itsyourcue

God Said Let Go

2010-09-02T10:07:00.000-07:00

God said to me, "Let go of your lover,

It may be hard now, but you will find another."

So I pushed him away into the sea

I was better alone, it was easy to see.

God said to me, "Let go of your plans,

I have new ones for you in far away sands."

So I cut them all off, in the hope He was right

I believed in the new, they were plainly in sight.

God said to me, "Let go of your friends,

The Lord is your shepherd, His flock He tends."

So I bade them farewell with a bow and a sigh

I knew there were others; I knew I'd get by.

Then God said to me no word at all

As my plans, friends and lovers began to fall.

In the silence I feared I had dreamed every word

Praying in darkness, still nothing I heard.

I said to God, "I gave you my heart,

My plans, my friends - where's that better part?"

"Those gifts were to you," He said to me,

"Now take them, and run, and at last be free."

The Portrait of Spider Gray

2010-08-05T07:48:00.000-07:00

There is a spider in my office. It is dark gray and thinly fuzzed and has been here for 2 weeks, that I am aware. I see him every day, and check to see that he is alive. I haven't killed him, incredibly, but his life is so pitiful, I wonder whether I am actually crueller in prolonging it.

You see, for 2 weeks this small, fuzzy fellow has been trapped between a print of Dürer's Young Hare and the panel of glass covering it. I can't imagine how he crawled in there, much less why, but every now and then I will see him twitching his legs, helplessly trying to get out. But his tiny spider feet can't get enough traction to move more than a millimeter or two.

Yesterday I commented to my co-worker, "I can't believe that spider is still alive!" He turned around and watched the spider flailing in one last effort to escape. Then he walked to the wall, snatched the frame off its hook, said, "I bet he's hungry," and walked out of the office. When he returned a minute or two later there was no spider in the frame. He had taken off the cardboard backing and released the spider outside.

"He was probably hungry," he said.

"I wonder whether he even has enough energy to find food," I responded.

"He was already spinning a web when I opened the frame, so he's probably strong enough."

"That's amazing."

"Yeah, nature is resilient."

I confess, I don't much like spiders. Their fluid, speedy mobility kind of creeps me out. Two years ago I posted a blog about another spider, which I smashed and then watched as he twitched violently before dying. Perhaps you could say today's blog shows some improvement in me because I let the spider live. But I'm not sure it's any better for me to do nothing to save a life than to raise my hand to take it. Either way, spider dies.

Close, and walk away.

2010-07-26T21:41:00.000-07:00

Why would you hold your cheek to mine
Your warm arm wrapped around my waist
Eyes of green in mine reflected
Close, but without taste?

Why would you promise me an hour
With your laughter in my ear
Words of elevating hope
Close, but nowhere near?

Why would you draw me with your vision
or talk about another day?
I've no more heart for indecision.
Close, and walk away.

I'm really not that sad these days, even though this poem would indicate otherwise. Sometimes you have to write to purge those remnants of negative thought or feeling. And by "you" I mean "I".

P.S. I started a new blog about my grad school adventures. It's a wee, little thing so far, but I'm going to be better at that one than this. Promise. http://theunscriptedhour.blogspot.com/

New Poem

2010-04-24T23:00:00.000-07:00

I never noticed how silent my phone could be

Until you stopped calling.

Today I feel. Sometimes I ponder, sometimes I hypothesize, sometimes I pronounce, but today I feel. I feel so much I can hardly hear my thoughts, and I don't remember the last time that happened.

I called my mom today because I wanted someone to feed me thoughts so I could remember what they taste like. I took a couple long walks. I researched scholarship opportunities. I spent money at Wal-Mart. I ate. I watched a movie about a man who sells his baby on the black market. He cried and the credits rolled.

Yesterday was the time for thinking--for knowing what to do and taking action. Yesterday I remembered everything that happened and dictated exactly what needed to be said. Today I wanted to take it back because I remembered everything else that happened and the way you smelled in the hospital bed.

