Milkshakes at 10:30

Reprise; To Being Understood

2011-09-08T21:46:00.000-07:00

The idea that when a person dies you're allowed to let them have it--you're allowed to tell them all the things you never told them in life. And then if you've got breath enough, you can tell them you love them. Doing that in life would never work; it was just create rifts. Because after all the hurt, love never heals anything. I envy them that: that they write the way they feel. Am I really so different from anyone else on this earth? If only I could say the things I think, the way I really feel. To every person But I'm twenty-two now, and old enough to realize what should not be said, what should not be voiced. But as time passes I feel rifts growing inside of me, as they all stack up against me: the things I never say.

I'd tell you that you've paired me up with someone irresponsible--again.

I'd tell you that old age shouldn't mean you've forgotten what it means to be human.

I'd tell you I hate you passionately and love you dearly at the same time.

I'd tell you I'm afraid of my life turning out your way.

I'd tell you that you're a hypocrite.

I'd tell you that you're beautiful.

I'd tell you that I can see right through you, even when you think you're hiding.

I'd tell you that you hurt me more often than anyone--the person I love best.

I'd tell you that I'm afraid, but I think I can make this work.

I'd tell you I'm afraid of hurting you.

I'd tell you about the value of tact.

I'd tell you to give me a chance.

I'd tell you that you have no right to speak to me the way you do.

I'd tell you that you simply do not matter to me.

I'd tell you the things you think matter, really don't.

I'd tell you there are things I want, and then there are things I need, and you just don't understand the difference.

I'd tell you that I need to know you're real.

I'd tell you I still have a temper.

I'd tell you that you made me feel more insecure than I've ever felt.

I'd tell you that your impatience infuriates me.

I'd tell you that all I need is for you to tell me I'm fine just the way I am, the way you used to.

I'd tell you thank you for holding on to me.

I'd tell you to respect me.

I'd tell you that I'm human.

I'd tell you I admire you.

I'd tell you that I shouldn't have to convince myself I matter.

I'd tell you that nothing scares me more than thinking, 'Maybe, I don't.'

I'd tell you to take out the trash.

I'd tell you I'm afraid of doing this alone.

I'd tell you to put your phone on silent.

I'd tell you not to sing.

I'd tell you that you're the best man I've met.

I'd tell you that you are so very wrong.

I'd tell you to tell me everything and anything and just to speak for hours and hours and let me listen.

I'd tell you to trace my hand on a piece of paper.

I'd tell you, I wish you'd done it too.

I'd tell you that all I want is an apology.

I'd tell you that you never did anything wrong, it was just timing.

I'd tell you that you should have taken my side, because I would have taken yours.

I'd tell you that you should have treated her better.

I'd tell you to stop smoking.

I'd tell you that you waited too long, and missed your chance.

I'd tell you frustration is still my most common emotion.

I'd tell you not to pressure me to be like you.

I'd tell you to care.

I'd tell you that you made my life unbearable.

I'd tell you you're the best friend I've ever had.

I'd tell you if I could have sat out under the stars with you on your lawn all night I would have chosen an eternity of it, just to have you the way I remember you.

I'd tell you I'm letting you go.

I'd tell you . . . I'm so sorry.

I'd tell you I wish I was different.

I'd tell you that you were unfair.

I'd tell you, 'So was I.'

I'd tell you to listen to each other.

I'd tell you to let it go.

I'd tell you that you could have been more adult about it.

I'd tell you that you're forgiven.

I'd tell you that even when I'm with you, I'm so very alone.

I'd tell you I think you're an idiot.

I'd tell you that I rarely think that of anyone.

I'd tell you that you take yourself too seriously.

I'd tell you that you're worth every thing you think you've lost.

I'd tell you you're right.

I'd tell you that you're not as smart as you think you are.

I'd tell you that I really mean nothing at all in the grand scheme of things, but you--you mean the world.

I'd tell you that you're missing someone who is right in front of you; that she's what you need, that you're not looking.

I'd tell you I wasn't right for you; maybe I'm not right for anyone.

I'd tell you that you are everything; that I look to you in all things; that I belong to you more than I belong to anyone else.

I'd tell you that I'm blind, and I'm happy you have what you need.

I'd tell you thank you.

. . .

I'd tell you. I'd tell you. I'd tell you.

I'd tell you the truth.

I'd tell you I love, love, love, love, love you.

The Economics of . . . Being Who You Are

2011-05-21T17:33:00.001-07:00

I’m taking Econ 110 this term. It has got the worst reputation as one of the hardest classes at BYU. I put it off for almost four entire years, although not taking it was hardly an option, because I was afraid of having to work hard. Haha. Yeah. That was the reason: I was afraid of failing. But here’s the hard truth I’ve come to: I really like it.

Maybe I’ve said this before, but my whole life consists of searching for ways to make more sense of the world. I thought Econ was math. And science. Numbers. Graphs. Typically, I have a very difficult time with connecting these things to the world I live in. It’s not that I don’t know they connect for some people, or that they connect at all, but that I just don’t see it. So I’ve always stayed in a nice place over in the corner by the art and the literature and the history. I like it over there. Economics is those things I mentioned, vile as they are, but it’s more than that. It’s another way of thinking of the world, of connecting it together. Dipping my toe in this other pool of thought has caught my fancy, and I’m dreaming in economics now.

Simultaneously I’ve been taking French 201, taught by my roommate’s fiancé, one of the coolest guys around. I love French. But it does not come naturally. I have a difficult time with conjugations and grammar, and understanding what I’m hearing because—did you know this—like NONE of the last SYLLABLES of words are pronounced in French. A lot of the words sound identical to an untrained ear. So I can understand Sarah—my roommate and long-time “Pourquoi pas parlons en français ensemble?” partner because I’ve spoken to her enough and because the pace she speaks at is normal (as in she takes infinitesimal breaks between words and breaths between sentences). Anyway, this is not easy for me. (Which is another funny aside: I knew it wouldn’t be easy, I was pretty sure I’d be worse at it than I am, but I really really wanted to learn the language. Like really. Which gives me another perspective on the whole, ‘I fear having to work hard./I fear failure.’ bit. I’ll have to re-think that one.)

Point. Right. My point is 1.) I’ve been thinking in a new way, given this economics class, my mind is being stretched. I really like that. 2.) French is not easy, but I do it anyway. (*See ‘Senior Year of High School’ chapter if this seems like a difficult concept to swallow—What? Jennifer do something that’s hard for her? Pft.)

The reason why these two things go together is because in 1 year (approximately), I graduate. Which means I need to do something useful with my life so I can go off and sculpt the Pietà by the time I’m 25. This is important to me. So, I’ve been thinking about succès—that is, success. I mean, how in heaven’s name does one become successful? And—the clincher—what is success, anyway?

Money.

MONEY? What the heck? I mean, honestly—is that…?—yes?—why?—that doesn’t—oh. Right. Money.

Conundrum #1. Nothing I have done up until this point (that is . . . 21 years of age) has been for money. None of it has been with the end goal of money in mind. I do not know success in terms of a dollar value. Maybe you say that’s a good thing. I say . . . we’re in America, folks, and money is kind of how you get around. If I don’t want money to be the measure of my success, well then I’ve got to have enough money to do the things I want to do while I’m not making money so that people will notices me for it. Point: I can’t write the Declaration of Independence if I’m working 40 hours a week, have got a wife (er…husband), and 10 children running around, now can I? No. I’ve got to own Monticello. Also, I’ve got to have slaves (so maybe the 10 children will work out for me). Also, people need to think I’m a genius. Also, I have to be a genius. THEN, maybe, I can write the Declaration of Independence in my spare time and people will be amazed. (Also, Thomas Jefferson was the President for a while, and kind of lived out of his own pocket-book while doing it. Can anyone say, Thank you? Instead of hating the man for . . . . I don’t know, not being perfect, maybe we can be grateful that he gave valuable years of his life to the origination of this country. JUST a thought.) So back to money. I don’t understand money. Maybe you clear your throat and say, “You’re taking an Economics class.” I say: “This makes the problem more pointed, not answerable.”

You look at me again, clear your throat again and I roll my eyes and look down into my Econ book and see the word, “Specialization.” Wow. Econ really does provide answers to life.

You see, specialization in economics is . . . (I wanted to use the term ‘the bees-knees’ here, but just couldn’t do it) vital. When people specialize in making or providing a particular good, everyone is better off. The people/companies who are best at what they do continue into the 21^st century (especially if they also get government subsidies and bail-outs, which is a nice plus to existence) and those who aren’t . . . well…that’s economics. In general, if the apple orchard owners are off making computers and letting all those apples get eaten by worms and birds—not specializing in what they’re best in—then the entire market is worse off for it.

Am I a part of this market?

Yes.

I sigh. Does this mean I have to specialize?

If you want to be successful.

Oh.

Conundrum #2: I want to know everything.

Conundrum #3: Learning everything takes a long time. It also takes a lot of—you guessed it—money.

So what you’re saying is, if I want to learn everything, I need to be successful, and if I want to be successful, I need to have money, and if I want to have money, I need to specialize. Then, when I’ve specialized enough, maybe I’ll have money enough, so I will be successful and then I’ll know everything. (Haha. What I mean, of course, is that I can use my money to further my goal of knowing everything.—Another thing that will be hard to do, but hey, I’m willing to work at it.)

Conundrum #4: Because money was never my goal before, neither was specialization. Which means I’ve spent the last 21 years going straight for the ‘I want to know everything goal.’ WHICH MEANS I’ve been spending my time doing things like learning French even though who knows if it will ever do me any good, and becoming an American Studies major which is the exact OPPOSITE of specialization, but is actually what we call a ‘General Education,’ and taking ‘History of France,’ even though that doesn’t even go toward my major, and going on a Study Abroad to London because I thought that’d expand my horizons, and you know watching every movie under the sun, and really enjoying the books I’m currently reading, and writing about who knows what, and starting a movie blog with one of my best friends, and baking (Look me up when I’m 86 because my apple pies and cinnamon rolls will be perfect by then), and otherwise cooking, and having conversations with people, and creating collages on my living room wall. Oh, also, I really enjoy this Economics class I’m taking. AND LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING: THIS IS NOT SPECIALIZATION.

I could tell you that in all of this I’ve been trying to FIND what I’m best at. But THEN I’d have to tell you that I haven’t found it.

My father said something very profound a month or so ago, he said, “Because, you know, the nature of being good at everything, means you’re not great at anything.”

. . .

So is this my lot in life? I’m to be a well-educated, well-rounded, interesting conversationalist who can make the witty comment now and then, has seen a lot of movies, read a few books, can bake cinnamon rolls with the best of them, cares deeply about the state of American Politics, Economics, History, and Culture (but who knows random things about France’s History and also knows a little bit of French), has been to London, Paris and Rome, but in general isn’t great at anything?

Looovveely.

Conundrum #5: I actually like being a well-rounded person. I like that I can talk to anyone apart from a bigot or a hard-core conservative and be genuinely interested in what they have to say, and know enough about what they’re saying to talk with them about it. I like that I’m an American Studies major who really really loves learning French, and who wants to learn Greek, and Italian, and Romanian. I like that I spent four months of my life in London. I love that the only thing I ever had on my bucket-list—to see Versailles—has been crossed off. And now I want to see Caravaggio’s The Conversion of St. Paul and I want to stand near the Parthenon because it’s a building older than Jesus Christ, and I want to know where the library of Alexandria once stood, I want to hear the call to prayer in Cairo, and I want to go to Damascus. And I like that maybe those things will happen. I like that I want to know everything. I like that close to nothing bores me. I like that I’m willing to give anything a listen, a taste, or a thought (apart from drugs, cigarettes, tongue of cow, and squid). And I like that at the end of the day I don’t think I’m worse off for being open-minded.

I was reading in my Econ book, and it talks about human capital: “the accumulation of investments in people.” Education. The more knowledge that’s in my head, the more I’m worth. It’s a signaler. I mean—it signals to people that you can do something. That you can finish something. That you believe in your own worth. That you’re willing to invest in yourself. I’ve been wondering not what I’m willing to invest in myself, but what I’m willing to invest myself in. I wish I had the answer. Maybe 10 months from now when I write in my blog again, it’ll be a post about that very thing. For now, I think what’s on my mind is: what do I want to be great at? And—is what I want enough for success?

On Writing pt. 1

2011-02-12T11:41:00.000-08:00

Writing is an experiment of persuasion. It starts with an idea: something you just have to get outside of yourself. Sometimes it hits you, sometimes it floats in beneath all conscious thought, sometimes you have to search for it, but suddenly its there and the only way to give it any real credence is to put it into words.

I would argue that all ideas are worth having—even if simply to be humored, analyzed, found wanting, and cast out—but which are worth writing about? Any careful experiment first requires an understanding of the basics, research, in depth analysis, and development. These steps are the ‘refiner’s fire’ for an idea. But even the best ideas are refutable at first, and Charles Dickens has a point: you must humor an idea a long time before it develops. And once it develops, it’s time to begin persuading

Persuasion is a fine line. It’s not about finding an idea that is impossible to argue—those are called facts—and persuasion is not equivalent to conversion. To persuade your audience is to help them see as you see—even if for only a moment. They need not walk away converted, for good writing has the power to communicate a vision, and insofar as your audience understands your idea the way you do, you have succeeded.

Our Sacred Tradition: A Christmas Post

2010-12-15T00:48:00.000-08:00

Christmas morning, my father’s voice is deep and resounding but he is not the one who wakes us.

We sleep, huddled and crowded, too close for California nights, even in winter, but it’s the only way to make it feel like Christmas. It was 75 degrees last night, but we had hot chocolate all the same; it’s tradition. The small bedroom has only ever gotten smaller with each addition to the family, and it cannot accommodate three: clothes scatter the floor because putting them in the hamper is just too hard, books and papers from the semester not being quite over are merely litter, and every drawer or container is in some state of having been opened, or not having yet been closed. But the three of us would not have it any other way. Who would we be, if we were not us?

Rachel’s deep breathing makes it impossible to sleep until staying up any longer is simply not an option. Time ticks, and I use my iPod to listen to Nat “King” Cole—the voice of Christmas—to keep me thinking of how it feels to be back home with these, my favorite people, for just a moment of the year. Then, as Caitlin, who sleeps beside me in the bed, turns over one last time, I finally fall asleep with the knowledge that this will be over too soon: the mess, the hot blankets, the cramming of three bodies into two beds, and what it feels like to be here again.

The white door sticks as it’s opened: like paint not given time enough to dry, though it’s been dried since we repainted the room years ago. It wakes me up, because my music has stopped, and I wonder what time it is. It is still dark—too dark to gauge time by. My mother’s voice comes through the curtains covering Caitlin’s bed—the bed I share—and she tells us what time it is. Softly. On Christmas morning, her voice is soft. And without seeing her, I can imagine her dark, straight, peppering hair and the cherry-brown eyes she gave me, and the freckles she earned from a childhood out in the sun.

It takes a moment for Rachel’s slow, deep breathing to puncture as she wakes. The lack of steady breathing wakes Caitlin, and my heart flutters—a flutter I’ve only ever felt Christmas morning. Suddenly, we are cold, and we drag our eclectic array of blankets out of bed with us: blankets have always defined us. Rachel’s is one-side floral, other side blue fabric covered with punctuation marks, something you could only be given for free; Caitlin’s is a soft brown blanket, stolen from its intended use in the living room; mine is a worn lilac and off-white down, which has lost everything useful apart from its sentiment of familiarity. We creep as silently as we can—reverently—to our parents’ room. This we have always done—a sacred tradition—until we are called from their bedroom to the front room.

My father is in the living room, putting on his favorite Christmas music: the Roche’s “We Three Kings” CD, which we know by heart, and coincidentally is a singing group of three sisters. We’re warm again, but shivering from excitement. Then his voice comes, and it echoes in our hearts—the only sound that could or ever will. “Alright now,” he says. And we slowly make our way from our parents’ back bedroom to the front room. Before we round the corner, with ‘Star of Wonder’ playing in the background, we can smell the pine tree—another sacred and unbreakable tradition—and it smells just how Christmas ought to smell, and its scent is clean, and fills every piece of us. I push Rachel and Caitlin ahead of me toward the living room because I am oldest, and this is the way I have always done it. I imagine the living room, adorned for Christmas with two-decades-worth of accumulated decorations, enough for ten rooms, but only put to use in one; the curse of a small home.

Wrapped in our blankets, my father finally sees us round the corner and he doesn’t smile, he doesn’t speak again until later. But we wait for when he will. And as I take my place in our family circle—we begin our Christmas tradition. And I think, looking at my family, that perhaps a moment, no matter its end, can be enough.

What I've been thinking about lately.

2010-10-11T20:16:00.000-07:00

Western Humanities is doing terrible things to me. It makes me want to leave again--go somewhere (anywhere). Who in heaven's name could be ready EVER to start life, when there is SO much to see?

Bottom of my Heart

2010-08-16T22:52:00.000-07:00

"Blue like the winter snow in the full moon / Black like the silhouettes of the trees / Late blooming flowers lie frozen underneath the stars / I want you to remember me that way." - Frozen Charlotte Natalie Merchant

--

I don't know. Is there every anything to say, really?

I haven't been thinking about anything much lately, except feelings. Those are dangerous--feelings, I mean. And whenever I begin a writing session it turns into a long list of complaints. Well, I don't feel like complaining

I'm ready to return to school, despite that I'll miss my family, and my friends--though at home they are few. Going back to school is what I need to do, but I feel like I've made a lot of progress with some of my relationships at home, and I'm afraid that leaving them will be like abandoning them. Most of the time, even when it comes to people, I want to keep everything.

I've let go of a lot of people over the years, realizing that I just can't have everyone. But more and more God is teaching me that I can't really have anyone. That's a hard lesson to learn; a harder one to accept; the hardest one to live. You can't make anyone do anything, even if you want it out of the bottom of your heart, which I realized is a place that only exists in me for some people. Some people never get 'bottom of my heart' material, you know? This is one of those stupid metaphors that I see in my head to explain how I feel about things. I'm sorry.

