do so. In other words, I like living in a rush. I'm kind of a mind over matter person. I'm pretty decent at calming myself down when necessary. And that said Friday, before my Dr. visit, I was acutely aware that I was kind of in a rush for nothing and that I should probably chill out. But guess what? I didn't want to chill out. I specifically remember telling myself, "What kind of fun would that be?" You see, because living life overwhelmed makes everything seem like an adventure; more exciting than things really are. The same way that having a to-do list makes life seem purposeful.

And despite the useless running, the carrying more than I can carry, the frequent knots of the stomach, flutters of panic in my chest, stress induced head-whirling (oh dear, I sound like Mrs. Bennett), ALL of that is far more bearable to the anxiety caused by not having enough to do. Which is what I am currently suffering from.

Yes, I'll fess up. Denial is useless. I am a workaholic going through withdrawl. Premature withdrawl, I might add, since I am currently more than occupied. But come July and we are in serious trouble, ladies and gents.

In need of a fix, I've turned to this, my happy therapeutic corner of the blogosphere. To make lists! Naturally.

My first list is pretty straight forward. In order to prevent the inevitable "my life has lost all meaning now that school is out and I can't live off of hugs and gossip and lesson plans" crash, I'm going to put this last year in perspective. Since this time last year I have done the following:

• Nannied in Colorado and learned, well, a lot. About families and about myself.
• Moved out. Learned to make a lot of gluten-free food.
• Decided to go to Grad School. Don't underestimate the hours spent on that decision.
• Was head teacher (sorta) and then not. I survived ensuing drama and came out the better for it.
• Got crafty. As in, I thought about something, and then made it!
• Studied and passed the GRE.
• Sent my BFF off to Texas. Adjusted my phone appointments accordingly.
• Applied for and was accepted to the program I wanted.
• Had the longest lasting dating relationship to date. Usually I wouldn't include this kind of sappy information but it will be good to remind myself come Fall semester that I am in fact capable of balancing school/work/relationships.
  
• Survived the ever-dreaded fakeout.
• Trained for and ran a 1/2 marathon. Last time this year I was barely running 2 miles in Vibrams!
• Stuck with my decision to attend said Grad program. Again, don't underestimate the stress that decision caused me.
• Found an apartment and a ward to my liking.
• Undertook my first ever entrepreneur-like endeavor: Summer French Camp the curriculum of which is currently being refined, thus keeping me semi-busy.
  

All in all, a pretty good year. Thanks for indulging me. I need more than the average dose of self-congratulation to function, clearly.

As for this summer, I suppose I got what I wanted: a flexible summer. I didn't want to work 40 hour weeks at some menial job, whatever the money. I wasn't sure about working at a Nat'l Park or living abroad. All I knew was that I wanted the flexibility of camping, traveling, and reading French lit. I will most definitely have that flexibility.

I might have thought things through a little more though. Because I need people to camp and travel with and not working means I don't meet anyone. It also means that I could spend hours upon hours daily of not interacting with a single human soul. This very thought makes me shudder. And no, not from joy. So here's the remedy for my ill-conceived summer plan:

1) Do not try to mask boredom with food. For some reason, when I am not stressed, I have a fantastic appetite for junk. Which I will NOT be indulging.

2) Volunteer: tutor for refugees, translating at hospitals (still have to inquire on this account). If possible, daily. Just to get me out of the house.

3) Pilates, yoga, running or biking daily.

4) Read a French book a week. Create flashcards of words I don't know. Flashcardmachine.com, you and I are going to get real cozy this summer. I'm actually really excited about this one. Confession: I have this huge amount of jealousy for anyone spending their summer living in France when I think how beautiful their French will be when they return. Then I remember my own summer abroad and what I learned: that I learn more French by reading books than living in France. Of course, my learning curve is higher when I both live and read there but, well, let's be realistic here.

5) A weekly temple trip.

6) Barring further injury, I don't see why I can't have worked back up to 10 mile runs.

7) Go on a trip. As irresponsible as Europe would be, I can't get over the notion that this could be my last free and flexible summer and that I should take two weeks or more and make them count. I refuse to make this kind of trip alone though. On top of a summer of solitude, I think that would be too much. So this goal is contingent on my finding someone to be irresponsible with.