There's a several hour gap in my day that I don't know how to fill. I once had a dream that my friend had a hole in her chest. Out of empathy I had one put in mine. I remember feeling the edges with my fingers. Nothing I wore could cover it. There's nothing to conclude today.

You Can Have It All

2009-07-01T08:26:00.000-07:00

I sat a few days ago with an awesome group of friends at Cafe West, otherwise known as "the hospital cafe." We ordered our meals, and went in succession to fetch our nice, white styrofoam take-out boxes as they called our names. We slid open those flimsy tabs which half-heartedly hid from view the surprise waiting within, then craned our necks to find out what everyone else ordered.

Then came the BIG surprise - one of my friends marched back from the counter with TWO take-out containers, and a sheepish grin.

"Whoa! What's in that? What did you order?"

She opened her boxes: three chicken fingers, fries and a grilled cheese sandwich.

"Nice!"

"Wow. I have so much respect for you now," one boy said.

I don't think she cared much for the extra attention, or for the extraneous box, but her reaction is not about which I am presently concerned. I want to discuss the previously mentioned boy and his laughable adulation.

I can't interpret with certainty the thoughts of this boy - I've been known on occasion to project my own prejudices onto the intentions of others - but it happens to be a good example of something that has me both puzzled and annoyed.

Without perhaps knowing it himself, this boy on this night was acting spokesperson for The New American Dream. He was both a bowing disciple and a dogged lobbyist for the idyllic mantra: "You can have it all."

Man eating fast food: You can have it all. An everyday diet of burgers and fries won't change your size. Feel free to eat what you see advertised on TV. It's all about making you happy - and look at the smiles on those models! It's the greatest thing - eat all the junk you want, but stay thin. Yes, man eating fast food, you can have it all.

Girl on the job hunt: You can have it all. Do what you want, when you want and get paid. You won't deal with a boss and you won't have to trade in your manicured life for a slice of that pie in the sky. This is no funny-business, there is just so much money - and besides, you deserve it. Yes, girl on the job hunt, you can have it all.

Boy seeking a girlfriend: You can have it all. Don't pay for your date, and always show up late, and hit on her friends - if that's just who you are. Go ahead, grow a gut - she'll always be cut and unwaveringly true. You can punch when you're mad - it won't make her sad - your girl will be happy just being with you. Yes, boy seeking a girlfriend, you can have it all.

Newlywed couple: You can have it all. So your parents have a 4,000-square-foot home, and you'd sure like one, too. Nevermind that they slaved at odd jobs and have saved, you're a college grad, and unlike your dad, can get a job right away that will pay for your loan. Yes, newlywed couple, you can have it all.

It's time to stop the worship of the something-for-nothing lifestyle. Nothing worth having comes without work and risk. It is a scientific principle that the natural process of things is to move toward entropy, or dissaray. To have something good, you must make it. You must force its lazy-butt self off the proverbial couch. You have to scream at it, kick it, caress it, tug it, push it - do whatever you can to make what you want. Having a good life is constant work. You've heard the old addage - if you're not moving forward, you're moving backward - this is truth. The instant you stop working, you will begin sliding perceptibly into the hungry black hole licking your heels. Don't let the Nothing eat your soul! Fight!

What I Learned in Italy

2009-06-17T07:16:00.000-07:00

At the opening of the immortal film, A Room With a View, young Lucy Honeychurch is traveling with her older cousin to the grand city of Florence. While looking around the cathedral of Santa Croce, she runs into a fellow traveller, Mr. Emerson, who observes her apparent ennui. "Poor girl," he calls her. "Poor girl?" she responds, "On the contrary. I consider myself a very fortunate girl. I'm thoroughly happy and having a splendid time."

It was while walking the streets of the Byzantine city Ravenna when I and my beloved traveling companion realized we were telling ourselves the same thing, and lying to ourselves.