Your heart. Capable of being broken, torn, shredded, crushed and blasted into oblivion a thousand different ways and by just about anyone. Also capable of being heavy, or empty, open, or closed, devoid of all feeling, content, completely and utterly full, or, in some rare cases, overflowing. Assuming your heart exists at all, in this metaphor, and that it is filled with love, opposed to dripping with hate, jealousy, or disdain, then maybe you can understand what I mean by 'bottom of my heart.' There are some people you will dig to the depths of your heart to pull out grade A material for. There are others who simply skim the surface. And, lets be honest, some people--even most people, probably--who don't get any piece of your heart at all. It's nothing personal. Maybe you just don't know them very well, or maybe they just aren't the type of people who require heart--perhaps they only require time.

There are the people like me--born with an open heart, full with love, and ready to give. I used to give heart to everyone, unaware that you could get by in life without being sincere all the time. That, too, was a difficult lesson to learn. But sometimes people take without asking, and over the years, I learned my lesson. I've learned to close my heart and search for the people who deserve any piece of it. Unfortunately, not many people do.

But there is always one person who slips through the cracks.

He got in before I learned how to close my heart and now I can't get him out. For him, I don't just keep my heart open, but I dig down to the bottom of it and come up with some truly rare gems. It's not like he deserves it, but I give it anyway. You know why? Because for him, it's the only place I feel anything, and I just can't be objective. He's always got to the bottom of my heart, without any real consent from me. And I don't think any of that is particularly romantic, because it's not a romantic kind of love. Romance is somewhere in the middle of your heart: deeper than civility, respect, or even consideration, and not deep enough for this. At the bottom of my heart is the ability to forgive. The ability to see past weakness. The ability to see potential, and greatness, and hope. The ability to see good. I used to do that for everyone, now I only do it for him and I take everyone else as they come.

There are certainly people who have gotten to the bottom of my heart the hard way, they've gone through all the layers and they earned their place down there at the bottom (as it were). He never did earn his place. So why did he get to keep it, while everyone else somehow got pushed out? Is it because I'm stubborn? Because I'm one of those girls who can't see what's bad for them even if it's staring them in the face? I never thought I was. Who knows; anyone can be bad for you. But sometimes there are reasons you endure.

I know I have a hard time letting people into my heart now. Most of the time I even keep my family outside of it because it's just too hard to let them in, or to try to explain. But that doesn't mean I want to learn the lesson--I still don't want to learn quite yet that no one is mine to keep.

But my heart--anyone's heart for that matter--is worth the fight. Even if people steal from the bottom, skim off the top, or throw away everything you've ever given them. I learn a little more every day what it means to give, or to feel. When you can give from the bottom of your heart, sometimes you can just feel when people really really love you back, like you can see straight through them. And it's hard to see through someone you love and know they don't love you back quite as well as you love them. But if you really do love them, you'll give them all the time it takes for them to feel as deeply as you do. Because, don't you owe that to someone who's gotten to the bottom? Don't you owe that to someone who you've never been able to banish from the bottom, no matter how hard you've tried?

Because the moment you know they love you the way you love them is the moment your heart overflows.

And nothing's better than that. Is there?

Caring

2010-05-13T23:04:00.000-07:00

I just needed to say something, but I didn't know what to say.

I think I write most when I'm disappointed in myself, and willing to admit it. I can never feel good about myself too long before something reminds me of how imperfect I am. To be completely honest, I probably wouldn't be comfortable in my own skin if I were confident or comfortable with who I was--who I am, I mean. If things were bright and dandy all the time, I'd wonder what was going on.

I always think confidence is so attractive in people; I love people who are confident. I gravitate toward them. I think sometimes people think I'm confident. Oh, they're wrong. But I'll let them believe what they like.

Here's the thing: when I was in High School I went through this phase in my life where I cared about EVERYTHING. I felt like if I cared about one thing I had to care about everything passionately, and DO something about it. I used to care about my country, I used to care about my friends, about my religion, about making people happy and impressing them and doing something worthwhile and effective and constructive. It nearly drove me out of my head. As time went on, I came not to care about anything unless it was easy to care about. And now I don't care--I don't care about anything.

Sometimes, when your head knows what it wants, it has to force your body to just go through the motions so your heart will care again. I want my heart to care again. I've let down a lot of people--especially my friends, and I think my family too, and I think God. I'm working on the God part, and I think little by little maybe everything else will fall into place. I just stopped putting any effort into anything and I felt like I needed saving until I realized that there's no one here. No one here cares enough, or knows enough about what I'm going through to save me--and really, why should they have to?--so I told myself, 'You're just going to have to do it yourself.' Funny.

I don't feel sorry for myself--I think I need to clarify that. But you know when you're stuck in a rut and you feel like the only thing you need people to care about is the only thing they're not asking you about? And you can't TELL them--that would defeat the purpose. But, you know if they asked, you'd probably just cry. I'm not ready to answer any of those questions right now, and I'm just not confident enough with myself to admit the answers anyway. Or sometimes there are certain people you wished cared, and they just don't and it's like someone is trying to send you the message, 'They're not right for you right now' and you keep hanging on thinking, 'No, I can make this work.' But you can't.

Well, that's what I've been thinking about lately. I'm trying to make my heart care again.

Valentine's Day

2010-04-10T15:19:00.000-07:00

I'm playing the song game with my sister. Bruce Springsteen's "Valentine's Day" was my latest choice, and I wonder what it would be like to live in the world that the song sounds like. It sounds like the 50s in the middle of a field of tall grasses, with the car radio playing just a few feet away--everything in that golden light that only lasts a few moments.

Caitlin said she hated that time of day, because it meant the day was ending. It's one of my favorite times of day, because its sweet--and like everything sweet, it just can't last. But you'll see it tomorrow, and the next day, and every day until the day you die. And it's all right it doesn't last, and it's all right that its ending. Everything ends, eventually.

I've come to realize that it doesn't bother me when things end, because I'd rather have the sweet memories of golden light than forever without change. The sun overhead is bright, and it illuminates everything and it makes the world a beautiful place and it has its many uses, yes, but there is no mystery, there is no taste or smell to the day, there are no memories made. When the sun sets, the earth cools off and the light breeze picks up, it seems that time slows down and everything is natural; and it feels like Springsteen's "Valentine's Day."

(Picture taken by Keith Vertanen)

And Babylon, Too.

2010-03-19T22:31:00.000-07:00

I listen to Babylon; it seems to yell louder than ever. Is it possible to live within its beautiful walls, without looking too closely, without wanting what they want? There are so many things I want to be; there are so many things I need to do. And I look to Babylon and wonder if it can offer me a solution. The people seem nice enough; they seem happy enough. Who's to say that they don't know happiness? Who's to say that anything--any way of life--actually brings happiness? It seems to me, it doesn't matter what type of life you lead, you'll still have your good days and your bad days. They don't seem any sadder than I am, day in and day out.

I still don't know the purpose of everything. The way I've decided to live my life doesn't seem to have changed that. I suppose no one could know the purpose of EVERYTHING, anyway. Don't get me wrong, the way I live is a decision already made. I'm not re-thinking it, I'm not regretting it, I'm not giving it up for anything. I'm at peace with it. The decision by no means has given me much comfort, I still feel as lost as the next person. But there's something to having made the decision at all.

Some days I have my doubts; but the moment someone tries to question me on them, I stand firm. It’s like when a friend says something awful about your sister. They’re not allowed to do that—only you are. It’s the same about my life. I can say as many rotten things about my life as I damn well please, but the moment you start, I’ll be defensive. Just because I don’t always act on what I know I want doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean you can question me. It certainly doesn’t mean you can look at me like I’m a child. I’m not a child. Childish, maybe—you can argue that on your own time, if you like. But no one could accuse me of not giving everything a considerable amount of thought. There’s nothing I haven’t considered. This doesn’t make me a better person; most of the time it just makes me an uncertain one.

Babylon smells sweet; you roam down the narrow streets to find where it comes from. You’re not being lured, it’s just one of those perfect days where you have the morning to do whatever you wish and no one is around to tell you otherwise. Babylon has plenty of things worth following, and I realize that living life is like trying to sing a hymn; you can never hit any of the right notes. Most of them are too high, some of them are too low and the ones that are in between take you by surprise, and you miss them all together. Just when you get to the verse where you think you’ll be able to hit half the notes, the song is over and it turns out you’d been looking at the wrong hymn all the time, anyway. Whatever, the words didn’t really mean much to you. I’d rather be listening to the Beatles, or Patty Griffin. I’d rather have a free morning to myself where I might roam the streets of Babylon, simply searching for something I might never find.

Even if you find what you’re looking for, how do you decide what’s most important? It seems to me, that the moment you decide, you realize that it’s not enough. There’s always something you aren’t doing, or aren’t doing right, or aren’t doing enough of. There’s always something you are doing that you shouldn’t be, something you should be better at, something you should give up all together. I know the answer you’d give me. But it’s when you know what you should do that life is the hardest, because knowing the answer to the question is so disheartening when the answer seems to do you no good. It pacifies me, but it never really settles the question, and I’m tired of merely being put at bay. It seems to me, that there are rarely any answers anyway. Nothing ever makes much sense, and is it so wrong of Babylon to try to put the pieces together?

They’re making a lot of loud noises outside my door, while I try to sleep and I think of the old world and their culture and that’s where they came from and they don’t know any better. I don’t know better, either. The deadbolt on the door rattles slightly, and a draft comes up from underneath the door. This is the place where we live; this is our home. How can we leave it, just because they’re putting the puzzle together wrong? Sometimes I feel like leaving this place would be like betraying it. Other times I think, is it so bad to live the life you want? No, this is home. They look up at me and I wonder what they’re thinking. I wish I had the answers, but I simply don’t. I, myself, am desperately trying to figure out what’s important in this life. There are some rare moments when it all seems so simple, but I always manage to muddle it up within a few hours.

I think, if I could just make a difference, none of this would be so bad. Do I give up on Babylon before I’ve begun, although I know I’ll lose? I keep waiting for the most important moment of my life. Not the climax—I don’t believe in climaxes—not the climax, just the turning point. The point where I’ll look back and think, ‘That was it.’ I think I’ll get to a point somewhere down the line when I’ll realize that it never happened. Then what? Will Babylon crumble? Do I give up then? Or should I never begin? Babylon might be lying; Babylon might be tricking me; Babylon might have within it all the evils of the world. But nothing was ever found in Babylon that wasn’t first found within the deepest part of the human soul; and beside that deepness is the light that accompanies it. It always comes back to the center; and Babylon is a bad metaphor for evil; it’s only a metaphor for human existence. When you give up on your search for the center of Babylon, it’s the same as giving up before you’ve started. So, if it’s all the same to you, I’ve decided.

I won’t give up on Babylon. I just can’t. I don’t own a summer cottage there, I don’t OWN anything. But I look to Babylon and I wonder if the people living within its walls are willing to change—they don’t need to move to change. Are they willing to work for themselves? Are they willing to think for themselves? Are they willing to look to a person like me and see that I haven’t got anything figured out, nor will I ever, but does that mean there isn’t more to be had in this world? Isn’t there more to search for? And all of you in Zion, why have you banished yourself from the world you live in? Why have you stopped your search for the center of Babylon? You won’t do any good out there. You fester like a sore; you corrupt yourselves simply by trying to live outside the fight. It’s not so bad within the city walls; all you need to do is keep your eyes to the clouds; even Babylon’s walls could not hide heaven. Are you afraid of those who aren’t just like you? Are you afraid they’ll make life difficult? New blood is hard to live with, sure, but it’s not wrong, and it’s not bad. Even the vineyard keeper knew that.

And since when was life supposed to be easy? Who would want it to be, when we’ve only got this one? I don’t want to be unhappy or miserable, but work me hard—get everything you can out of me, because you only get me once, and you only get me for a day, or a week, or a few years at best. It’s not that I’m going anywhere, I’m not moving. I’m just . . . changing. No, I’ve decided. I may not have many mornings left to roam the streets of Babylon, searching for the sweet smell of its center, but I listen, I listen intently. I listen to Babylon; it seems to yell louder than ever. Sometimes, I think I hear an answer.

Food and Fire

2010-03-06T17:36:00.000-08:00

--

“You look like death.”

“Oh, go away.”

He sat down at the kitchen table. (Well, actually, the only table we’ve got.) “Have you been writing?”

“No. Why should I?”

He shrugged, then, but I could tell that he wanted to answer the question. But it would only make her angrier.

“Have you got food for me?”

She growled, but I knew she couldn’t resist anything he asked for, and she went to the cabinet and put a plate of food in front of him. She’d saved it. She’d even put it in the cabinet over the stove so it would stay warm.

He had spent too long not caring enough about her for him to change his mind. But she let him. She always let him change his mind.

“I went to town today, and I sat on a park bench and just watched the people passing. Maybe for an hour or two.”

She pretended she didn’t care, but I knew she was thinking. She was trying to think of something to say. Something smart enough for him. She was smarter than he was, but she hadn’t realized it yet, maybe she never would.

“The blue looks good on you.”

“Just, shut up,” she said. She left the room out the back door.

He peered up at me while he finished the dinner she’d put before him. I sat on the stairs, peering through the railing bars. “Is she always like that?” he asked.

“Only when you’re around.” I wasn’t sure why he hadn’t left yet. I wasn’t sure why he still came by to see her, when everyone knew he didn’t love her. Everyone knew.

“Well . . . you understand, don’t you?” he asked me.

“I understand that if you don’t eat that whole plate of food she’ll be angry at me,” I said.

He looked back down at the food and began eating again. “She’s my best friend.”

That made me angry. Angrier than I’d been in a long time, and I stood up on the stairs and said, “And what good has that ever done her?” I marched back up them, wishing the food was hot enough to burn him, but I knew it wasn’t.

It was a week before he came back. She was in a better mood this time, and when he came in the kitchen through the side door she smiled, like she was willing to hear everything he had to say. Maybe she wasn’t tired like every other day. I knew she loved him. I knew that she wasn’t sure why, or even what type of love it was. I just sat by the fire. She never kept anything a secret from me anymore.

“You look nice today.”

“Don’t start that,” she said softly.

“Why don’t you appreciate the nice things I say?”

“I’d rather you were honest.”

He sighed and sat down. She put food down in front of him and I looked back. He was looking up at her. He shoved the food away, “What I want to know is why the hell you feed me when I’ve got more money than you’ve ever had. Eat it yourself!”

She turned back and looked at the food. She picked up the plate and dumped the food in the trash, then threw the plate in the sink. I’d have eaten that food, if she’d have let me. But I knew she was trying to make a point. I looked at him, and wondered if she’d made it. “You said yourself, didn’t you? It’s what I’m meant to do.”

He shook his head, “I never meant it like that.”

“You never mean anything!” she yelled. “You never mean anything until three years later when it’s convenient to mean it!”

He deserved that. I turned toward the fire again.

He stood up and before he left the room he said, “I wish you would start writing again.”

I wondered why he cared. He knew it made her happy to write, but since when did he care that she was happy? He’d never cared before.

He came back the next day, but she wasn’t around. I told him she’d gone to town. He left a bar of chocolate on the kitchen table. He told me I could eat some of it as long as I saved half for her. But I didn’t want anything from him.

I sat on the roof and watched them sitting in the grass below. She was dressed in her Sunday best and she looked pretty. He’d never seen her in her Sunday clothes, and so he didn’t really know until this morning how pretty she could look. I think it took him by surprise. I hadn’t been paying attention, but then he said something that caught my attention—something with the word ‘love’ in it. Anyway, her response was, “Nothing ever happens that way.”

“Why couldn’t it?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I’m not a story. No one ever gets what they want unless they’re willing to step on other people to get it. I won’t step on anyone.” I knew that was true. She’d die before she hurt someone. And he came around, hurting people all the time. I didn’t understand how my sister could be friends with someone like him. I suppose people make the oddest friendships, all out of necessity, or . . . well, I could tell why she loved him. She loved everyone, and she never gave in. But why did he still come around for her? Probably using her, like he used everyone. I really hated him, but if I said anything to her she’d probably smack me—well, she’d give me a mean look, anyway.

“All I ever want to do is talk to you.”

“I wish you would stop coming around.”

“Why can’t you—” he was frustrated. Good. He always got interesting when he was frustrated. “I don’t love you like I loved her. Is that what you want to hear?”

“I don’t want to hear anything.”

“Then tell me what you want so I can give it to you and we can get on with things.”

“I don’t know what I want. That’s just the truth. I want you to stop treating me like you don’t know what to do with me.”

“I don’t know what to do with you.”

“Just leave me. You’ll do it eventually. I know you’ll leave eventually, so just get it over with.”

“Why would I?” He shook his head, “Why would I leave?”

“Stop being stupid. You just love that I sit here and wait for you to come by, even if it’s just so I can throw a plate of food in front of you. I’m tired of waiting!” She stood up and walked inside, then slammed the door behind her.

That night I did the unthinkable. I asked her why she loved him. She didn’t contest it, instead she said, “Because sometimes I feel like God gave him to me for a reason.” And she continued drying the dishes with a dishtowel.

“Did you really need him?” I asked her.

She nodded and set a dry plate down, “There was a time when he helped me get through everything. And then . . . I just held on too long, I held on too hard. And now, I can’t let him go.”

“Because you think—”

“Yes, because I think—what if the reason isn’t over yet? Obviously I don’t need him anymore, but what if he needs me? What if I’m supposed to do something to repay him for what he did all those years ago?”

“You think God wants you to be unhappy?”

“What does it have to do with God?” she snapped, and she threw the dishtowel down and turned away from me.

“You’re the one who said—”

“Stop it!” she yelled. “Just . . . I don’t know. Sometimes I wish I could get out of here. But why am I kidding myself? Even if I got out, no one would love me.”

“Everyone loves you.”

“No,” she said, like it was fact. And she went up the stairs.

He came around the next morning, almost like I knew he would. He rinsed the dishes that still had water spots on them and re-dried them and put them away. I was surprised he knew where they went. He said things to me, but I wasn’t listening. He was just rambling about something or other. I knew she listened when he did that, she always paid too much attention to everything he said, well I wasn’t going to give him the same satisfaction. I wished he knew he meant nothing to me. But then he asked me a question and I looked up. He asked me again, but still I was not listening. At some point I realized it would always be like this. He wouldn’t give up. He’d never given up before, why would he now? He finished drying the dishes, apparently past the fact that I’d never answered his question. He sat down next to me and noticed the chocolate on the table that he’d left a week before. He picked it up and snapped it in two. Then he offered me a small piece and I took it.