8) Reread all the Harry Potters. Because, like, what else will I be doing?

9) Get fabulously tan. This will be no doubt due to the hours I spend in the lawn chair reading. The thought alone makes me want to sigh. With joy.

10) Hike Timp.

11) Use my super expensive camera. Attend classes. Take a lot of pictures before I buy more equipment.

12) Work on some creative writing. As in, learn to write about real things. And not just lists.

13) Take up a temp job if absolutely necessary. I just have to remember: money isn't everything.

14) Most importantly, overcome workaholism. Work, play, and learn to live without the 'over' in 'whemed'.

So live a life where spring has sprung

Today's title brought to you by the marriage of The Books, José Gonzalez (who I saw in concert two weeks ago and learned-thanks C-that the guy was studying for his PhD in, oh, don't worry, Biochemistry, when his musical career took off) and apparently Nick Drake too (thank you Youtube, I did not know this was a cover) in the form of The Cello Song.

This is not the actual wording: 'live' is not the verb used. But I took some poetic license and improved the lyrics. You see, The Shins have this song that I love, Girl on the Wing. I didn't understand the lyrics exactly the first few dozen times I heard it but I felt like they said exactly what I felt. Then I looked up the actual lyrics and didn't like the song as much. I want to say that I was one word off and back then I cared more about correct form and so I obliviated (yes, a harry potter verb though no, I don't own a wand) my version for the correct one. And now I can't remember my version. It's a sort of loss. In the same way that understanding a foreign language comes at the expense of hearing the sounds for what the are, out of the context of meaning. Thus I'm doing away with doing away with my incorrect versions of songs that I like. At best, I'll keep in remembrance both versions.

So yes, "live". Because it seems the less passive verb; more demanding. Something like reaching. Which is what spring is all about, after all.

In my preschool class at school we planted beans, maybe two weeks ago now. I am obsessed with them. There are over 23 clear plastic cups lining the window sills of our classroom and every morning I come in, even on Tuesday and Thursday when I work in Kindergarten, to check on their progress. No joke, I pick every one of them up, one by one, turning the cups and examining the difference in a few hours, a little daylight, and some water. Sometimes I water them too but even then they get more than a once-over. I'll start watering at one end of the row and as I go the anxiety builds so that by the time they are watered and I can take the time to lift them, tilt, and admire them, I am like one of my 5 yr olds who comes through the door everyday bouncing on her toes she's so excited to be there.

It's weird because my sister is having a baby and that hardly phases me. Maybe because babies aren't incubated in clear plastic cups or maybe because the wonder of it is too big for me to grasp. All I know is, every morning I come in and find myself looking at these plants and saying to myself "But you came from NOTHING!" Something like a phenomenon.

I'm thinking of starting my own bean growing operation at my apartment but I'm worried about there being enough sunlight. I've fairly convinced myself that if I can successfully grow my own personal bean stalk to love and stroke and admire, that I will awake or perhaps merit that hereditary green thumb that must hiding out somewhere in my genetic makeup. Surely nature misread 'green' for 'little' and I'll end up with both.

It's no wonder though, this fascination for coming-from-nothingness. It's kinda where I'm at right now.

Example Number One: A few weeks ago I had a talk on the phone with some friends about my running. The sad truth is, I am still out of commission as far as running is concerned. One friend expressed concern about my running and all too frequent injuries. ( It was at this moment that I realized that I don't like it, and really don't like it, when people show concern for me. I figured out that the reason is because it raises the suspicion that, after all my meticulous analyzing and decision making, I don't know best. If people are concerned, clearly I must be doing something wrong. And, as we all know, I hate being wrong. This would be some much more accurately expressed in French: on deteste. I'm going for universality here.) I was expressing my frustration with another friend who is also a runner and also, like me, perhaps not a natural. My frustration was due to the lack of conviction I inspired in others regarding my ability to run and not be weary. Or injured. It was this fiery conversation about me conquering the world and proving everyone else wrong: I was going to defy, though I'm not sure whom. The problem is, the experts don't agree, you see. My podiatrist tells me I need a hard orthotic. My chiropractor tells me that doesn't solve the problem, but only masks the symptoms. My chiro also tells me I need a shoe with more stability and cushion than my barefoot shoes offer and the barefoot community tells me that we were made for minimalization. My knees tell me that I don't like shoes that aren't minimal and my feet tell me that they don't like running anymore, possibly because I ran in minimal footwear.