When I imagined my trip to Italy, it was full of wonder and awe. I was going to explore the ancient city of Pompeii, uncovered from its ashy grave! I was going to weep before Michelangelo's David! I was going to burn my eyes with the glorious golden ceilings of cathedrals! I was going to melt under the peaceful shade of hidden alleys, lined with simple Italian grandmothers baking Pannaforte and hanging out their laundry to dry in the breeze!

I saw these things. They were as beautiful as described in the guidebook. So why wasn't I overcome with bliss, dangit!?

I suppose I hoped to find myself "transfigured" by my trip to Italy. I had gone to Italy "to see a view," and I got a view: a dozen reasons why my life in Provo, Utah is awesome.

1. Drinking fountains
2. Free water at restaurants
3. Free, clean, well-stocked public bathrooms
4. Shocking lack of pick-pockets
5. The grid system
6. Smiley people
7. "Customer is king" policies
8. MORMON BOYS
9. My own room
10. Well-respected traffic laws
11. Peanut butter
12. Mexican food

Lest you think I am hating on the great nation of Italy, I should explain that the reason my life in Provo is so great is not because Provo is innately better than any other place in the world. It has its flaws - into which I will not at this moment delve - but it is HOME. In Provo, I have a purpose. I have friends and a job. I have a place to lay my head every night. I have a routine - whether or not this routine is satisfactory is unimportant - in my routine I find balance, security and normalcy.

I met a boy in Ravenna, John, who was on an interminable European excursion (one of many such acquaintances on my trip). He told me about his plans to sample the prostitution scene in Amsterdam, and was surprised when I barely blinked an eye. "I was kidding!" he explained, "Of course I wouldn't do that!"

"Oh. I guess I don't really know what most people consider morally acceptable or normal," I told him.

"Doesn't that worry you?" he asked me, leaning in and lowering his voice. We'd talked at great length about my beliefs as a Mormon. "Doesn't it worry you that you don't know what the real world considers normal?"

I thought for a minute. It was a valid question. "No," I told him. "Everyone has their own paradigm. I don't think mine is any less valid than yours or anyone's."

From what I have seen and experienced in Italy, I am more confident in the life I have chosen, in the morals I have, in the religion to which I subscribe (more about this later). I am grateful I went on this trip to Italy, not because of the Vatican Museum, the leaning tower of Pisa, or gelato, but because I learned to be grateful for what is already mine, not because it is better, but because it is suited to me.

What I learned in Italy is invaluable. It was one of the most difficult experiences of my life (ironically), and I can only hope I've come out of it a better person.

The Lonely Look for Love

2009-04-28T07:44:00.000-07:00

You don't deserve to be lonely

But those drugs you got won't make you feel better

Pretty soon you'll find it's the only
Little part of your life you're keeping together

--Elliott Smith, "Twilight" from From a Basement on the Hill

Play a game with me. What do the following have in common?:

Food
Sex

Exercise

Cocaine
Alcohol

While researching something mostly unrelated (recent Nobel Prize-winner Mario Capecchi), I stumbled upon a simplified embedded animation of the Mesolimbic ("Reward") Pathway.

The reward pathway in the brain is designed to perpetuate survival behaviors such as eating, drinking and sex by releasing "feel-good" chemicals into important parts of the brain which control functions relating to these behaviors. For example, when I eat a muffin, the mesolimbic pathway squirts a little bit of dopamine into my brain, telling me, "That feels good. Do it again." (I usually do).

Likewise, part of the high that comes from inter-gender relations is the work of the reward pathway, thanking you for your efforts to continue the race. When kissing (etc.), your brain gets another little dopamine jolt: "That feels good. Do it again." (...no comment...).

And if you've ever felt the bliss that accompanies a good workout, you'll know a similar effect is created by the release of endorphins into the brain (sometimes this is the only reason I drag myself to the gym).

These things are fantastic parts of life. I'm glad it is a biological necessity for me to eat my glorious gourmet sandwiches. I'm glad there's an evolutionary need for me to get together with boys. And thank goodness there are chemical rewards for us becoming healthy and able to obtain some mastery of the physical world!