“Why don’t you let her be?” I asked him.

He looked at me and shrugged, “She would be lonely.”

“She’s got me,” I said.

“Sometimes she needs someone else.”

“What makes you think so?” I asked.

He shrugged, “I just know.”

“Did you ever love her?”

“I do love her.”

“No you don’t.”

“It’s just different,” he said.

“There’s no such thing,” I answered and he offered me another piece of chocolate.

“She’s the only person I’ve never lied to.”

“Great,” I answered.

“She’s the only person I still enjoy looking at, even after all these years.”

I shook my head, “You’re stupid. You just make her sad.”

“But I make her happy too,” he smiled. “Just—watch a little more often, and you’ll see. I make her happy, too.”

So I did. I resorted myself to watching a little more carefully. The next time he came, they went out to the grass and they talked for hours. She laughed more than I’d ever seen her laugh, and then I realized, that the only time they ever fought was when they were in that kitchen, and the only conversations I ever heard were of them in the kitchen.

So I went out to the grass where he’d started a fire so she would stay warm—he always made sure she was warm enough—and I sat down with them. Neither of them paid me any attention.

“Do you think it matters?” he asked.

“It matters,” she answered. “Everything matters.”

“Not everything,” he said.

She shrugged, smiling, “Yes, everything.”

“Sometimes I’m afraid my mother will walk into my room and find everything,” he said.

She smiled, “She should. Maybe if she did, you’d be a different person.”

He laughed, “Only for you.”

She shrugged. “Don’t you think everything matters in its own way?”

“Some people just get in the way.”

“People—they’re the ones who matter the most,” she said.

He shook his head, “No—they matter the least. You let them change you. You shouldn’t do that.”

It surprised me he said that, because he changed her the most.

“If it makes you better,” she said.

“You’re too good, that’s all,” he said.

She shrugged.

“Remember how it used to be?” he asked softly.

She nodded, “Every time we talk you ask me if I remember. I remember, I always remember. I remember everything.”

I knew that was true. She remembered everything. That was why he still came around; that was why she still let him, because she remembered everything, just like she said.

They were quiet for hours, and I didn’t say anything either. She was happy, just like he said.

When he was about to leave she hugged him and she told him she loved him. He told her he loved her too, and I believed him. I’d never believed him before.

She was whistling something while she ironed my Sunday skirt and he walked in. He stood in the doorway for a while and watched her and she looked up. He smiled and she smiled back. She told him there was food in the cupboard, and he went for it. He handed her some before he took it himself.

“You got my letter?” he asked.

“I’m happy for you,” she said.

He nodded, “I’ll be back in a month.”

She shrugged, “I’ll miss you. I always miss you.”

He nodded, “I miss you too.”

She smiled and then he came over for a hug from her, and he left. I watched her iron the rest of our Sunday clothes before she put the iron away and sat down to write.

She didn’t talk of him while he was away, but I knew she thought about him a lot. I asked her, “Was there a time when you never told him to leave?”

She smiled and nodded, “There was a time when I was terrified that if I told him to leave, he would.”

“And the first time you told him? Did you mean it?”

She shrugged, “I meant it. But I hoped he would stay.”

“Why?”

“He makes me happy. He keeps me tied down.”

“He makes you sad,” I said.

She nodded, “Yes, he does that too.”

A month passed, and the first day he was back she expected him to come around, but he didn’t. He never came and I could tell it tore at her inside. She made me go to town for some ink and paper and she spent all night writing. She spent the next week writing, and still he never came around. I hated him, although he was right. He was right not to have come.

Finally, two months after the day he saw her last, he knocked on the door. He walked in, but only I was in the kitchen. He moved toward the kitchen table and looked at the papers spread across it. He put his hand on top of the papers and rifled through a couple.

“Don’t touch that!” she said, appearing out of nowhere, and she pushed him away playfully.

He smiled, “I’m glad you’re writing again.”

She nodded, “Thank you for the letters you sent.”

I looked up. Letters? I hadn’t seen any letters at all.

He nodded. “Any food?” he asked.

She shook her head, “No.”

He looked unhappy for a moment, and then he sat down next to me by the fire and said nothing. But he was smiling, and it occurred to me that maybe she did still need him—for something.

I think of Heaven and Billie Holiday.

2010-02-19T22:25:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I'm blowing the whole plan by posting twice in one month. I don't really know what I'm thinking.

I almost went all of February without buying any music. Then last night, Jake asked for 40s music and I thought of all the music that I wanted, but didn't have. Billie Holiday, for example, who I love listening to and own only like . . . 3 songs? That's despicable. So I bought a 35-song $10.00 album, and I'm calling it a month. I've just improved my quality of life by 3.9% for $10.00. This is not an easy feat, my friends.

Have I mentioned lately that I hate money? I just hate it. Why can't everything be free?

I made my dad buy The Greatest Game Ever Played today because I wanted a new movie with Shia LaBeouf in it. I butchered the spelling of his last name but couldn't stand it, so I got up to get a movie with his name on the front so I could correct it. I find myself doing this a lot, knowing that I can't settle for 'Well, you know what I mean.' Instead I really have to explain what I mean. Also, the other day I was making waffles (shocker, I know) and a piece of waffle fell into the utensil drawer. It would have been so easy to leave it there--it just would have looked like it'd fallen in there accidentally--and it was just a piece of waffle. But I couldn't leave it there. Sometimes, I test myself to see how long I can go with things like that, but I always end up doing the right thing--even when its something as little as cleaning up a small mess or correcting Shia LaBeouf's last name--because NOT doing the right thing is just too hard. I'm a mess. It's so innate in me, that it's strange to me other people don't always feel the same way.

Do you ever have to remind yourself that you're going to be okay? I do, all the time. In school, in friendships, with money, with everything. In school, when I get really stressed out about a paper or a test, I have to remind myself that it doesn't really matter--that it's just one paper, or one test. But then I'm so terrified that if I don't give a test or a paper my best ONCE that I'll fall into the habit and that I'll stop striving to do the best I can. Then, again, I have to remind myself 'You're going to be okay.' We were talking about this at the dinner table the other day, and Caitlin was saying she did the same thing. Rachel and my Mom said they never really had that problem. My Dad was silent. I wonder what he was like.

Someone once told me that if you so much as desire heaven, it will be yours. I strive to be good, not to get to heaven, but to desire heaven. It made sense to me because as long as you desire heaven you're striving to live a life worthy of heaven. Just like school.

We compare ourselves to other people. We measure ourselves by what other people think of us. It occurred to me a few weeks ago, when I was having a really hard time adjusting to being back at home, that even my family isn't fully aware of how I've changed, or the person I am. They're still getting used to the person I've become since High School. Sometimes, when I look through their eyes and see myself the way they see me, I judge myself too harshly because I never liked the person I was in High School. I'm a better person now, and I have to remind myself that I'm going to be okay. I have to remind myself that I need to be better, but I AM better than how they see me, and if they see me wrong, I can't judge myself by their approximation of the person I am. I don't know if that makes sense. What I'm trying to say is that you have to measure yourself by what you know of yourself--not what other people think they know of you.

I'm not who I was in High School, thank goodness. My heart is just a little bit different. I'm not as easy to manipulate. I'm not as dramatic. I'm a little more patient; a little more kind. I have stronger opinions. I am more confident, even if just by a little. However, I can say that in High School I developed a love for people--a love so deep sometimes I get myself into the most awful ruts not knowing what to do. That's not something I'm ever willing to give up. I'll love people, I'll have faith in people no matter what. Sometimes my faith is shaken. I'm still a little skeptical of teachers sometimes, and I don't trust doctors or politicians. I don't trust door-to-door salesmen, and I don't like telemarketers who hang up on you as soon as you say 'No, thanks' without so much as a goodbye. Sometimes I'm not sure my elders understand me, and I don't always think they care about me. But that's normal. I can't say I hate a single person on this earth, and I don't think I ever have. I think most people on this earth try to be good, even if they don't always succeed. Sometimes people just get lost.

There wasn't so much different between you and me just a little while ago. Why can't things be like that again?

Billie Holiday still plays in the background here, and I realize I still have to make Jake's playlist. This should be fun.

Regarding pretty much everything, including breakfast foods.

2010-02-12T22:42:00.000-08:00

Well, I'm back.

Maybe I'll be able to work this thing out once a month. By that approximation, this is your February update and I hope it's satisfying.

Dave Ray found me a job. I didn't do any looking at all. I just went to church and he said, 'There's this guy I know--he's an attorney and he's looking for an assistant.' Guess what I do 20 hours a week? I'm an assistant for an attorney. I love it. I was terrified at first, and at times I still find myself a little scared that I'll do something wrong, but at the end of the day, there are so many things I want to do in that small office to make his life easier. It outweighs the fear. Also, I'm officially over my fear of calling people on the phone. I started the last week of January and I've gotten over a life-long fear in less than fifteen days. It's incredible.

Also, I've started exercising. I know that this is a big shocker, so let me say that again for all of those who think they've read wrong. I've begun e-x-e-r-c-i-s-i-n-g. I run around the block everyday after work. That's mostly for my lungs--because, lets face it, if someone WAS chasing me, I'd last about a quarter of a mile. (Explanation of that last sentence: I found myself wondering, if I had to run away from someone, or from something, how far could I get before I couldn't run anymore simply because I ran out of breath? I realized--not far, I should work on that.) Mom and I exercise 3 days a week after she gets home from work (unless there are crazy schedule changes). It is also my goal to be able to touch my feet by the end of March. (I'm not particularly flexible.) I haven't been able to do this in YEARS and I'm working on it.

Why am I telling you this? Well, I decided that every year from here on out I needed to do something amazing. I decided this for a couple of reasons: first, there are so many things I want to do--if I don't start now, they'll never get done. Second, my sisters are better than I was at their age, if I don't keep raising the bar they'll pass me up and I really really really don't like the idea of that. I will remain victorious. (Love you, guys.)

Now you're wondering--how are any of these things amazing?

Well.

Let me tell you.

It's not about being amazing to everyone else--its about doing things I've never done before. I turned 20 in 2009, (which sucked. 20 is old.) and so I decided I needed to do something--I went to Europe without my family. Its not that other people don't go to Europe, it's not even that other people don't go to Europe alone, or that other people haven't been to Europe alone without their families by 20 (sorry that's confusing, just read it again). It's that I never really thought it was possible for ME to go to Europe alone EVER. But I did. I never had a bucket list. I never had dreams. That sounds awful because I was raised in a good house, with plenty of everything. But sometimes dreams are just easier not to have because that way if you don't get them, you're not let down. Europe just didn't ever seem like a possibility. London? Paris? Rome? Please. LIVE in Europe? Please. So, I did it.

Now it's 2010, and in the spirit of every female's new years resolutions, I'd like to say: I've never lost weight.

Okay, my freshman year of high school I started swimming for class, and in an afterschool program and I toned up pretty nicely. But that was 9th grade. Then last year, Sophomore year of college, I started eating smaller portions and I lost weight then too, but that wasn't really on purpose. I've never thought to myself--you should be disciplined, eat better, exercise more, look the way you want to look. I've just never REALLY tried. I've sort of tried, and very much failed, but never REALLY tried. So I'm really trying now. It's something I've never done before. And its working. Who knew?

I've never worked for an attorney before. It's actually useful for my major--good experience--and I love that too. It's what I wanted, the reason why I decided not to go back to Nestle was because I wanted to do something toward my major and although I had NO idea what that would be at the time, it's what I'm doing. How does that happen?

I still want to write. I still want to watch movies, and maybe study film. I still love to take and edit pictures, and I love staying up late with my sisters (when the buggers don't have to go to sleep at 8:30 or whatever un-godly hour they disappear), and I love having great conversations, I still make breakfast foods consistently, and I might always sleep on the couch. I might not be in London, or publishing a book, or even going to school. But right now, I'm doing some things I never thought possible. Maybe its okay to be satisfied with JUST that.

A rant for you, but mostly for me.

2010-01-10T20:16:00.000-08:00

I'm an utter failure.

Don't get me wrong, this is not an exciting revelation I've suddenly stumbled upon. I've known for a while, only I try to keep it relatively quiet. Relatively.

It's been a few weeks back and I'm still not certain about what to do with myself. I'm excited and terrified for what's ahead. I'm excited to start contributing to my Sunday school class, stories about my life. I'm excited to get through all my Europe pictures and start (and finish) a scrapbook with all of my momentos from by 4 months abroad. I'm excited to (finally) get my license. (I know its hard to believe. Yes, I am 20. No, I'm not proud that it's an important part of my life I seem to have let slip by, and yes, I'm aware that most people get their license to travel to foreign streets alone before they start traveling to foreign countries alone. I understand. Working on it.) I'm excited to see whats in store. I'm NOT excited about working although it just occurred to me that maybe I should work somewhere fun for a few months before I settle down for a high-paying job. (Haha. That is, high-paying for a high-school graduate who's just deferred a semester in college.) Maybe something will open up and I can just earn chump change in the mean time. Just thinking out loud, here.

Sometimes when life terrifies me, I remind myself I've been through Heathrow airport, and honestly there's nothing more terrifying than an airport 10 miles in diameter.

The other day I had jury duty which I was annoyed about, until I realized that it was a new experience that I can add to my life. I was sitting next to this guy about my age (if not exactly my age) the entire time, and the second half of our 'waiting' we started talking. He's going to NYU for Film. Needless to say, (as I've told everyone) we had plenty to talk about, both of us being interested in movies. It reminded me that going into film is still a possible dream, at least studying it. Becasue although its not an easy thing to get into, it doesn't mean I can't be interested in it. I tend to deny myself the things I think impossible. But what's the point of that? Compared to so many, there are so few things I want. I always do that to myself: make myself do prestigious things that I have no interest in: Like science classes.

My dad sent me an email a while back that said something to the effect of , "I like art." It might sound like an unimpressive declaration, but for me it made complete sense. Not all of us have amazing lives where we do amazing things and we make amazing impacts. The only working experience I have, I sat in an office 40 hours a week and did things I wasn't REALLY interested in. I had the most fun when I was sitting down and creating; thinking of ways to improve, finding ways to connect everything together. The things that make a difference for me, the mediums I want to use to make a difference for other people is art. Art is what makes sense to me.

I'm still trying to figure it all out, I guess. And where I used to want to know what other people thought, I realized that as interested as I am in other people and their life experiences, it doesn't mean that it'll work for me. And even if I want to try something new and I fail at it, who's to say it wouldn't have worked for me? More than that--what if I try something new and it does work for me when no one else said it would?

The cynic in me lives for those little moments when I prove someone who thinks they know life better than I do wrong. They might know their life better than me, but they don't know mine. If I ever presume to know anyone's life better than they do, please remind me what William Earnest Henley wrote so nicely, (and what Invictus recently brought to my attention), "I am the master of my fate; I am the Captain of my soul." It's not important to me that I should get the most on my 'To Do' list checked off than anyone else ever has. I won't succeed. I can't DO everything. I don't even WANT to do everything.

What I want to do is write stories, watch movies, read books, learn history, meet people and connect it all together to help me understand why God made the world the way he made it, why I am the way I am, and what it's supposed to teach me in the long run. After all, if what we're really trying to do is get back to Christ, what else matters but that we know the person we're trying to get back to, why we're trying to get back to him, and figure out why in the grand scheme of things God thought putting us here, in this place, at this time was his best chance of our ever getting back.

DAY FOUR: Calton Hill, Arthur's Seat, and St. Giles Cathedral

2009-11-14T08:29:00.000-08:00

“You cannot antagonize and influence at the same time.” – John Knox

23 October 2009

We had to be out of our hotel at 11am that morning, so we left our luggage downstairs and said goodbye to our comfortable room.

During the first three days of our stay in Edinburgh, we saw several monuments atop various hills in the city; our only destination was getting to those monuments and seeing what they were. We simply walked in their general direction, keeping them in sight. On our way toward it, we stopped off at a large, enclosed grave yard and walked through it. I liked the grave plots, most of them were sectioned off with stone—like monuments in and of themselves. We were confused to find one monument in the graveyard with a statue of Abraham Lincoln on it: we came closer to find it was a memorial for the Scottish-Americans killed during the Civil war.

We found our way up to the monuments atop Calton Hill and walked around. I did some sketches of Edinburgh, looked at the various monuments which had less value to us that we expected (they were for people we’d never heard of).

We then found our way down the hill and back to the other side of Edinburgh to Arthur’s Seat, where Julene wanted to do some more walking. There’s a park at the base of the hill, so we strolled through the area—saw Hollyrood Abbey from behind a stone wall, looked at the Lake at the base of Arthur’s Seat, and in general just enjoyed the park.

We went back down the Royal Mile to go to St. Giles Cathedral (The Church of Scotland), to sit in there a while. I did another sketch there and took contraband photos. (You were supposed to pay for a permit to take photos, but since I’m not selling these, I just took a couple to remember the church by.)

It’s believed that there’s been a church built on or near the site of St. Giles Cathedral since 854, first as a parish church, and then as a Catholic Christian church (renamed St. Giles) in the 1100s. John Knox headed the Reformation in Scotland, with which St. Giles took part, little by little during Knox’s administration. In other words, St. Giles was not reformed overnight by riots, the smashing of windows, or the looting of precious altars and statues (like it was in England). The church became a Presbyterian Cathedral in the 1600s when William Forbes was made the first bishop of the Edinburgh diocese; it now retains the title of Cathedral.

Being in St. Giles Cathedral wasn’t too much unlike being in an Anglican Cathedral as far as its gothic architecture and stained glass windows go, but it was less ornate than any of the Anglican Cathedrals I’ve attended so far. The quire was simple and wooden, and in the crossing of the Nave and transepts, rather than given its own section, as in most Cathedrals. St. Giles was small, too, which gave it the older feeling of many of the smaller parish churches we’ve gone in on walks with Norman foundations.

It seems that every time I go into a new Cathedral, I like it better than the last because there’s always something new that’s so impressive. The Thistle Chapel, for example, was one of the most ornate Chapels I’ve seen anywhere in any Cathedral, and was well worth the look. It’s built to give honor to the Knights of the Thistle (reminiscent of the Order of the Thistle—a high honor for those who have given distinguished service).