But I had this conversation and pumped myself up and talked to more people and became all the more convinced that I could learn to run and not get injured. I even started to think, hey, maybe one day I'll tackle a marathon.

Except that right now, just walking is still hurting. And, well, I might cave and go to a Dr so one can derive that things are pretty bad. So right now, I've got nothing. I've got sunny days and blue skies and hour upon hour during which my feet ache to hit the pavement, figuratively speaking, while my feet literally, well, just ache. But I'm holding out for something. Out of nothing.

Example Number Two:

I have this conviction that this summer is going to be one of the best summers of my life. The truth of it is, it's unfounded: I have no plan. I keep having these visions of a perfect summer. Earlier this year that vision involved taking the 'long' out of 'distance'. Disintegration. Then the vision evolved into a mountainous escape working at National Parks: fresh air, trail running, high altitude sunrises, my camera, and bearded and braided granolas. Nonmaterialization. Now I'm torn between starting my new life in the bubble which is P-Town and spending the plentiful hours I'm not working poolside whilst reading my required French MA literature and running off to France to visit with old people for 6-8 gluttonous, delicious and terribly quaint albeit lonely weeks. Or I could waitress, nanny, take some jobs that my mom doesn't have time for, volunteer, sell my soul to a call center, write, spend my days reading and listening to French and well, you get the point. Indecision meets and possibly breeds nonmaterialization. This is a really big problem because I figure that when I want something bad enough, I'm pretty good at making it happen. I just don't want anything that bad this summer. I've already checked off all the big things from my list. When you have a job that allows for variety, creativity, structure, laughs and of course hugs and when you're waiting for the impending beginning of the end which is grad school, what you do in the interim just doesn't seem to compare or matter.

It is the middle of May, 2011. In 3 weeks I will have no job, no apartment, no roommate and certainly nothing monumental in sight.

But I gotta say: I gotta feeling.

Example Number Three:

I'm reading Tom Sawyer right now. Somehow, in the deprived childhood that I led and am still leading, I never read Mark Twain. I don't know how this happened? I have no explanations. All I know is, my children will read it. Most especially my boys. Because a little mischief does a'body good. And I've thought a lot lately about the crazy things I've done in my time. Maybe the correct verb is mourn: I feel like I've lost my edge or something. Gone is that version of myself that would think up ridiculous questions for the sake of striking up conversations with complete strangers. Gone is the sort of punk and gone is the sort of hippie. Gone is the honorary "Gentlemen's" and other such and less official club memberships that gave me "one of the boys" status. Gone is the rootless. Gone is the concert hall junkie. Gone is the planner of game nights and summer barbeques.

I hear Phoenix whenever I see my younger sister: Do you remember when 21 years was old? It's not maturity that prevents me from doing all the envious things she does, allowing the proper amount of drama and cruciality. It's something else. It's that I know better. Or that I've come to need a purpose and I can't remove that need.

Maybe life and the people in it is going too many different directions, maybe I'm just too tired to reconcile all these different facades of myself or maybe each require too much energy in their own right anyway. For whatever reason, I feel like I've lost an edge. I don't dream like I used to because I'm content where I am. Which should be great. And is.

And yet, sometimes, I think I miss having something to look forward to. I miss being completely unrealistic.

So I've started making unrealistic lists to compensate for the ailment, whatever it may be. I'm going to try to remember this summer what it is to be uncomfortable where one is. I've bought my third copy of Peter Pan, the boy who won't grow up. I once wrote a paper on it in college. My premise was that Peter is not in fact the protagonist but the antagonist of the story: the embodied truth that refusing to grow up is unnatural and harmful. I'm going to try to remember that.

Today, Charles Langridge Morgan, whose quote has been on my board for years though where I heard it and who he is is long forgotten, will help me:

"The art of living does not consist in preserving and clinging to a particular mood of happiness, but in allowing happiness to change its form without being disappointed by the change; for happiness, like a child, must be allowed to grow up."

For the dreams that came to you when you were young / told of a life where spring has sprung.

Something out of nothing. Or somethinglikethat.