As you probably know, though mayn't have experienced first-hand, drugs and alcohol create a similar effect, simulating the natural reward system with artificial "feel goods." With increased usage, artificial stimulants easily overpower the high from natural methods and make it increasingly difficult to "get happy" without them.

But my focus is not the dangers of drugs and alcohol, though they are many. It's easier to point fingers at such addicts and propogate their idiocy than it is to admit we all want the same thing, and often have just as dangerous a quest in obtaining it.

Since the moment we came mewling into the world, slimey and bloody, we've felt deeply the separation from our heavenly parents - from pure love. Before we knew to look for it, we got it from our parents, and that was enough for then. But the older we got, the more we realized there had to be something more. We turned to each other in our adolescence; to boyfriends and girlfriends. In our young adulthood we turned to fiancees and husbands and wives, and it seemed like that should be enough.

But it isn't! Somehow even having someone to share life and purpose with still isn't enough because even some married people look for alternative forms of happiness - the husband who drinks and masturbates, the wife who overeats and reads romance novels.

There are infinite ways to be artificially, temporarily happy which, in and of themselves, aren't necessarily bad. The torrid life of a single person - clubbing and margaritas, low-stakes poker, 12-hour World of Warcraft show-downs, Wednesday-night TLC TV marathons. None of these is an end, but a means to the end of happiness. Unfortunately, the end of the artificial happy-high is sadness, loneliness and depression.

Eventually, people who pursue such behaviors realize they still aren't happy, and that the time they could have spent building meaningful relationships and drawing close to God has been frittered away on . . . nothing!

I (heart) Orem

2008-12-11T13:25:00.000-08:00

There is a generation gap between me and most of the people I work with, and I can prove it! Sample some of these delicious morsels of conversation I tasted on various afternoons at work:

"In high school I was the Queen of diagramming sentences."
(Library one-uppings - go figure)

"I think the biggest favor I could do my kids is to outlive my husband."

"I loved that funeral. It was a hoot . . . They pulled his coffin to the graveyard on a little trailer. It was the most entertaining funeral."
(Let it be known that I want someone to say this about my funeral)

"Usually it's Elvis I turn to in my times of need."
(referring to a recent Barry Manilow kick)

"I think I would like to go to Europe, but it's one of those things where I would be happy when it was over. When I'm there I would probably hate it."
(Funny, I think the same thing about Orem sometimes)

"That's what I used to call girls who used to call my son when he got home from his mission. Brazen hussies. Leave him alone! He was fresh meat. Do you know any brazen hussies?"
(Oo oo oo! Pick me!)

Please Don't Make Me Sleep

2008-12-01T12:18:00.000-08:00

Lately I've heard complaints from several of my friends:

"I can't sleep."

"I don't want to sleep."

I've heard theories about why this is the case, but here is mine:

There is the Future - I have spotted it from the crow's nest

I shout to the Captain below

"I see land, Cap'n! Full speed ahead!"

He unfolds a telescope with his practiced hook

Presses his eye to the sliver of green and frosty clouds

A few seagulls fly over my head

Their excited cries pull me from my reverie into another

The blessed birds

Whose existence after so long at sea grew into impossibility

A downy feather settles on my mouth

But I shake it off and the green strip widens

My knuckles are white against the wood of the crow's nest

and I lean again to the Captain below

directing the swabber to swab

and polishing his sextant

"Cap'n! Do you see? We're almost there!"

He glances at me. Nods. Returns to his sextant.

"Billow the sails, Cap'n! I can taste honey on my tongue!"

"Nay, sailor. For I shan't send ye thus t' Davy Jones."

I pound my fist against the mast

The horizon drifts far away still and my mouth is parched with salt

The sun drifts lower

and dark shadows claw out to us

I see them now

I look to the Captain

He stands alert at the helm, gripping silently

For a moment he chances a glance at me

I nod quietly

The rocks that plagued us ne'er at sea

had I forgotten

But there they stood

and here I stand

and wait more patiently

for land.