It’s interesting to me how people who have such a long heritage hold on to that heritage for so long—and especially to see that heritage in their churches where the church and the state is not separate in the same respect as it is in America. It’s not to say that I think it wrong to hold on to heritage, it is perhaps the only thing that is right, because heritage includes God, includes faith, includes who you are, and I find myself wishing that we held the same pride for our country within our places of worship, though I understand the good reasons behind not doing so—one of them being that our church is an international one.

This brings me to one last thought I had while in St. Giles church: I miss patriotism. I miss the time when you could be proud of being an American without people thinking you the worse for it. You don’t find this within the church, but I do find it among my peers: the animosity toward our country by its own citizens is something that terrifies me—if we can’t even love our government, or our culture how will we ever be able to live up to being the promised land we were prophesied as being? In Scotland there is so much national pride, a pride I only wish we could humbly emulate.

After leaving the church it began pouring, so we took refuge in Chocolate Soup where we had another hot chocolate.

We decided to go to New Town that night because Jim (a tour guide at Edinburgh Castle who spoke to us and told us about a lot of Scottish men and their contributions to the world) told us there were 27 pubs on Rose Street. So, we went to Rose Street and counted, naturally.

It turns out there were only 17, but at least it kept us busy for an hour.

Most everything was closed around 5pm, so we went back to our hotel and asked to sit in the lobby, which we were allowed to do. We did homework until it was time to start off for the Coach Station.

We said our goodbye’s to Scotland, ready for clean clothes and breakfasts that didn’t consist of rice-cakes and digestives.

DAY THREE: Edinburgh Castle

2009-11-14T06:44:00.000-08:00

Narrator: Emerson Cod, private investigator, made a business of murder. But before he could get down to business . . .

“I feel like ice cream.” – Emerson Cod (Pushing Daisies S1 E3)

22 October 2009

The third day of our trip in Scotland was probably the best. When we left our hotel room the sun was shining in Edinburgh. Yes—shining. I hadn’t been able to get money out of the bank because my bank freezes my account every 30 days, so I called to get it cleared up and they told me to wait two days and this was the day to attempt withdrawing money. Like I said, the sun was shining. I was able to withdraw money and pay off my debts to Julene and Jackie.

Afterwards we walked toward Edinburgh castle and stopped at the Scottish National Gallery where I saw one of John Singer Sergeant’s most famous pieces, pieces by Van Gogh, Money, Van Dyke, Gainsborough, Rubens, Lorraine, Vermeer, Rembrandt, and Boucher—I know most of those names may mean nothing to you, but I’d just studied them in my Humanities classes, and I loved learning about those artworks and then seeing their work in a gallery and thinking, ‘That looks like a Van Dyke,’ looking at the plaque and being RIGHT. Jackie and I toured the place as fast as we could, getting pretty excited about what we saw after every corner we turned.

We then left for the Castle but the admission was £12. No one wanted to go in but me, so I convinced Jackie we would regret it if we didn’t, and she convinced Julene—so we went in after much deliberation. Needless to say, it was VERY worth it, and we didn’t regret it.

We saw the 1 o’clock gun go off, we walked into St. Margaret’s Chapel, the oldest building in Edinburgh, we looked through the church-like war memorial building, saw the Scottish crown jewels, including THE stone Scottish and English monarchs have been crowned on for centuries (the English since 1305, the Scottish even before that), and then we saw the prison barracks where they held American prisoners of war (treated as pirates) during the war for Independence. One of the American men carved ‘Lord Nord’ next to a carving of a man hanging from the gallows on one of the prison doors. Lord North was the prime minister who imposed the tea tax. I got a nice laugh out of it, though neither Julene o Jackie found it quite as funny.

Not to forget: we saw the grounds of Edinburgh Castle, and the view of Edinburgh from the top of the hill.

(War Memorial)

We left the Castle around 3pm and walked down the better-half of the Royal Mile, ate at Quizno’s and when to ‘Chocolate Soup’ for a hot chocolate. We did some shopping, watched and American street performer, and walked back to our hotel the long way.

Jackie and I went in search of ice cream before watching Braveheart to get in the Scottish-pride spirit. All was great from there on out.

DAY TWO: The Docks of Edinburgh

2009-11-09T04:22:00.000-08:00

"Timid men prefer the calm of despotism to the tempestuous sea of liberty."--Thomas Jefferson

21 October 2009

Our second day in Edinburgh we walked down to the docks, and the shopping mall nearby. First we took a long walk down Leith Street where we found about fifteen places we could eat over the next three day—cheaper than the food on the Royal Mile. Oddly enough, we didn’t end up eating at any of these places; we ate on the Royal Mile. It took us a while fo din a way down to the docks, but we finally did.

It definitely wasn’t pristine down there, but it smells and sounds like the ocean and that’s enough. When I saw it I felt home-sick, not because I lived by the ocean, so much as what it represents, that it represents home, someplace I feel peace and wish I could be most of the time.

Before we left for the docks, we asked the lady at the front desk of our hotel about the lighthouse, and she had no clue what we were talking about. It occurred to us that maybe lighthouses aren’t as important to people in the UK as they are to Americans—or at least to my family, we always visit lighthouses.

We didn’t get particularly close to it, but I did find something slightly resembling a lighthouse, and so I’ve dubbed it the Edinburgh lighthouse, even if it isn’t really.

The ocean is like a memory, always constant memory—even when it is right before you. It’s as if you forget how you miss it until you’re in it again, and so memory is turned and all you’re doing is remembering the time before. The cold, the breeze, the salt, the sound of the gulls, and it fills you up. That’s what I thought when I got up that morning, I thought, “I’,m glad we’re going to the seaside, I need to be filled up again.’ I didn’t think it in those exact words, but I realize now that I awaited the healing power of being near seawater, that somehow it really does pour energy and inspiration back into you. I’m guessing that’s why my parents never take us to Kansas for our family vacations. There’s something about the ocean.

We walked down by the docks a little hwile and then stopped into a mall to warm ourselves again. IT was there we decided on tickets for ‘The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus.’ My first movie in the UK—in Scotland—FINALLY! (Current plans are being made for ‘Bright Star’ on this coming Wednesday or Friday. I am content.) The movie wasn’t for two hours, so we walked down by the docks into the nicer part of town, an found a Sihk temple, sat by the water and talked.

Then the movie. I loved it. Jackie and Julene didn’t care for it as much, they thought it was strange and said it was ‘dollar-theatre’ worthy. I scoff. That’s an insult, but that’s because I don’t believe in dollar-theatres, and as Charles Ballard says, ‘Movie-snobs of the world, unite!’ Because he and I have had several conversations about how we are definitely movie-snobs, but I think my whole family is, secretly. For example, my Dad, when told that I wanted the Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn movie ‘Charade’, told me I wasn’t allowed to buy the cheap version off of Amazon, because the print wasn’t a good one (in so many words, that is). Luckily, I got around this by getting it for Christmas from my roommate who doesn’t know about such things.

The idea behind ‘Dr. Parnassus’ was that he believed stories kept the world going, that they enlightened, enriched, and made people better, but the devil believed that without stories, the world would continue and so they made a wager—Dr. Parnassus would have to prove his theory and in return receive immortality—and so he did, for years. But as the times changed, people became less and less interested in his stories. His imaginarium posed such a world: choices. Everyone perceives the world differently—and then there are choices to be made—different for everyone, between good and bad, moral and immoral.

But it raises the question: Do stories keep the world going? Does faith? And is the world the paradise we let it be full of choices that will make us immortal and forever remembered—in one way or another—or will ultimately destroy us? ‘Yes’ On such a deep level that I’m sure wasn’t intended. Our stories are all we have of loyalty, of love, of fights for freedom—and the faith that we harbour by telling them can make us into better people. The world is like a vacation away from heaven and everything we have here is more than we had there (apart from the presence of God, of course), but there are choices that will either get us back safely, or will destroy us. Glorious metaphor, really.

After several long debates about food, we finally settled on eating at Pizzahut. I know that sounds awful, but the Pizza huts here are like California Pizza Kitchen’s—good food, and a nice place to sit. But they’re cheaper than CPK, so better. We came back to the hotel, and Julene and I did homework while Jackie watched the Chelsea vs. Liverpool Soccer game (3-0, Chelsea).

We watched ‘The Thomas Crowne Affair’ and then went to bed in our comfortable and clean hotel room.

It was also my mother’s birthday, but I was in Scotland and so forgot, but I have since repented.

DAY ONE: Scotland--Arthur's Seat

2009-11-07T09:52:00.000-08:00

"That is the most offensive thing I have seen in 20 years of teaching--and that includes a elementary school production of 'Hair'."--Sue Sylvester (from Glee, Ep.2)

I owe this post to so many people.

Scotland. 20 October 2009.

I opened my eyes to Scotland about 6.20am on 20 October 2009, despite difficulty sleeping. Fountain’s Abbey, previously in first place as the most beautiful think I’d ever seen, was immediately bumped to second place, even though I hadn’t yet gotten a great view of Scotland, it being only 6.20 in the morning. Since that time, I think Herefordshire (western England, near Wales) in the fall is the most beautiful place I’ve been, but I’m beginning to learn the unimportance of ‘bests’ and ‘favorites.’

The coach ride into Scotland was bearable, but less than pleasant, although I do have to say that despite its short comings as a comfortable trip, there were no snorers aboard. There was a man sitting behind me who smelled of smoke and who had such an awful cough I was certain he’d die in his seat. He didn’t.

We finally got to Edinburgh (ed-in-bur-ah) about 8am. It didn’t take us long to find our hotel—King James hotel. (Out of the coach station, down to South St. Andrews St., left on Prince Street, voila!) We had to pay extra for a three person room because we weren’t smart enough to only send two people inside to check our luggage, but it turned out for the better: we were able to go straight up to our room and take napes. Room 448 was spacious enough, had three beds (two pushed together to create a double bed), a clean bathroom with a shower, toilet, and shampoos and soaps that were refilled everyday (I stole several upon leaving), a flat-screen TV, a desk, a small table, an ice-bucket, a hair dryer, ironing board, and towels. Sort of an odd description of the room, but I wanted to give off the impression that I’m certain it’s the nicest hotel I’ll ever stay in without my parents for years.

After our nap we walked down what we learned was the boring half of the Royal Mile on our way toward Holyrood Palace and Park, and Arthur’s Seat. When Orson Pratt (Mormon missionary) was sent to Edinburgh, Scotland to preach the gospel, he hiked Arthur’s Seat often (I touched what Julene, Jackie and I single-handedly dubbed the Orson Pratt Rock—in reference to the fact that I want to touch everything. I walked up the hill off the path and said, “Orson Pratt probably rested on this rock,” and touched it. Julene took a picture.). I picked flowers and pressed them so I would always remember the meadows and when we got to the top, I realized why he frequented the top of the hill. We sat for a little while, took pictures of the view, and came back down, frolicking through the fluffy grasses in the meadow. Frolic is a good word, right?

Atop Arthur’s Seat: “We’re here—and we’ve come to the realization of absolute freedom. Four days—or three and a half. £40 for our coach to Edinburgh and back. £100 the King James hotel. £10 for Carmel flavored rice-cakes, Pringles, digestives, and Reeses peanut butter cups. Throwing rocks off of Arthur’s Seat atop Edinburgh? Priceless.

“But it’s beautiful. Edinburgh is beautiful. Churches, abbeys, the Royal Mile, the ocean, the cold breeze, and the absolute green.”

We walked back down the Royal Mile and came across the Edinburgh Museum (free admission), so we went inside. It was larger than we initially supposed so it took us over an hour: it had information about Edinburgh’s beginnings there nearly-current. It was a make-shift museum, with some legitimate artifacts, which was interesting because of how used we are to glorified display cases.

Still tired from getting only 4-5 hours of sleep that night, we went back to the museum and watched 21, then got ready to go out to a pub to get fish and chips. Despite Julene’s reluctance (she didn’t like the idea of going to a pub at night), Jackie and I refused to pass up the experience. We went to ‘The Tass’ for £6.50 fish and chips. It was good, the pub was low-key, and overall we enjoyed ourselves.

We came back to the hotel and watched Hands Across the Table, one of my favorite movies (with Fred MacMurray and Carole Lombard). Jackie and Julene enjoyed it.

History & Culture 101 - Stonehenge, Stourhead and Bath

2009-10-24T03:34:00.000-07:00

". . . Have you ever noticed that there are people who do things which are most indelicate, and yet at the same time--beautiful?" - A Room With a View E. M. Forster

I wish this post could just be written the way the day was felt. I hardly know how to begin, but I’ll try.

Stonehenge. I’m probably exaggerating when I say my Dad’s been making semi-random mentions and references to Stonehenge since I could comprehend, but that’s how I perceive it, and therefore that is my truth. Like puppies. (You pick your favorite.—Name that TV show.) I sent my Dad a postcard, that’s how great Stonehenge was. I actually licked a stamp, since they don’t believe in sticker-stamps in this country (almost as dumb as separate hot and cold faucets) and put it on a postcard and sent it. Hardship. But it was worth it, because I Was there and he was all I could think about.

You see, although I’ve wanted to see Stonehenge since I could remember, I needed no help to strangle that desire with doubt—I don’t think I really believed I’d ever get to see Stonehenge. And now that I have, that doubt is entirely irrelevant. I love irrelevating doubt. I think I may spend the rest of my life doing it.

I wasn’t disappointed at all. Although I wish I could have touched it and walked through it—to date it would have been the oldest thing I’ve touched (if I could’ve)—because I’m not sure I could have found anything older. (Does anyone else have that insatiable desire to touch old things? You don’t have to answer that question.) But I’m content merely having been there.

My professor, Dr. Paxman, has spoken to us a couple of times about internalizing the information we receive and the places we go. He mentioned that sometimes people go places merely to check it off their list of things to do before they die. Honestly—although I love lists—Stonehenge was and is far too important to merely check it off my list. It’s been checked, don’t get me wrong, but he asked us what type of pilgrimage we were doing—one for show, or one for spiritual and intellectual development. I guess I don’t know the answer to that. It’s that Stonehenge is so old. It’s that Stonehenge proves men haven’t changed one bit. Sure, God is the best architect there is, but men get pretty close. That’s not to say Stonehenge is the most beautiful building or monument I’ve ever seen, but that need to build, that need to say something is a human trait I’ve always admired.

There’s an interesting idea, because after Stonehenge we drove to Stourhead. (Those are the gardens filmed in the newer Pride and Prejudice when Darcy proposes to Elizabeth; incidentally, the little temple where he proposed was closed for cleaning and repairs. You told me, Lindsey, you told me.) I said that the whole idea of God being the best architect and yet men coming close was interesting because the plot of land bought by Henry Hore in 1717 was transfigured into an “idealized” garden to be more of an ‘artful wilderness.’ In other words, the whole area is meant to look untouched, while all the while it’s taken care of so that it looks perfect, with several vistas—those picture perfect spots.

Here’s a few examples.

It sounds a little awkward, maybe a little like you’re being tricked into appreciating nature—but once you’re there none of that matters. It’s beautiful. The colors are vibrant, the water looks clean, the little temples in the background are picturesque, and you realize that God must not mind getting a little help getting the gardening done—not when it can create something so beautiful.

Last on the agenda for the day was Bath. I never wanted to go to Bath because I never really considered it as a possibility, but when I was told we were going I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. Bath—Bath. Where aristocracy used to go to on vacation, where the Roman Baths are, where people used to come to get well again. They thought the sulfur water could cure them of anything. I spent almost all my time in Bath at the Roman Baths, and walking around a small shopping area. I tried Ben’s Cookies for the first time (best cookie I’ve ever had, I think—except when Chocolate Krinkles are made perfectly), and went into Bath Abbey.

I will look back on the Roman Baths as one of the most incredible things I’ve ever seen. I still have a hard time getting my head around it. The only naturally occurring hot springs in Britain are in Bath. The Romans came to Bath in 43 AD, defeating the Dobunni tribe for the land. They immediately built the Baths there to model the baths at home in Italy, and did an incredible job of it. Along with the baths, they built an entire courtyard, a temple, an altar for sacrifices, and a staircase to the sacred spring that even the Dobunni used for worship.

I tell you this, because of the doorstep into the Sacred Spring. That doorstep had been crossed for worship so many times, it was worn away into a crescent shape. It wasn’t a mere polishing of the stone from feet rubbing across it—it was several inches of stone worn away by a constant crossing of the threshold. For some reason it just demonstrates such dedication and devotion to faith and worship—even if the worship was for the wrong reasons or to the wrong God. If they believed it, that says enough. We should be proud for our temples’ doorsteps to be so worn away.

The Baths are still lined with lead, just as they were during Roman times. The pipes from the hot springs still run into the baths. They found gemstones and roman coins at the bottom of the baths, either lost or sacrificed. They found curses etched into lead sacrificed to the Sacred Springs—asking for the death of whoever stole a pair of gloves, for the blindness of whoever stole a hood. Reminds us of why the Roman Empire fell, doesn’t it? But if I really think on it, the Romans probably left more good in this world than bad; a lot of idealism, and beauty, and sincerity. I’d rather have that.

Piece of Shakespeare

2009-10-17T16:35:00.000-07:00

"I walk slowly, but I never walk backward." -Abraham Lincoln

My view of catching up has fallen flat, but I don’t want to leave you out of anything—not that you’d really know if I did. (But I’d know.)

3 October 2009

Stratford-Upon-Avon, where Shakespeare was born, probably where he grew up, where he was married, where his wife lived, where he came to during the theatre’s ‘off’ season, where he retired to, and where he died. Funny that a man whose work has made it across the world and through centuries should have lived mainly in only two cities: where he was born, and where he worked. It reminds me that you don’t have to go far to make a difference.

It’s hard to go back to the beginning of October because so much has happened since then, but I’ll certainly give it a try. The pictures help, so maybe I’ll start with those.

We drove into Stratford-Upon-Avon with a view of the river; the river made more beautiful by its name, no doubt. Avon really is a good name for a river. It still amazes me that a man who gave so much to literature and to theatre is such a mystery. There are lesser men who have volumes written about their lives—some of which they wrote themselves—but Shakespeare, nothing. Sure we know enough: that he was born in Stratford, and that he worked in London, but we don’t know how he met Anne, or why in her mid-twenties she was interested in an 18-year-old boy. We don’t know anything about what Shakespeare did from 21 to 28 years old, and we don’t know how he felt about his family, who his friends really were, where he enjoyed eating on the weekends, or what his favorite thing was to do in the summer when he went home. It seems that it’d be easier not to glorify him so much if we knew what sort of a man he really was.

I’m sure if I were sitting across from myself, I’d play devil’s advocate and say that we can learn a lot about how he felt about the world, and the sorts of things he enjoyed by reading and viewing his plays. But as a person who writes, I know that my stories don’t always accurately depict what I personally believe. In fact, in many ways my writings depict the very things I don’t believe and in some twisted way reveal what I see as truth. But no one could really know. Even if I blatantly stated what I believed it probably wouldn’t be wholly accurate. And in saying that, that’s probably why it doesn’t matter that we don’t know much about Shakespeare and that Stratford-Upon-Avon is really enough.

We went to Mary Arden’s house first, which was interesting, but unhelpful since the most interesting parts of it were what I imagined in my head. Mary Arden was Shakespeare’s mother, and we visited the property where she grew up. I imagine that her family lived there even after she was married and had children and that perhaps she brought her son William to visit her parents or siblings and that perhaps as a child he ran around the meadows and haystacks, and perhaps helped with the chores. Purely conjectures. I see now why sketchy pasts likes Shakespeare’s would be so inviting for film-makers.

I know this picture looks as if I’m rushing things, but I just liked the lining up of his life (minus the seven-year “lost years”). CLICK ON IT. Please.

First his birthplace: Here’s the problem—they tried to make it look as it MIGHT have looked when Shakespeare was born there: period furniture, bright drapery and colorful linens, toys, tools, wallpaper—the works. But to me, it looked like Disneyland. I’d have much preferred empty rooms; I’d have preferred reverence and contemplation. I couldn’t feel ‘Shakespeare was born here.’ Instead, I felt, ‘Shakespeare was born in a place like this.’ This mostly stems from the fact that I still feel like I’m visiting places LIKE the original, rather than THE original. But that’s just the problem—these places try too hard and instead of coming off as authentic, they come off as insincere. It was more impressive that Ralph Waldo Emerson might have stood where I stood while visiting Shakespeare’s birthplace. I feel more of Shakespeare at the decades-old Globe Theatre than at the centuries-old birthplace. A purist would probably murder me.

We walked past the grammar school where Shakespeare probably attended school: where he learned to read and spell, where he learned sentence syntax and punctuation, where he learned how to write, about poetry, and how to tell a story. I would trade my visit to the birthplace for anything, but I preferred walking just outside of the school.

Anne Hathaway’s cottage was quaint and pretty. I could imagine a woman there. Once again, I preferred imagining to the information they provided at the cottage—not so much about Anne, but about the people who lived in her cottage after her. I suppose people just desire to get as close as they can.

Shakespeare’s last house—the house where he died—was torn down, but they now have a park to commemorate Shakespeare’s death place, only yards from his birthplace. One doesn’t go too far in life, do they? No matter where you die, you were born on the same planet, just yards away. The world isn’t quite so big as we tend to think it. The more you see, the more you realize it’s closer together than you thought. Not that I’ve seen anything near what others have seen. But I’ve realized this in London: it’s such a big city, but as you visit places, you realize how it all connects, that each tube stop is closer to the last than you thought, that you can see St. Paul’s from a mile away, that if you can find just one street you recognize you’re going in the right direction, and that if you’re lucky one day the whole thing will just be a map in your head.

[End of tangent.]

Lastly we paid .50 pence to see Shakespeare’s Burial place. That was worth it because I saw something real: the small font where Shakespeare was baptized as a baby. It was off in the corner, practically worn away, but a piece of paper was posted in glass beside it and it read a list of names baptized, and one of them was William Shakespeare. They didn’t cover the font in garland or lights, they didn’t have giant neon signs pointing to it, it was just in the corner under a stained glass window beside the quire seats. Thank you for the sincerity. The part of real life; a real part of Shakespeare.

I got to touch it.

Chapter Houses and Shakespeare

2009-10-13T14:16:00.000-07:00

“The cause of America is in a great measure the cause of all mankind. Many circumstances hath, and will arise, which are not local, but universal, and through which the principles of all Lovers of Mankind are affected, and in the Event of which, their Affections are interested.”—Thomas Paine in Common Sense (x)

I am determined to catch up. This determination will cost me a day, no doubt, but a day well spent.

2 October 2009

At Canterbury, and York Cathedrals, my favorite rooms were the Chapter Houses—little rooms off of the cloisters where monks would congregate to read a Chapter of the Bible every day. There were two main reasons I liked the room: first, for architectural reasons—at Canterbury, the room is rectangular and has several magnificent stained-glass windows,; in York the room is circular, and has better acoustics than could be recreated today—the Chapter House in York is also the largest without a center column to hold up the ceiling in all of England. Both had steps around the room where the monks could sit during the reading. But more than that, I loved the idea of the Chapter Houses: that every day the monks would gather together to read a Chapter of the Bible, perhaps discuss the meanings, perhaps contemplate the word of God. But, even if they didn’t discuss or contemplate, they did build a separate room simply for the use of reading God’s words.

Of course everything about Westminster Abbey was beautiful, but his Chapter House was slightly disappointing, seeing as it was my favorite room of both Canterbury and York Cathedrals. The entire place was utterly crammed with monuments, memorials, graves, flowers, people and history. My favorite thing there was the coronation chair. The coronation chair has been used for every coronation in England since 1305. It’s small—smaller than you’d imagine a chair used for the crowning of Kings and Queens to be, and it’s old. It’s less impressive than you’d think; there are names and words carved into the wood, nail marks in the back and seat of the chair from the fabrics nailed to the chair as decoration for coronations, and the wood is worn away at the armrests. But it’s gorgeous.

Also at Westminster Abbey is the tomb and shrine of Edward the Confessor, Elizabeth I, and Mary I. Then there’s Poet’s Corner—where Chaucer is buried— Lady’s Chapel—which has the most gorgeous quire and ceiling—and of course all the normal parts of a Cathedral, which makes it no less beautiful, the nave, quire, transepts etc.

Also that day I went to the National Gallery where I saw Van Gogh’s Sunflower Painting. I went there for a class fieldtrip, which I loved. Being able to see the paintings we’re studying is still something I can’t fully get over, and the National Gallery has such a large collection. But, I took a picture of the scene I saw my second day in London which was my first, ‘I’m in London’ experience—because I looked up and saw Big Ben off into the distance.

Lastly, the Globe—which deserves another mention. The Globe is my favorite place in London. I know that sounds like a presumptuous thing to say, since I’ve only been here a month, and have most certainly not seen everything there is to see, so I leave that statement open for possible change, but so far, the Globe is my favorite place in London. I’ve been inside four times, and have been to the productions, “As You Like It” (which I saw twice), “A New World,” and “Love’s Labour’s Lost.” I’d be going 12 more times if the season weren’t ending. My favorite of the three productions was undoubtedly “As You Like It” which I enjoyed much more the second time, when I paid £5 to stand in front of the stage, rather than £13 to sit way off to the side. The reason standing is better than sitting, is because you can see everything the actors do—their facial expressions, especially—and it makes Shakespeare come alive past all recognition. I swore I read As You Like It, but when I saw it on stage, it was just so much better.

A New World—written by Trevor Griffiths was about the life of Thomas Paine. I went because Thomas Paine is one of my favorite writers, and by far my favorite rhetorician. Griffiths paid America it’s dues by making the whole first half of the play about Paine’s time writing during the American Revolution, however, the entire play made more sense after the second half, when Paine moved back to Europe and wrote in England and France, pushing for revolution of authority and ideals in both places, like he had in America. The production was incredible. If I could have renamed the play, I think I’d have called it “The Revolutionist,” but I’m sure Griffiths had a reason for calling it “A New World.” My problem with that title was that it was slightly misleading, although I can think of a lot of deep reasons why it fits Paine’s life well.

There was one point in the play that hit me hardest. When the French Revolution was going rampant, and the use of the guillotine was in full swing, Paine was avidly preaching against the chaos and bloodshed going on at the time. Many of the revolutionists he’d been working with and writing for disagreed with Paine’s desires to do without the violence, and in a sense pushed him out of their circles. He’d just finished the first part of ‘Rights of Man’ when, because of a misunderstanding, Paine was found by revolutionists and thought to be against the revolution—he wasn’t the wearing the right hat, as I recall—and he was thrown in jail. He was in jail a long time, and the man in the position of ambassador for France from America did nothing to save Paine from his imprisonment (Paine and the current ambassador had disagreed about a lot of things during the American Revolution and didn’t get along). Without much hope, Paine continued writing the second part of ‘Rights of Man.’ Then one day he got a visit from a man who claimed to be the new ambassador of France from America—he said that the previous ambassador had left not a single note about Paine’s imprisonment, and that he’d only just found out. He promised to try to get Paine out of jail, but before he left Paine made him promise to give the second part of ‘Rights of Man’ to a friend to publish. On the ambassador’s second visit to Paine, he told him he was still working on his release, but first he pulled a small book out of his bag and put it in Paine’s hands, “American.” Paine looks up at him, realizing it’s been published, but then the ambassador sinks his hand into his bag again and pulls out another small book, “English,” he says. Then again, pulling out another small book, “French.”

It’s just that Paine’s been sitting in this dark, damp jail cell for months and months, without the knowledge of whether or not his writing was published, and not only has it been published, but published in three separate countries. The whole theatre was silent.

I walked home from the Globe with a new appreciation for Thomas Paine—the writer I’d already admired.

DAY FIVE: Liverpool and Derbyshire

2009-10-10T08:08:00.000-07:00

“There are only four people who knew what the Beatles were about anyway.” –Paul McCartney

This post is specifically for Rachel and Lindsey. Let’s start with the pictures this time, shall we?

The Beatles Story Museum. It’s unfair to start there, because the real reason we went to Liverpool was to see the docks where thousands of British converts to the church left the UK for Louisiana, up the Mississippi, across on the Missouri and then across the West to Utah.

The Albert Docks were peaceful and it was interesting to stand where so many people had stood before—preparing to cross the Atlantic. The Albert Docks are only a fraction of the size they used to be, but they’re still pretty impressive.

Now, Rachel—the Beatles Museum. You’d love this place—the Museum took you through their entire story, with the beginning of Lennon as a member of The Quarrymen, when Paul and George first met, and included a lot of the very same instruments that they used as teenagers. I have pictures for you later, but they’re not great pictures because of glass casings. None-the-less, you’ll want to see them. Then it brought you through to the first time the group (without Ringo—he comes later) went to Germany—their name changed several times before they finally decided on The Beatles. I took a picture of ‘the Cavern’ they recreated where the Beatles played often before their record labels and traveling began. Of course it takes you through Ringo’s joining of the band, their first visit to America—footage was playing of them getting off the plane, and going into their Hotel, they were so young and they looked terrified, which was interesting to see—through their ‘glory years,’ their ‘weird years’ and their breakup.

At the end of the exhibit were these:

I took this picture for you, Rachel. His “specs” are worth ONE MILLION POUNDS. At the moment, that’s the equivalent of almost 1.6 million dollars! And the only thing between me and the specs was a lousy piece of plexi-glass.

It was so fun. They did a great job of bringing you through the life of the band and a lot of the different things the different members were going through.

If I could chose to go back to one place I went in the North for an extended amount of time, I’d chose Liverpool. There was a weird and intriguing vibe about the city that I just wanted to explore.

Back on the bus for several hours—we watched the BBC Miniseries “North & South” which was incredible. I want it. The end. We stopped one last time during our trip up north: In Derbyshire. Lindsey, this one’s for you. (I have no clue if you’ve been, so if you haven’t—then enjoy!)

Yes, Pemberley. Except the house is really called Chatsworth. We got to go inside and see some of the rooms, then walk around in the garden. My favorite part was the sculptures room—seeing the sculptures in real life was just incredible after seeing them on the film. Absolutely beautiful.

Finally finished with the trip up North! We can look forward to more of LONDON!

DAY FOUR: Preston and Chorley

2009-10-07T11:28:00.000-07:00

"It snows in the South, but people are just smart enough to stay inside."--American South History Professor (Winter Semester 2009)

All of September fell on us today. Now I know what it feels like to traipse through Kent for 9 miles in the rain. It had to happen, since September merely sprinkled, and October certainly got its revenge. My socks were so wet I could wring them out. Was it worth it?: Yes. I had my first truly packed tube experience, with mean glares being shot at all of us crammed girls as we fell over every time the tube stopped. I learned that I’m terrified of the possibility of slipping down steep, slippery hills. I confirmed that no matter how high your spirits, damp socks always brings them down. I tried Ginger Beer with .05% alcohol in it, and it burned down my throat; the closest I’ll ever get to drinking an alcoholic beverage while on earth. And now, just thinking about the entire walk, I’m so glad I did it.

For the most part, I forgot to take pictures. This really doesn’t bother me, but pictures are necessary for my blog entries if they’re to count for class. So here you are:

Now, steadily onward with the North.

24 September 2009.

“It’s very possible I’ve been to the place where my first ancestor to cross the Atlantic to the New World grew up. What better place to find it out than at the Preston Temple? I’ve always wanted to go to the Isle of Man—always—merely to be where Standish grew up and was born. I can’t explain why. Maybe because he gives me courage that none of the world is quite so scary as the prospect of never having left home. The New World was the equivalent of what many seemingly far-off countries are today and if it weren’t for him—just one of many, but on the whole, a representative of that whole—I might not have been an American, or a believer of my particular faith. God has everything in mind, doesn’t he? And there are pieces of Standish that followed his family straight to my family, even if I don’t know what they are. With Standish’s emigration to the Americas there is a bloodline of my family that has lived in America for about 370 years—almost as long as any English man could have been in America—and so I can no longer call myself of British or English descent even in blood, because I am American. More in heart, probably, than anything else.

“The Preston temple is beautiful, but I still have yet to find a temple that really gets me. Probably an uncomfortable and unfortunate (and rare) side effect of being exposed to so many beautiful things in my life time, temples included. I think temples are beautiful, of course, but I never seem to have the same intense admiration for their beauty as others. I do wish to find one that I simply cannot get over seeing. This temple may come the closest. What I love most are the lily pads on the ponds in front of the temple and the inscription near the top that reads ‘Holiness to the Lord.’ I know most temples, if not all, have that inscription, but it’s what I love about them all. And I love the placement on this one—on the steeple, right in the middle. It’s what we do, like the Catholics and the Anglicans and the Indus and the Sihks, to dedicate our most beautiful works to God, a way of saying: ‘We give up these riches, pour them into the creation of a beautiful place to worship, to see, to stand as a beacon of our love for God.’

“Undoubtedly, being here is peaceful—that is alike with nearly all temples—one place I really never mind being alone.

“After Preston today, I felt I couldn’t really connect. I don’t know a whole lot about my British/Mormon ancestry during the 1830s and 40s—my Mom would say I don’t know enough about my ancestry at all!—and so I didn’t feel like anything I saw pertained to me. I thought seeing the River Ribble where the first baptisms of the church in Britain were held was incredible, I loved walking around the town where apostles walked, and I loved going to the little towns in the Ribble Valley where the missionaries taught. The problem was as much as I loved those things, I was far more disturbed that Preston seemed to have demolished a good three-fourths of its history. ‘Such and such was here, but it’s been torn down.’ ‘Such and such was here, oh, but that’s been torn down too.’ I know it’s for the better of the modern city, but it’s worse for those of us who want to see and touch history as it was. I just felt so disconnected from Mormon culture and the enjoyment of Mormon stories and communities.

“I know Miles Standish wasn’t Mormon, but it seems now that finding out he may have been from Chorley, rather than the Isle of Man gave me the link I deemed necessary to make this trip personal and insightful. God has everything in mind, doesn’t he?”

(Click on the picture to load the correct size version--and to read the text.)

DAY THREE: Dove Cottage and Waterfall Hike in Ambleside

2009-10-03T16:41:00.000-07:00

Poetry: “A way of remembering what it would impoverish us to forget.” –Robert Frost

23 September 2009

I am SO behind. It seems like everything has been backed up by two or three weeks. Time just goes by too quickly and there’s never enough time for anything. It seems I spend half of my life waiting for internet to work, and the other half doing homework although that’s an unfair estimation since I only have classes twice a week, so in the grand scheme of things, I’m most certainly out at least two to three times a week. Things are beginning to pile up, though—just like in Provo. It seems that unless you’re a slave to your school work, it piles up no matter what you do.

Day three up North was spent in the Lake District in a town called Ambleside. Our first stop was at Dove Cottage—where Wordsworth lived during his most successful years as a poet. Dove Cottage was built initially as a pub on the main North and South route through Ambleside, and looked out onto the Lake. It was named the ‘Dove and Olive Bough Pub.’ Some of the floors in the cottage are the same floors set down for the pub—easy to distinguish since the floors are smooth stone—easy for cleaning up beer spills. There’s also a little room that the Wordsworth’s used as a refrigerator that in its ‘pub days’ was a Beer store. Water runs underneath the stones to keep the room cool—and it works.

Wordsworth moved to the cottage in 1799 and initially lived with his sister. He decided to move there because he’d grown up in the Lake District with his family before his parents died and he and his sister were separated from each other.

My favorite part of the Dove Cottage was Wordsworth’s writing chair. He hated desks—he thought they were instruments of torture—so he sat on a chair that looked like a combination of a regular wooden dining room dinner chair and a corner stool. The room the writing chair was in was the most beautiful—the natural light streamed into the room through the window that would have once looked out onto the lake (since then, buildings have been built in front of the cottage). I can’t say I know Wordsworth’s work well, or that I know about his life, but I could imagine writing in that room: in that was my connection to him.

After Dove Cottage, Lisa, Sarah and I went on a little hike through Ambleside to this waterfall to do some sketches. The waterfall was defiantly beautiful, but I’ve realized that in all the time I used to spend drawing—I really hate sketching. I don’t know if I’m bad at it because I don’t work at it, or if I don’t work at it because I become so bored while sketching. I’d much prefer to sketch little architectural niches that I find interesting in Cathedrals or on streets than nature.