Kissing AND Hugging?

2008-11-19T12:00:00.000-08:00

AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

That's about how I feel about what I learned in my institute class last night. I thought I would have calmed down since, but my thoughts have divided and multiplied and conquered me--right out of my mind.

Our dear, sweet, diminuitive teacher; she is probably the closest thing to the "essence of mother" I have ever seen. She smiles and protects and loves everyone unconditionally, which is why I feel like scum being so passionately averse to what she told us in our discussion of morality.

The 3 Second Rule:

Based on her reading of the "For the Strength of Youth" pamphlet, which states: "Before marriage, do not do anything to arouse the powerful emotions which must be expressed only in marriage," she recommended to us a rule she heard: The 3 Second Rule. In this rule, two unmarried members of opposing genders must not kiss or hug for more than 3 seconds at a time. Furthermore, if other activities such as holding hands, or even talking, cause such arousal, that must also be foregone. If you are aroused, the person responsible for causing it has stolen something from you (I can only assume she meant "virtue"). So obviously there is more to this rule than just a time period, but it all applies to the same principles.

The First Name Ban:

Once she was married, our teacher decided she would not call any member of the opposite sex by his first name (I assume she meant "adult" member). If he were in the church, she would call him "Brother So-and-so" and if not in the church, "Mr. So-and-so." She even gleefully related to us the story of a dinner she arranged with her husband, a man in the stake whom she had worked with for her calling, and his wife. When she turned to the man to introduce him to her husband, she said, "This is . . . Brother So-and-so--I'm sorry! I don't even know your first name!" and she laughed, embarrassed. Well, she said, the man's wife was so pleased that she didn't know her husband's first name, she laughed right along. "Not only did I avoid anything inappropriate by following this rule, I also made that woman so happy!" she beamed.

Why am I so terribly bothered by these? The logical side of my brain (yes, there is one) supports both of these ideas. Why even come close to the edge of sexual immorality? When you get to do it all with the person to whom you're married, there should be no need to jump the gun or switch targets, right? And, gosh, I do want to be good. I don't want to ruin something because of a lack of self control.

Nevertheless, thinking about these rules makes me feel very diminuitive myself and very incapable--like a rat in a cage--and I'm not usually one to be bothered by rules, especially when it comes to the Gospel. So what do I do with this? As it was advice, I will take the principles and flesh them out into what I consider the right way to go. Who knows? Maybe I need a 1 second rule;).

Princess of "Pop"

2008-11-10T11:51:00.000-08:00

This is such a strange phenomenon. How did this happen? I was about 13 when my friend Casey moved from California to my hometown in Colorado and attended my church. One day, our Sunday School class was organizing a class party and divvying out who should bring what. I offered that I would bring "pop" and he cocked his head to the side. "What's 'pop'? Do you mean popcorn?" We all gawked at him. "No, pop, you know, like what you drink..." "Oh! You mean soda." We knew what he was talking about. Sure, it was called soda, too, but only when you wanted to sound high-falutin' and fancy. That was my first encounter with the socially stratifying terminology of soft drinks.

I propose that soft drink terminology is one of the most significant linguistic phenomena in the United States. More potent than calling a bag a "baig" or a shopping cart a "buggy," the term for soft drink is used so commonly, you might give away your place of origin every time you open your mouth. To me it makes no difference whether I say "pop" or "soda." I rarely drink it anyway. Gives me a bit of an upset stomach. But really, I've got some serious qualms with calling your soft drink "coke" unless it is Coca Cola, and not just the brand. That's like calling everything you wipe your nose with a "kleenex" or every photocopy you make a "xerox" (what's with the letter "x" obsession?). Heck, you might as well call every hot dog you eat an Oscar Mayer Weiner! Seriously, I might have been bred in the great state of Texas, but I do not approve of their soft drink terminology. At least "soda" is chemically correct and "pop" is onomatopoetic.