This brings to mind the month I spent at California College of the Arts taking printmaking and Illustration. I remember my Mom saying something about how she hated that since going there I never drew anymore. At the time I remember her saying something about how she thought I didn’t draw anymore because I thought everyone was so much better than I was, so I just gave it up. I’m sure that’s partially true, because it was more than disheartening to be such a poor artist, surrounded by all these people who loved and were incredible at painting, drawing, or etching. I thought that I loved art, and then it turned out I wasn’t very good. It probably didn’t help that I never received very good feedback in my Illustration class. Printmaking was another story—I loved printmaking and if I could take another printmaking class, I’m pretty sure I’d thoroughly enjoy it. BUT—enough. My point is, I remember sitting there spending all that time doing art for classes, and all I could think about was how badly I wanted to write. I wanted to write. I wanted to write. But instead, I had to sit there and work on an art assignment that I knew no one would find impressive or the least bit interesting. So maybe my Mom was right—but only partially.

Since then, I haven’t found anything I loved more than writing except movies. But, movies and writing can be done together and apart. But more than that, I’ve made a conscious decision that writing isn’t something I want to give up, even though I feel strained here—like I don’t have the freedom to write, and like it wouldn’t matter even if I did. I’m certain I’ll fall back into writing when I have more time, because I still feel the desire to write, I just don’t have the ability to do so—I don’t have the quiet, I don’t have the peace, I don’t have the light. I only hope that the things I’m seeing and experience will fill up my writing well, so to speak, and that I’ll be able to draw on those experiences later.

DAY TWO: Fountains Abbey, York, and the Lake District

2009-09-30T16:52:00.000-07:00

“The very essence of romance is uncertainty.” –Algy (from The Importance of Being Earnest)

Things seem to be slowing down here, and yet going more quickly too. Time is slowing down in the sense that I’m not doing something brand new everyday—although I do have a few firsts—but racing by in the sense that I’ve been here a month on Friday. A month.

Dad—I went to Haagen Dazs with Jackie today. Sometimes there are things I see here—or do here, or eat here—and I just get so homesick wishing you were here (rather than wishing I was there—implying that my family is my home, which I hope is flattering!). This is a silly thing to get homesick over, but this Haagen Dazs was just blissful. 1 scoop of Cookies and Cream, and 1 of Vanilla Caramel Brownie, but everything look amazing and I just thought—they don’t have this at home. Although, maybe next time we go to Disneyland we should check out that Haagen Dazs by Downtown Disney, who knows, maybe it’s worth a try. It was extremely expensive—but SO worth it.

I bought my first piece of clothing in London today, as well. I was with Caitlin Markham and we were on our way to the Hotel Chocolat—for the express purpose of buying chocolate. We were walking towards Hotel Chocolat and we passed a GAP. We both looked in the windows at the ‘up to 50% off’ signs, and then passed it and we both said something like, ‘I love Gap.’ Caitlin turned to me and said, ‘Do you want to go in?’ We had both turned around and the word, ‘Yes’ escaped my lips before I realized what was happening. I left with a 6.99 Oatmeal-Brown Long-sleeve thermal shirt. I know it’s from Gap and not some obscure London shop, but I don’t care. (Prepare for a tangent.) I’m sick of people not wanting to buy or do American things, (or see American movies) simply because they can buy, do, (or see movies) in America. Seeing movies is something I do—I see movies, and I love it. London can’t change that, and never will. Not to mention, I don’t want it to. Seeing movies is a part of who I am and you cannot be a true movie connoisseur if you refuse to see movies while you travel simply because “that can be done in America.” What snobs. (Prepare to be diverted back to original topic.)

The other ‘first’—I spent 7.50 on chocolates from Hotel Chocolat with the intention of it being my first and last time doing so, and with the intention of sending most of it home. I refuse to experience good European chocolate (assuming its good, that is—I haven’t tried each of them yet) alone. I could experience good chocolate with my roommates, but I’d prefer to know what my favorite people think of it. So—once the postal strike is over (yes, postal strike) prepare for some expensive chocolate. Expensive chocolate. (Just wanted to make sure you got that. P.S. Are Rachel and Caitlin reading this, because they sure as heck don’t speak to me over skype or anything, so I’d like to know that they’ve got a clue of what I’m doing out here on this island in the middle of nowhere.)

(Prepare for another tangent.) I need Television. I’m extremely ashamed, I never thought I’d EVER say that. But I was searching for Glee for 4 hours yesterday on the internet and finally gave up because its an American television show that doesn’t stream in the UK. Then today I decided that maybe I could find Robin Hood on the internet since I’m IN the UK, and, alas, the UK doesn’t provide me any free entertainment. IN ADDITION, I can’t get to my ‘Big Wolf on Campus’ store meaning that when I need a ½ hour to 45 minute break, I am reduced to wasting my time TRYING to get facebook to work, which it never does, or TRYING to read my emails, which I never do, or TRYING to post a blog entry, which takes about 3 hours to complete. (Enough of this, tangent—now to my REAL post.)

22 September 2009

[Taken from my green and brown plaid ‘writing’ journal while on the premises of Fountains Abbey.] “I’m not sure where I am in the abbey—an included room Henry VIII’s men forgot to demolish. I thank God for that. Although I do not know how men could be greedy enough to destroy this place, it is more beautiful because of it. The flapping of pigeon’s wings and their cooing gives it the necessary haunt, the wind gives it its loneliness, the green, growing everywhere gives it its submit back to nature, a mystery that intact Cathedrals simply have not had.

“It’s exactly like you can picture in your mind—better than you can imagine, actually. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful. I missed the group photo to be alone in this place—how worth it it was. The missing windows, the high archways, the forgotten tiles, the worn-away steps, and men, running through, tearing away at it all.

“Most of the windows are completely destroyed, but there is one, missing its panes of glass, yes, but almost intact. I moved to sit on the top of a fallen wall so I could look out at the destroyed Abbey longer. The darkness at once is inviting and I can’t help thinking that I could worship God here—in a way I can’t in a still standing Cathedral. You can see where the windows once sectioned, now broken in. I don’t know what to do here—you wish you could keep it in your pocket.

“ ‘You can’t absorb it, can you?’ Sister Paxman asks—the answer in ‘No.’ I’d have to come here five more times to take it in. My mind just blocks it, almost as if to protect itself, and I frantically try to tear downt he wall—because I want to absorb it so badly—let it in to every moment and fiber. The difference is, I believe it now, whereas when I was at St. Paul’s, I didn’t yet. I believe it’s real, which makes it worse that I can’t have it forever. There are places, I suppose you will always look back to—its everyone’s favorite place so far, and for good reason. Dad, you just have to come here if you haven’t been already. Everyday I spend in the countryside is everyday I’m SURE we have to make it here as a family. Even if I have to wait until I’m 82. (You’ll be 114 when I’m 82, so I suggest we do it before then.) If I could, I’d like to addict you to ruined castles and churches the way you wish to visit the California missions.”

Being at the Abbey made me want to write. Write everything—important and unimportant, vast and detailed. It made me want to see a piece of history, and I feel I’m losing a pice of myself here where everyone seems to love everything more than I do, where everyone is so talented, even at the things they don’t consider their “talent,” where everyone has experienced a world of things and I am hardly beginning. Everyone knows more than I do about all the things I’ve ever loved.

But enough. Enjoy these pictures of York and Fountains Abbey. Imagine walking across the stones, up the stairs, crawling over the broken walls, and over the over-grown bridges. Well, go on. Imagine away.

DAY ONE: Bronte Parsonage & York Minster

2009-09-27T16:52:00.000-07:00

"If I must make a fool of myself--it shall be on an economical plan." - Charlotte Bronte [in reference to planning her wedding.]

I have so much to tell you. Unfortunately, homework must be done and requirements must be met. So I’ll try to tell you as much as I can within the time frame I’ve got. Rest assured I’ll do my best to make up for what’s been left unsaid. This post is dedicated to my mother.

21 September 2009.

This week was merely teasing me, letting me look, but never giving me the time to see. I hate going places just to look at them. I want to see them, to feel them, to become acquainted with them in the short time I have. I know that must sound like an awful lot to expect. But I never felt the anger associated with that limitation so strongly as in Haworth at the Bronte home, parsonage and cemetery. Mom, we have to go back—just to walk through the cemetery and down the pathways, and into the church-yard—to really look, not just skim. I know I could pull Rachel and Caitlin down that path. If I addict you to Jane Eyre then maybe—but, I’m getting ahead of myself.

I was so conflicted about our Bronte excursion because at most I’ve read a few Bronte poems, and I’m not even sure which sister wrote them. I felt like I was a waste because I couldn’t really appreciate what I was seeing and what it all meant to be in the home of the Bronte sisters. But then, for the better part of three days, we lobbied to watch the BBC version of Jane Eyre on the screen at the front of the coach. (Dr. Paxman started it and didn’t feel it important to finish it. Needless to say, the 44 females aboard the coach did not agree.) Since the viewing of Jane Eyre, my conflicted feelings regarding visiting the Bronte sisters’ home have, for the most part, been settled. Although I watched the black and white, Joan Fontaine version with Dad earlier this summer—and liked it—I was so impressed with the intricacy and perfection of the storyline, which was undoubtedly better developed and explored in the 4-Episode BBC mini-series.

I think with my Tower of London post, and this post, my morbidity—undoubtedly inherited from my mother (who, when I asked what she wanted me to find or look for while I was in England, said she wanted me to take a picture of the coolest graveyard headstone I could find)—is definitely showing. I hope she appreciates that credit, rather than finding it offensive. I found myself overcome with the desire to walk through that cemetery, and while I did find the time to go through some of it without fearing being left, I wanted more time. P.S. Something I discovered while I was in the St. Paul’s crypt: I have a really hard time standing on top of grave plots where I know someone was buried. It’s gross and very disturbing. (However, this cemetery was far too intriguing to let that irrational fear get the better of me. I was grossed out, and got back onto the pathway as soon as I could, but I stepped into the graveyard for a few great pictures.

The other thing I loved about the Bronte excursion was the church—which I’ll include a picture of. It was beautiful and I wish we’d had time to go inside, because it would have been worth it. However, to be honest, I’m not sure if going inside was an option—it could have been closed. I suppose, since we were only on the premises of the house, cemetery and church for a little under 2 hours, I am content to merely have seen it.

Later that day we visited York Minster, and while I don’t think I have time to write much about that at the moment, I just want you to do a little comparison between the beautiful and quaint parsonage, and this large, ornate and gorgeous Minster.

So, I changed my mind—I was looking at these pictures and I just had to write something about York Minster. York Minster was begun in the 1200s and was built on Roman foundations with the remnants of an older Anglo-Saxon church. Its creation was headed by the Archbishop of York whose sole purpose in building was because he wanted York Minster to be larger than the Canterbury Cathedral. (The Archbishop of Canterbury was his rival—and was a more powerful rival, at that. Obviously a political desire—rather than a spiritual one—only size and money mattered in the building of the Cathedral which ironically enough would later serve its salvation from Henry VIII and the Puritans. Neither closely tied to true Catholicism, nor containing many effigies of Saints, Christ or Mary, it was overlooked by Henry VIII during the country’s desolution from the Catholic church, and the Puritan’s raid and destruction of ‘idols’ in English Cathedrals. This ‘overlooking’ has given York Minster two claims to fame: First, it is the largest Cathedral north of the Alps (meaning only Cathedrals in Italy rival it), and second, it still contains the oldest stained glass windows in the country (some of it from the Norman Cathedrals of 1100, making the glass NINE HUNDRED years old).

Probably what I found most interesting about the York Minster, however, was this: it’s not so hard to look at York Minster and think, “Yes, it’s beautiful—but if you’ve seen one Cathedral, you’ve seen them all.” There is a reason why Cathedrals—and this one in particular—should not be seen merely as ‘stone buildings’ that can be created on a whim. Here it is: in 1220, at the beginning of this stone Cathedral, the homes in York were mud huts.

Let that sink in.

The black and white Tudor-style houses that seem so old and quaint were a hundred and fifty years into the future from the time the Minster was started. People couldn’t even build houses out of wood, or brick, or stone. Think of mud. Think of straw. Think of walking out of a mud hut and looking up to this:

Tower of London

2009-09-19T14:32:00.000-07:00

“To serve God, to endure penance, to obey fate, is to reign.” – Arthur Poole 1564, inscribed into the stone at Beauchamp tower

I’ve wanted to go to the tower of London for as long as I can remember. Specifically, to see the axe and block that chopped off the head of Scottish-born Simon Fraser, Lord Lovat, who, according to family tradition, I’m related to. While Fraser is a family name, Scottish is a family ancestry, and there are family ties to the place where Simon Fraser was born, the specific link has yet to be made. I’m also aware, that being related to Simon Fraser isn’t necessarily something to be particularly proud of, since most times he was ruled by his particular want of power and while it may have made him clever, it never made him “good.”

I know it’s morbid, to want to see where a possible relative not only died, but was executed, but for some reason I feel it gives me a tie to this place.

Well, I saw the axe and the block, and I learned where the saying “laughing your head off” came from: When Lord Lovat put his head down on the block, he was staring straight out at his spectators—suddenly, one of the viewing scaffolding fell, crushing about a twenty people. Lovat declared, “Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,” from Horace (meaning “It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.” He apparently found it hilarious and extremely ironic that these people died, coming to his beheading. He must have been laughing pretty hard for that term to come to use in popular culture—he must have been laughing too hard for them to wait to cut off his head!

Also at the tower of London, in the White tower, was a show casing of Henry VIII’s favorite life-long pastimes and including his knight’s armor from his young adult years, ot the last suit of armor ever made for him. It includes a display of jousting armor and poles—one of his favorite sports, and one that he was exceptionally good at—a tennis ball he used to own (by the way, it was “real” tennis, which is a little different than modern day tennis; it includes the use of the walls.), and many of his hunting instruments. It might interest some to know that he was over six feet tall, extremely fit, and described as very handsome when he was younger. Granted he was the king, so who would have the nerve to call him anything other than handsome—however, his suits of armor attest to the fact that he was both very tall, and very fit. Suits of armor (and everything that goes on underneath them) are over a hundred pounds to wear, and Henry the VIII was very strong and very active. I suspect that his lifestyle required him to eat quite a lot—now of course, when he got his leg wound, which prevented him from being as active as he once was, despite his desire to be so, he never stopped eating the amount he always had—causing him to become the fat man that everyone sees him in pictures as. Unfortunately, the only picture of him as a young man is grossly inaccurate and awful-looking.

Moving on.

I saw the area where Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard were beheaded, the green where Guy Fawkes was questioned, the tower where sixteen-year-old Lady Jane Grey was kept until her beheading, and rooms formerly used for torturing prisoners at the tower—they pulled people apart on the rack, scrunched them up in the Scavenger’s daughter, and suspended them by their wrists from manacles. I saw the bloody tower where Sir Walter Raleigh—navigator and pirate—was kept for thirteen years before being executed, and the Beauchamp Tower, known for the carvings on the wall made by its prisoners—some of them looking like full-on relief sculptures. Can you imagine the loneliness and the insistent desire to do something productive? I also saw the Bell tower where Sir Thomas More was kept by Henry VIII for refusing to acknowledge Henry VIII as head of the church. They’d once been good friends, but church versus state got in the way. This seems to be a common thread between King Henry's and friend Thomas's, if you’ll remember Henry II and Thomas Beckett.

No contest that seeing that axe and block was my favorite part of the visit, but there was something else, something I’m sure I’ll say a thousand more times: It was all the history there—the years of it, stories and facts, stacked up imperfectly with nothing to hold them together, like the mortar-less walls in the countryside. His it nothing is knocked out of place or out of order? Tread lightly, I suppose, the past of too many depend on mere remembrance.

“As virtue maketh life, so sin causeth death.” – Thomas Bawdewin 1585, inscribed into the stone at Beauchamp tower

As You Like It

2009-09-16T14:10:00.000-07:00

"I can live no longer by thinking." -- As You Like It (Act V, Scene 2, Line 53)

So named by Shakespeare who knew it contained the perfect combination of comedy and drama to wholly entertain. And it did; and it does still.

The played production of As You Like It at Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre undoubtedly changed my mind about a lot of things concerning the play as I’d read it, and reminded me that as beautiful as Shakespeare’s words are on the page, they are far more moving as interpreted on the stage. I imagine that the 7:30pm, 14 September 2009 showing of As You Like It at the Globe Theatre was a normal showing for the season, but the company of actors in no way seem to have lost their spunk and dedication to the act.

Scene 1 of Act III is a scene I gave As You Like It little attention. In the copy of As You Like It I own, it takes up exactly one side of a page, and merely consists of Duke Frederick reprimanding Oliver for letting Orlando get away. After reading this short scene, the stage possibilities seemed to dead end. I imagined Oliver and the Duke standing at opposite ends of the stage, the Duke perhaps frustrated and yelling at Oliver, but Oliver retaining his composure as he tries to convince the Duke that finding Orlando is unnecessary, and that his connection to him is in no way strong enough to merit being banished on his account. The Duke seizes Oliver’s land, but more as a warning and a motivation to find Orlando, than a serious attempt to put Oliver out. If it wasn’t a dramatic scene, it didn’t really matter, because after all, it was only half a page.

In Thea Sharrock’s production of As You Like It, Oliver is thrown onto the stage, bloody, his clothes torn, and crying in pain as the Duke lashes at him angrily for being the cause of Orlando’s disappearance. The scene evokes pity for Oliver, despite his cruelty toward his brother Orlando in previous scenes. It is apparent in Sharrock’s interpretation of the scene that the Duke is not only threatening Oliver’s standing in the community by revoking his land and possessions, but is also threatening Oliver’s life, that if Oliver should return without Orlando, the Duke will not hesitate to see him killed. As a member of the audience, it’s impossible to know who made the call to interpret the scene between Oliver and the Duke the way it was presented.

Merely seeing Oliver on stage made him a more important character than he appeared to be on the page, but in my mind, the angry and cruel Oliver on stage was still simply a character who lacked development and intrigue—he merely seemed mean and contentious and stood as a driving force to get Orlando out into the forest so the plot between Rosalind and Orlando could ensue. But the moment Oliver is thrown out onto the stage—bleeding and crying—that perception of him reworks itself and Oliver suddenly becomes a character whose place in As You Like It matters. Judging from Jamie Parker’s repentant depiction of Oliver when Oliver comes to Ganymede to tell ‘him’ of Orlando’s delay, it occurred to me that Oliver’s real change of heart did not occur when Orlando saved him from the lion and the serpent, but instead when his pride was shattered by the Duke Frederick and he escaped into the forest of Arden. The reason we don’t witness Orlando’s saving of Oliver is because it isn’t important—the only purpose of relating it is to give Orlando a chance to witness Oliver’s change of heart; Shakespeare does however show us the point in time where Oliver is being shoved into a state of mind where repentance is possible—that pivotal half-page scene.

In relating Scene 1 of Act III this way, it makes the rest of the play as it relates to Oliver far more believable: that Oliver would even be softened enough to notice Celia with Ganymede, that he would really make amends with his brother, and that he would have a full enough heart to truly love Celia. Perhaps Sharrock had always imagined Oliver beat and bleeding on the stage every time she flipped through the pages of As You Like It. Maybe actor Jamie Parker was searching for some way to expound his character and give Oliver a little more depth. Either way, the alternate viewing of the scene deepened my belief in the story and Oliver’s place in it.

Dover and Canterbury

2009-09-12T16:31:00.000-07:00

“But we’re all agreed; there’s no justice in this world.” –Canterbury Cathedral Tour Guide

The clouds are beautiful here—the sun plays between its layers, skimming over and shining through. It only just woke up from its day-long nap around 17:45, which takes me a few moments to figure out is 5:45. I still haven’t figured out how closely people abide by that clock.

By far, Wednesday 9 September 2009 was the best of all the days I’ve been here so far.

I touched a 1st Century Roman Lighthouse within the walls of Dover, and when I think about it, a part of me still races. The old lighthouse is wearing away, its archways and windows nearly gone it seems, but a few steps around the side and in through its nearly non-existent archway and what it once was is suddenly there again. The sun shines through what’s left of its windows and it never seems so dark—as if what they knew and had was and still is more truth than I’ll ever know. The stone is rough, while I nearly expected it to rub off onto my skin, and I realize—could I matter, my outstretched hand against what so many have undoubtedly touched before me, when what I touch is over 19 centuries old? Just stone—and still it speaks louder than I do.

Dover Castle itself is only slightly less amazing. It was begun by William the Conqueror and was added on to by several Kings after him—bettered and refined for hundreds of years. It was used as a military base until the 1950s—through the Second World War—because of the importance of its strategic placement; meaning that William the Conqueror had it right in the 11th Century. However, the Castle at Dover is therefore not on the whole quite as old or out of disrepair as its accompanying Roman lighthouse, having only been out of use for about 60 years. This said with a bit of cynicism, I suppose, because no one has ever cared about anything so long in America to refine it for the better part of ten centuries, still realizing its importance to the cause of a nation. Of course, we haven’t yet had that chance, and—to be fair—our legacy is not the same and never will be the same as the British.

I sat on the beach at Dover on sand-colored rocks, the white cliffs of Dover to my left, the English Channel at my feet, and France within view. The water both threatening and tempting; somehow, no matter where you are, the beach is a little bit like home. The dock was windy and reminded me of San Francisco. It doesn’t make me miss home, but it makes me miss my family; you would all love it here. It’s odd having vacation without you.

Canterbury is another place that was built upon and bettered and rebuilt for longer than America has been in existence: six hundred years, from 1070 to 1670, the Cathedral at Canterbury was improved upon. Henry II left somewhat of a legacy at Dover as he added on to much of the Castle—he was the great grandson of William the Conqueror, so it was fitting—because it was his work at Dover that left the Castle as something recognizable. Henry the II is known for other things as well, however, such as the “scandal” at Canterbury. And since I didn’t know this story before a few months ago, I will enlighten those of you who know little about English history.

(NOTE: Some parts of the story may be dramatized for the mere effect of storytelling.) In A Knights Tale Heath Ledger and his crew come upon Geoffrey Chaucer—NAKED—on the side of the road. Chaucer claims that he could be an amazing author, if only he had the chance and inspiration. Geoffrey Chaucer finds his inspiration, of course, in the story of Thomas Beckett—the murdered archbishop of Canterbury—and the tales of those who make their pilgrimage to the site of his murder.

Henry II, the King of England, was good friends with Thomas Beckett; in fact their friendship was widely known as they were both learned and enjoyed each other’s company. Knowing that Beckett was interested in the church, Henry II offered him the calling of Archbishop of Canterbury, also knowing that having a friend in the “lofty” position would provide Henry II more power within the church.

Becket accepted the appointment gladly, but a funny thing happened during his time in Canterbury—he was converted more fully to the church and little by little, Henry II and Thomas developed differing opinions about how church and state should be run. Becket wanted church courts to have ultimate power over crimes committed in the church, while the King wanted royal courts to hold that power (thereby gaining financially from those crimes). This difference in opinion ended the friendship they both had treasured.

Here is where the legend and story begins to differ—but I prefer the version of the story the tour guide at Canterbury told: While Henry was on holiday in France, surrounded by his knights, he is reported to have said something to the effect of “Will no one rid me of this problem?” referring to Beckett and his heavy opposition to the royal courts having precedence over church crimes. The knights decided to do just that—“rid the King of the problem.” The Knights confronted Beckett, asking him to back down on his opposition, but Beckett refused and sought refuge in the Cathedral at Canterbury. The priests of the cathedral began to bar the doors as the knights prepared to storm the Cathedral, but Beckett refused the barring of the Church, telling the priests that they weren’t to deny anyone entry. Beckett’s refusal to submit to the Kings will moved the Knights to murder; the followed Becket into the cathedral and—for lack of a better word—butchered Thomas Beckett.

According to our tour guide at Canterbury, the King never intended for Beckett to be murdered, and by no means was asking for that when he asked to be “rid of the problem” Thomas Beckett created. My feelings toward Henry II were more at peace then. I prefer believing this over the alternative, because as I stood at Dover, and read the other version of the story—the version that stated Henry II meant for Beckett to be killed so he could get his way regarding church policy—it occurred to me that a man would have to go a long way down the wrong road to have his best friend so brutally murdered. I’d prefer not to believe that about any man.

Needless to say—no matter which version of the story you believe—Beckett was made a Saint for holding firm to his beliefs. People believed that simply by being in Canterbury near Thomas Beckett, they could be saved and forgiven of their sins. The hilt of the sword that killed him was made into a shrine that was kept at Canterbury until Henry VIII desolved the Catholic churches in England. Now there is a stone with Thomas carved into the floor in blood-red—a stone that you can’t really believe Thomas was killed on. A blood stain would be more convincing. But—with a story like that, we can’t have everything, can we?

London; Wed thru Sat--"Unity and Faith, Peace and Progress"

2009-09-09T15:13:00.000-07:00

“It is my understanding that the Constitution of the United States allows everybody the free choice between cheesecake and strudel.” – Sky Masterson in “Guys and Dolls”

I arrived in London about 2:15pm on Wednesday, September 2nd. Heathrow was a mess. I don’t want to discuss that any further, because if I can make myself forget how much I utterly hate airports, maybe I’ll be brave enough to keep traveling. Needless to say, taking the Dot2Dot service was loads better than the alternative: the tube.

Don’t get me wrong—in just about a week I feel like the tube is about the easiest thing there is. All the same, luggage + London + foreigner + tube = disaster. Just like that.

Our first excursion out, after getting all our stuff packed away and attending an orientation was on Thursday. We went to the British Museum and the National Gallery on Trafalgar Square. Here are some more postcard pictures. The experience was like so:

“Um . . . so we want you to go to the British Museum and the National Gallery. We want you to look at the Rosetta Stone, and a few paintings. Get off at the Tottenham Court tube stop, and go down the street until you see it. It shouldn’t be too hard. Then when you get out of the British Museum, walk down the street a little ways, you’ll see the National Gallery.”

Right.

Here on Trafalgar Square was where I had my first “I’m in London” experience. Until the moment when I was on Trafalgar Square and looked up and saw Big Ben, it felt more like I was in another part of the States, than in another country. I still don’t feel like I’m as far away from home as I am. So far, I think that’s a great thing—very little culture shock as of right now. But for some reason, because Big Ben is so obviously not something that would exist in America, and because it’s such a epitomizing symbol of London and the UK, it was when it first felt like I was somewhere completely different.

On Friday, we had all of our classes for ½ hour Introductions—and then we got to doing some homework: Walks around London. Julene, Lisa, Brooke and I went on ½ of the “Seats of Power” Walk. When we got off the tube at Westminster, we looked up.

Up close and personal. Actually—an interesting point I didn’t know before—Big Ben is a reference to the bell inside the tower—not the tower itself. However, since the bell can’t be seen, the entire tower is commonly referred to as “Big Ben.”

Here are several more pictures of some awesome buildings on the “Seats of Power” walk, which included Whitehall, Victoria Embankment, Parliament Square, Great George Street, Abington, and Pall Mall. These pictures were taken on Friday and on Tuesday (when we did the second half of the walk). I know it’s a lot, so just look at them and humor me. Because this stuff is killing me.

I’ll tell you why.

I love architecture. There’s no point in explaining any further. I know I’m not smart enough to create it, or to understand it. I know I’m not opinionated enough about it to critique it, or even praise it. I just love looking up.

Back track just a bit; on Saturday Julene and I went to St. Paul’s, mostly because I’d gotten an email from my Dad the second or third day in London that said something to the effect of: “If you’re still feeling down, go to St. Paul’s—it’ll remind you why you’re in London.” So I made plans to go—and Saturday it happened. Julene and I loved it; every time we turned around we had to take another picture, so these three pictures here are not at all representative of all the pictures I took that afternoon. A new perspective required a new picture. It was awful, and wonderful at the same time.

We couldn’t take pictures inside, but we did go inside and it was gorgeous and gigantic.

After St. Paul’s Julene and I went down Ludgate Hill to a little pub called “Ye Olde London” and had Fish & Chips. I was necessary. I thought I’d add this picture because I’ve gotten so many facebook comments about it. I guess it’s a common custom to include minted, mashed, mushy peas with Fish and Chips in London, and they did. Well, I already have a hard time with peas, so these Mx3 peas were . . . for lack of a better term, worse. I got some on the end of a “chip” and decided to try it. Never again. Never again. But the Fish & Chips were good!

After lunch, Julene and I walked across the Thames on the Millennium Bridge—also known as the bridge destroyed in Harry Potter #6. I think the picture I took here of the Millennium Bridge, which I left un-edited is the best picture I’ve taken in a LONG time. Why not just LOOK at those clouds?

We saw Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre, and walked around one of the galleries at the Tate Modern Museum.

I’ll be more thought provoking in the future. But I just wanted to get Wednesday-Saturday down on paper . . . or, blog. Here it is. Forgive my dislike of people in my pictures. Forgive my dislike of myself in pictures. I’ll endeavor to be better about such things. No promises it’ll get better straight away.

"Damned if you do; Bored if you don't."

2009-08-30T21:51:00.000-07:00

“No asides!” – David Melville as Stefano in Shakespeare’s The Tempest

I’ve done everything I wanted to do in preparation for my trip to London except see Jake, get a few pounds in cash from the bank, and buying a few last minute things from Target. I’ve figured out my banking and my phone, I’ve gotten a coat, a plug adapter & converter, a new pair of jeans, I’ve paid my $132 infraction ticket (for wearing my seatbelt under my arm), gone to a farewell lunch with my coworkers, made a cheesecake—while seeing both Emily and Josh—and spent the last two days editing all of my San Francisco pictures from July Vacation.

Honestly, I can’t believe that I’ll be in London in 3 days, but I don’t feel much of anything about it. That’s okay with me, but I’m glad there’s no one to ask me if I’m excited anymore. The more people ask, the less excited I become. I don’t let myself get excited about anything except Star Wars, Smallville and when my baking doesn’t go askew. I know that seems like a really short list, but in my limited experience (and relatively low expectations of both Star Wars and Smallville due to the fact that they are what they are, and that’s good enough for me) you just can’t be disappointed in Tom Welling, inter-galactic traveling, or chocolate. (Not that I only bake with chocolate—that cheesecake was peanut-butter—but it sounded good that way.)

So, now—for the moment you’ve been waiting for. Pictures and little explanation about—you know—San Francisco. (PLEASE--Click on the pictures to see them at their CORRECT size. Please. They're meant to be viewed correctly, not all squished up.)

Thursday, Day 1 in SF started at 4pm at the Academy of Sciences. An entire rainforest habitat was recreated in a sphere—I know there’s a technical name for it, but I refuse to look it up—with birds, frogs, butterflies and fish practically right out in the open, and snakes, bugs, and reptiles in smaller show-cases.

Right across the way are the remnants of the CA Mid-winter International Exposition, which took place in 1894—which I love. The fountains were empty, due to California’s water shortage, I’m sure, and the once-beautifully carved intricacy of their wells has gone to good use for skate boarders who have nothing better to ruin than something that’s over a hundred years old. I’m not bitter, I’m not.

I suppose you could count it all as becoming a part of life and the currency of things. The half dome was gorgeous, and like everything old, had an incredible haunt to it, like old faded-out band music, or far-off laughter. The Mid-winter Exposition, of course, was an incredible attempt at creating something mildly related to the extremely successful Chicago Exposition—which of course was much faker than our beautiful half-dome that’s been there for 100 years. No, it wasn’t made out of chicken wire and plaster—we Californian’s may be gaudy but we aren’t insincere, which is why this California Exposition is so much more beautiful.

Day 2, Friday was full. We went on the Bay Cruise, which besides being an extremely tourist-y thing to do, was very enjoyable. We hadn’t done it before, and saw a lot of view of the city that you don’t get otherwise. Such as the view of San Francisco:

The Golden Gate Bridge:

And of course the backside of Alcatraz, which is my favorite post-card looking picture to-date.

I apologize for the overly post-card looking-ness of these pictures but I was trying out a lot of things with editing and Photoshop. Plus, I can’t help it, but I love vibrant colors. Alcatraz, of course, has that similar haunt as the Mid-winter Exposition, but I think more people can feel it there, which is why so many people are interested in it. Something about some of the greatest criminals of the last century, the attempted escapes, the freezing waters, the island quality that’s so close to shore it might drive a person crazy to see San Francisco across the bay.

Another picture from the Bay Cruise: I hope it is amusing for those of you who are familiar with Rachel.

Also on Friday, we went to Pier 39, walked from Pier 39, all the way through China Town to Union Square (which was a good and rather long, walk) where we did some shopping (or I did). And last was Ghirardelli—our only NECESSARY stop whenever we go to San Francisco.

Day 3. Saturday. By far the busiest day. Legion of Honor was first. Beautiful of course, but I would have much more enjoyed the DeYoung Museum which has one of the greatest collections of American Art with some of my favorite American artists from the early 19th Century. Legion of Honor was a lot of British, Dutch, and German artwork. I enjoyed it, but it’s hard not know the history behind a piece of art. You just don’t get as much out of it. The building though—was magnificent.

And we come up to my favorite part of the journey: Point Bonita and Fort Point.

First the Battery Bunker where I found an old adage that I found endearing. It was graffitied on inside of the wall inside the room of the bunker seen here. “Damned if you do; Bored if you don’t.” There’s something so intriguing and smart about the saying—and it just adds character when its graffiti. It’s like they know what they’re doing is wrong, but there’s really nothing better to do than defile an old military battery bunker. I mean, who thought? It’s part of its charm, I suppose that the metal is corroding, the windows are holes in the wall, the unlit battery holding areas are screaming to be explored and the concrete stairs lead to a view of the entire bay.

There’s a picture of Caitlin too—one of the best pictures I’ve ever taken of her. However, on the way to Point Bonita Caitlin and I also did a photo shoot of sorts in between some of the pictures I took on the trail up to Point Bonita.

There you are. And since I made such a giant deal about Point Bonita—having taken so many pictures just to get there, and beautiful ones might I say—here is Point Bonita herself—the Lighthouse. My family has a thing about going to lighthouses. I think it’s the haunted quality again.

Now, these following pictures really don’t do justice to Fort Point in the least. I love it there; the feeling is greater than anywhere else, that lonely and lively feeling of history. Built during the Civil War, when the Union wasn’t sure of what it was spending its money on, a lot of bunkers and forts and barracks were built in San Francisco. You can just imagine the camaraderie between all the men with giant beards that make them look 20 years older than they are. The empty rooms long to be remembered as they were before they were empty, the pictures wish for a story beneath them. And yet, all we see is the lonesome past of something that was, and is no more. Ah, forgotten history. The day-to-day things that we forget to write down. Not what happened, but how it happened, more importantly why it happened. And how it felt.

After Fort Point we went walking on the old concrete pier. It looks abandoned and boarded up, but people are still there fishing. It was windy, and cold, and so peaceful.

Sunday, Day 4 wasn’t really spent in San Francisco. We left that morning. But, as a small summary closing we stopped by the San Luis Obispo Mission. I suspect it’s a quiet and secret desire of my father’s (yet, not so secret) to someday make it to every California Mission. So here’s another docked off the list. And to another summer of memories.

Now, to connect and close up. Yesterday we went to Barnsdale Park Independent Shakespeare to see The Tempest. Since I depart to London—and to study Shakespeare, no less—I also am pressed to remember what a Yale Professor of the Civil War said: “History is not only the story, but the reason why.” This is my venture as a lover of history—to have an opinion on the reason why, preferably a right one. But the world has little want of historians, and rarely ever has. And so . . . I’ll have to find another way to employ myself.

I was thinking postcard maker.

Maybe it's just time to move on.

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

“Sometimes in our lives, we all have pains, we all have sorrows. But, if we are wise, we know that there’s always tomorrow. Lean on me, when you’re not strong and I’ll be your friend, I’ll help you carry on. For, it won’t be long, till I’m gonna need somebody to lean on.” – Bill Withers “Lean On Me”

I’ve never known tired the way I did in High School. I have never been so tired than my Senior Year in High School. I look at myself then and realize how close I was to giving up. I wonder how much longer I could have dealt with that life without folding. But then again—that was High School.