And now for something only slightly different: Statistics of beverage consumption from the American Beverage Association

Carbonated Soft Drinks 28.3%
Bottled Water 10.7%
Milk 10.9%
Coffee 9.0%
Beer 11.7%
Fruit Beverages 4.7% *
Sports Drinks 2.3%
Tea 3.8%
Wine 1.2%
Distilled Spirits 0.7%
All Others 15.3% **

Guess what's included in "all others": vegetable drinks (like V8), sports drinks, powdered drinks (Kool-Aid, Country Time Lemonade, Crystal Light), and TAP WATER. If this were on any other continent, I'd say "Oh yeah, full support of no tap water drinking," but I'm pretty sure most places in the US have tap water that is AOK (whatever that means).

Eremitic Life

2008-10-17T08:22:00.000-07:00

"Death of an Innocent"
by Jon Krakauer, January 1993, Outside Magazine

I'm not a journalist anymore, but if I were I would want to be like Jon Krakauer in his treatment of the Chris McCandless story.

When I was 10 years old my mom brought home my first Brother Cadfael episode. The series is about a monk living in middle ages England who, when he isn't fulfilling his spiritual duties as an apothecary, solves murder mysteries. His world is serious, often frightening, and littered with selfish, immoral characters. One image from this series stands out particularly in my mind: an aerial shot of a large, plain castle courtyard lined with nearly a hundred shrouded corpses, one of which, we later discover, was not a hanged criminal but a strangled object of avarice. In contrast, the show also contains shots of beautiful forests, tales of enraptured lovers, and great acts of charity. One of the great ironies of the show surrounds the fact that Brother Cadfael left his life as a decorated veteran of the Crusades for a peaceful life of celibacy, but never even really got that.

For reasons even I cannot pinpoint, the thought of living a monastic life has had a strong draw for me since watching these episodes. Part of me understands Chris McCandless and his journey into the Alaskan wilderness, seeking solitude and peace from a world he found full of hypocrisy. In his article, Krakauer mentions several other adventure-seeking hermits, from Medieval monks to modern mountaineers, each hoping to solve his inner conflict with the outer world by retreating from it. In the end, as with Chris McCandless and Brother Cadfael, their lives are no more free from pain, nor are the lives of others around them. It's tempting to run far from a problem--I came inches from that decision--or to withdraw within yourself, but who you are follows you no matter your location or your associations.

Spider Struggling

2008-09-25T12:02:00.000-07:00

Today I watched a spider die. Actually, that's not entirely true, which is why I am writing about it. At around 10:40 this morning I exited the library into the courtyard between the city center and the justice center for a morning snack of water and a banana. I sat myself at a brown wire mesh table and began to unpeel my banana. A small spider emerged from under the table surface and began weaving his way, rather quickly, toward my Vitamin Water (which was really filled with tap water). I paused to think about the spider, considering what would happen as he came closer, then lifted my water bottle and crashed it down on his head. He lay silent and still and I returned to my banana. A minute or so passed. My banana was more ripe than I would have liked. Out of the corner of my eye I saw three thin legs twitch into action and start squirming around. From his head I could see a filmy liquid bubble growing and beginning to harden. Even under the shade of the trees, his innards were turning into spider jerky, yet his legs kept struggling to find a foot hold. Now only two legs flailed. His tiny life energy was dripping like his brains onto the brown wire. By the time my 15 minute break was over, he was still kicking - weakly, but determined. I thought to myself, "This spider must be an atheist!" and the words of the Muse song Thoughts of a Dying Atheist flew to my recollection:

It scares the hell out of me
And the end is all I can see

The will to live is incredible. What did that spider have to live for? Where was he going when I carelessly snuffed out his future? Did he know? Do I know why I'm alive? Sometimes I don't think I do. But here I am, kicking my heels against the pavement every day, just like him.