Since that time, when I was so emotionally close to not going to college, to closing up my heart, to fading into the background, I’ve met 3 of the best friends I’ve ever had. I’ve learned what it means to be away from home. I’ve learned what it means to be responsible for myself. My feelings for school have turned around drastically. My appreciation for my sisters and parents has deepened, and my love for God and Christ has expanded. But mostly, the sense of who I am, has been scrambled, mixed and destroyed. In High School I knew who I was. I haven’t a clue anymore.

Although I’m glad I got away from High School, there are a lot of things I miss. Not that I wish College was the same, but that I wish I could have what I had then: seeing everybody in the hallways between classes, getting hugs in the morning, saying goodbye in the Great Hall before going home, knowing that people knew me, that they trusted me. I trusted myself.

I miss the friends I had, how they kept me tied down to reality. I miss the relationships we had, how they saw me as a real person, rather than someone they could no longer relate to. That is the truth, isn’t it? No one really thinks I can relate to what they’re going through—and even if I could, would I want to? Who knows what the answer to that question is. All I know is that I’m a million miles away from every friend I ever had, and now I sit in my co-workers office and think that maybe he’s the only one who appreciates who I am at this moment.

Which brings me to another thought: what if we have different friends at different times in our life, as we change, merely so we can change? I think I’ve had two friends who’ve let me change within their friendship—they were constantly reassessing who I was from day-to-day, and that let me change, and that let us grow as friends. One of them I feel is still that way although she’s two states away and married (thereby having a different best friend). The other I feel has given up on me, he’s given up trying and now he thinks we’re too different to ever be the way we were. For that reason, I sometimes feel I have no one. And I guess I’ll always be searching for a friend who’s willing to let me change.

I imagine a lot of people feel that way though—sometimes we feel like others don’t understand us because we don’t understand ourselves. If we can’t even put in words what our feelings are, or what’s been weighing us down, how can we expect others to understand those things? If we can’t even relate to ourselves, how could others relate to us? And if we’re in limbo—transitioning between two worlds—how do we decide which we belong to, when secretly we wish to belong to both, but don’t have that choice? You just belong nowhere, and that’s its own sort of lonliness.

After seeing Julie & Julia—which is incredible, by the way, so go see it—my mom and I were talking about the character of Julia Child, how she was quirky and odd but so comfortable with herself that it made her absolutely lovable. I was thinking about that conversation later and I realized, I’m not comfortable with myself at all. I’m not comfortable with who I am. There are two parts of that: in one way it’s good because it makes us more willing to change and be better, but in the other way—the way I’m talking about—it’s bad, because if you can’t accept yourself for who you are, neither can anyone else.

I’m not comfortable with how I see myself, mostly because while I love that I can’t pin myself to a stereotype, it’s hard for me to decide what and who I am concerning the way I look, the things I enjoy doing, the person I want to be, the sorts of things I want to do. I’m such an awful blend of a lot of things. Some people would say that was a good thing, but I can’t see anything.

Maybe this, too, has a purpose in God’s grand scheme. Whatever it is, I don’t like it. Let’s move on. Maybe that’s what’s going on, here. I just have to let myself move on. Forget everything that’s held me back all this time. Cynthia and the way I feel I failed her. Emily and the way I feel she won’t be happy unless she gets out. Jake and the way I feel I’m losing him. Steven and the way I feel I’ve already lost him. Zach, Joseph, Josh, Dylan, and the way I feel they’ll forget who I ever was. Marissa and the way I feel that she is and has been everything I wish I could be. Colleen and the way I feel that she deserves to be happy if anyone in this world does. Janice and the way I feel that I can’t let her forget me.

It holds me back from doing anything, from being anyone. And as much as I don’t want to forget them—and that would be hard to do—I can’t let those feelings be real when I’m my own person. People come into your life to show you who you are, and what you want to be, and even what you don’t want to be. But they’re there for a reason. But more importantly you’re there for a reason. If you’re you—if you’re really you—then you can teach them the world. You can show them the love they never had, the faith they never believed possible, the care they’ve always deserved, the fun they’ve been waiting for. If you’re you—if you’re comfortable with yourself—all those quirks and oddities will make the difference because when you’re real, nothing else matters. I say this because I believe it in the realest sense possible. I believe it because people have helped me know things about myself, even when I feel as unstable as I do.

The reason any of this came up is because tomorrow is Rachel’s last real day of summer. She’s beginning High School next Monday, and Thursday and Friday she has orientation. So it got me thinking about High School and how I’m holding on to everything I never had. All the things that weren’t really real, and all the things that still aren’t real, because how could they be when I don’t know who I am?

So, I guess this is goodbye to High School. It took me two years to let go.

I guess this is goodbye to living with the 3 best friends I’ve ever had. Dinners and girls’ nights will have to be enough from here on out.

I guess this is goodbye to the person I’ve never really been.

That’s okay with me. I’ll come around eventually.

Here’s to accepting that I don’t need to know everything right now.

Tacks and Tulle; Recipe for Laughter

2009-07-28T14:15:00.000-07:00

“In a place like this, your mind slips sideways.” -- Caroline Dester (Enchanted April)

I’ve been meaning to post this since Marissa's wedding, but something kept me back. I still don't know what it is.

"I've been searching for something to write about for days. Usually it’s hard to say anything when there seems so much to be said—none of it chronological.

"Last Tuesday I turned 20. Despite by best efforts to convince myself it’d be an awful day, it turned out to be better than average, which I prefer to "out-of-this-world," because those days don't exist, nor are they real.

"I had a hard time with 20 because it seems nothing you do is quite as incredible when you’re in your 20s and I didn’t want to leave my teens without having something to show for it. But the truth is, this first week of being 20 has been important. I can’t believe it hasn’t even been an entire week.

"Although I had a bad outlook on 20, there are things I want to do.

"I want to write something quaint; I want to write a story that means something to people. Something that mends people, something that makes people think, something that gives them hope, something that inspires them to be better than they are.

"I want to get out of this routine, this rut, this inability to expand my personality—who I am, what I will do, who I will be. There are good things, things I don’t want to change about myself, but I limit myself too, and I think that’s unnecessary.

"Lastly, I’ve always wanted to travel. Whenever I told someone, the response would be, “Yeah, me too”—as if it weren’t really possible. But I’ve always felt that experience was necessary to the person I want to be.

"I recently watched Enchanted April with my Dad. It’s about four women who rent out a castle in Italy for the month of April. Before the month begins, none of them know each other well. Lottie and Rose are married women, but living miserable and loveless lives with their husbands. Caroline is a rich and gorgeous “social butterfly,” who had lost her beaux in the war (World War I) and is sick of men. The last woman, Mrs. Fisher, is a widow who focuses on her age as a limiting factor of life, and who is very decided on how her life can be lived. They’ve got their heartbreaks—all different; all unique—that need to be mended in some way. Italy does just that.

"Sometimes we recognize our “heartbreak” early on and we know just the sorts of things that will cure it; that will fill up the gap. It doesn’t mean that nothing else makes us happy, or that nothing brings us joy. Heartbreak isn’t always about people. Sometimes it’s about what worries us, or about what hurts: opportunities lost, experiences given up on, insecurities; endless questions—anything.

"My cure is writing. I discovered that everything inspired me—movies, books, music, places, people, experiences, feelings—and that everything made me want to sit down and write. Characters would sprout out of nothing, and it became easier to look at my insecurities and fears objectively when other “people” were dealing with them too. When they had to work through them, I began to get to the root of my hopes and beliefs. I have resolved some of my most troubling issues that way, over years and years (I can say that, now that I’m 20) of writing.

"So why share it with others? Because it did me so much good. What if there is one thing I can say, one thing that helped me, that will help someone else?

"Well, this is an on-going thing. Turning 20 hasn’t changed that. This last week hasn’t changed that.

"This Thursday I flew to the Seattle airport for Marissa’s wedding. My Aunt and Uncle picked me up and took me out to lunch. We talked for a couple of hours. Uncle Keith is so much like Dad. Aunt Chris is so open and talkative and inclusive. Between the two of them, being away still feels like home.

"They took me to Marissa’s house where I stayed until Colleen and Janice landed in Seattle airport and were driven back to Auburn. I got to talk with both Marissa and Carson. Carson and I talked about what we always talk about—how the country is going down the tube. It was nice to have one last conversation with him like that—it felt like being back in our apartment. Marissa was tired and busy—she’s different already. But I knew that would happen.

"Being with Janice and Colleen was everything I hadn’t imagined. I haven’t had a better weekend with friends. Thursday night we spent the night helping set up the gym for the reception, assigned to attaching backdrops to wooden frames. We were tired, but together. Mix that with tacks, ladders, wire, linen, tulle and three perfectionist-driven girls and you’ve got yourself a recipe for too much laughter. Needless to say, the wooden frames with linen and tulle draped over the front was slow-going, but beautiful.

"Meagan, a friend of Marissa and Colleen’s who stayed with the four of us girls in Utah for a couple weeks during the school year (and by association became both my and Janice’s friend as well) came to spend the night with Colleen, Janice and I. We slept outside on the trampoline with massive amounts of sleeping bags, blankets, pillows and cuddling to keep warm.

"Friday was the wedding. We tried getting to the temple by 10:30 but got lost in Bellevue, stopped for breakfast—while lost—and finally found the temple about 11:30, just fifteen minutes before Marissa and Carson came out of the temple. As Marissa is one of nine children, there were an insane amount of people there: including adults and children of all ages. Then we—the bridesmaids—were standing off in the corner somewhere trying not to be in the way.

"We spent all day Friday taking pictures, going to the luncheon, taking pictures, being at the reception, standing in the receiving line, eating, talking, hugging, talking about how we couldn’t believe Marissa was married. We’d say it, and then realize it. But it still hasn’t really sunk in. Maybe it never will, maybe it’ll just fade, like everything else. But it was a weekend of firsts.

"First time I ever went to a friend’s wedding. First time a friend was ever married. First time I ever flew into Seattle airport—alone, for that matter. First time a bride’s maid.

"Friday night, after Marissa and Carson left, the four of us girls rushed to the lake in our bride’s maid dresses. As night fell, we sneaked past the park guard’s house and plunged into the lake in our dresses. Our reasoning: when else would we ever be able to do it? The water was warmer than we expected, so we took off the heavy dresses and unnecessary petticoats and slopped them over the edge of the deck. We needed to keep our minds off of the fact that in just a few hours we’d be separated again—and this time for over a solid year—so we swam in the cold lake, glad we were ending the night doing something 'out of the ordinary.'

--

"I may have to go back to work (and my routine) on Monday, but I planned something else for 20: London for 3 ½ months; Italy for a week. I was in the shower, thinking about where Colleen, Janice and I should live the next Fall when I remembered something my Humanities teacher said about the London Study Abroad for Fall Semester deadline being pushed forward, giving prospective appliers more time to apply. That was it. I looked everything up, called Home, got the “go,” I applied, I interviewed, I was accepted, I’m going.

"I hope this will be the first step to feeling more comfortable traveling on my own—to anywhere. It’s incredibly selfish to feel as though I’ve got the right not to let anything tie me down. Anyway, being “tied down” is so derogatory, and at this point in my life, the people who matter most are my parents and sisters. I will always go back to them, no matter where I am. When I decide to routine, it’ll be because I want something else more than this. And that decision will come, in time—when it’s right. Right now, this is right.

--

"Between Marissa’s marriage, and my decision to study abroad in London in the Fall, it’ll be a while before the four of us girls get together again.

"But you know, that’s life. We can’t control time, no matter how much we want to. We can’t turn it forward. We can’t clock it back. If we want out of a routine we have to break it. If we want heartbreak mended we have to set aside time for the one thing that that will cure it. But maybe all the things that have (or haven’t) happened in the year of 19 were to get me uncomfortable enough to change, lonely enough to leave, and ready enough to get out. At least I know I won’t be that person who doesn't know where their life has gone.

"And so far, year 20 is off to a good start"

To go, or to stay

2009-07-22T17:51:00.000-07:00

“Candy might be sweet but its traveling carnival blowing through town. Pie is home. People always come home.” –The Pie Maker “Pushing Daisies” Season 1 Episode 8

It’s getting so close, I can feel it.

I’m still waiting on my passport. I don’t have a trench coat, black boots, or a power converter. I still have no clue how I’ll survive for 4 months on 2 suitcases, or how I’ll fit 6-10 books, 4-5 pairs of shoes, at least 2 weeks worth of clothes, curling iron, make-up etc, drawing pads, art supplies (courtesy of Hum 202), laptop, and entertainment into those 2 suitcases. Knowing I can do it doesn’t stop me from feeling baffled and slightly overwhelmed. I am the type to try to take everything with me, but I’m also the type to be reasonable—I know I can’t. I can treat it like a prolonged vacation. I can try to treat it like a prolonged vacation.

I’m still in vacation mode, so it’s easy to think about London. Every time Caitlin or I see something with blue and white stripes we nickname it “sailor.” So I bought sailor pants while in San Francisco. I also bought a white button-up shirt that looks casual in its nicety. I wore both to work Monday, buttoning up the shirt only half-way so my sand-colored camisole showed through. Somehow, it still makes me feel like I’m by the ocean. I curled my hair, because that helps too. If I can imagine the ocean isn’t too far, somehow everything feels slower, and more peaceful and work is more bearable. It’s funny how the ocean does that to most people. I don’t know how anyone can live out in the middle of the desert their whole life and remain sane.

I know I’ve been complaining about work a lot to friends and family, so I want to be clear that I’m extremely grateful I have a job. What’s hard for me is seeing Rachel and Caitlin sleeping in their blue-lit room in the mornings when I have to get dressed. I wish I were sleeping too. What’s hard for me is knowing that its summer and I can’t spend time during the day with Rachel and Caitlin, and I can’t spend the days writing, and I can’t have time to myself. What’s hard for me is knowing I’ve got London to look forward to, but feeling guilty that I should be glad I’m home. What’s hard for me is knowing where the line is while I’m living at home—what am I supposed to do for myself and what can I relinquish to my family? What’s hard for me is transitioning from childhood to adulthood.

It’s not a clean transition when you’re still living at home. When you’re planning to leave the country but your father is paying for 68% of the expenses until you have the chance to pay him back. When you don’t have a car or a drivers license (I don’t need any comments about this, I know its lame). When pretty much everything you own, you own because your parents bought it for you (whether a gift or not). When they pay for your phone. For your food. For your entertainment. For everything you use. When you wonder if they really enjoy having you back, or if they never questioned it because you’re their daughter. But most of all, it’s not a clean transition when everything they do for you would be impossible to do entirely on your own. At 20, I should have learned how to live with less.

So can I admit that I’m grateful, that I know I have things that others don’t have, and then move on with it? Of course not, I have to suffer over it a little. Or a lot. We’ll see how far this thing goes, for now it’s just hard. The difference is this: year one at college just felt like I was living away from home for 8 months. Year two felt like I had moved out. So being back in feels like I’m leeching, rather than simply living at home.

Well as someone would say, “There’s a time and a place. This will pass.” After all, I’m not married. I haven’t got a salaried job. I don’t have children. And I really do come home to be with my family. So there are things you give up, there are things you take. That’s life. As long as you try to give more than you take; maybe that’s the problem—sometimes I don’t feel I give anything by being home, that all I ever do is take.

But, when I made a comment about not coming home, or going to school early after London, Caitlin got slightly upset. Apart from that, both Rachel and Caitlin are conscious about telling me they’re glad I’m home. As long as just one person shows they care, I’ll keep coming back. As long as I remain an integral part of the family, that isn’t forgotten, that isn’t replaced, I’ll keep coming back. I’ll always come back.

It’s good to leave home. But everyone comes home eventually.

Irrational Adults Discuss Time

2009-07-08T09:50:00.000-07:00

"Half our life is spent trying to find something to do with the time we have rushed through life trying to save." - Will Rogers

Let's take it for granted that although I am technically an adult, because I don't feel like one (and nor do any of the reasonable people I know), when I refer to 'adults' I only refer to those people who think they know better because somehow their age has made them smarter than the rest of us. (Of course the idea that age can make anyone smarter than someone else is bosh--its experience, faith, and knowledge that does that.)

If there is one thing an adult has said that has changed my life and the way I think, its that 'Time flies.' I remember hearing it when I was in elementary school, and I remember thinking 'What a load of balogna. The days are SO long.' (To be honest, I probably couldn't spell 'balogna' in elementary school, but you get the idea.) Of course, I didn't mind the days being long then. But as time has gone on, the days have indeed become shorter.

I can't remember when it was that I decided to begin noticing the days pass. I was certian that if I took note to the time of day, remembered to feel the difference of temperature from hour to hour, watched to see when the plants were tricked into thinking it was spring, kept the blinds open to notice the colors and shadows the sun cast across my room, I would live a longer life, and remember it as something sweeter. I think that's true--I have better memories of those months I paid special attention to over the ones I let pass away without a thought.

But it's not about JUST noticing the days, it's about doing something with them. I decided then that I didn't want any single day to be like that last. Even if the only difference from day to day was that I spent dinner with a friend, or I laid out in the sun for an hour, or I watched a movie I'd never seen before, as long as it gave me a memory I'd never be able to relive, it'd be different.

Since making that decision, it's become harder and harder a rule to live by. Especially now, with my job. Everyday, from 8 to 4:30, is the same. I sit in a cubicle, and never see the sun. I come in, leaving the 8 o'clock morning sun, and come out to greet the 5 o'clock afternoon sun. I'd have some consolation if I enjoyed my work, but I don't particularly. I do enjoy the people I work with which is why I feel its my responsibility to stay. So I convince myself that these 4 months aren't about living--they're about earning money so living will be possible.

One problem. You can't go on and off on life like that--be miserable now so you can be happy later. Or be happy now and pay for the consequences later. It's about finding a balance. And this is what I've been thinking about lately.

So here's my problem--the experience that makes me angry enough to write it down: Adults have always said 'Time flies.' So I took it to heart. I thought 'I am NOT getting to year 30, only to realize that I squandered years 1 through 29.' But now I'm at year 20, thinking seriously about what I want to do with life and adults are telling me 'Stop worrying. You have plenty of time.'

. . .

If that contradition doesn't make your blood boil, let me explain why it does mine. First of all--WHO is worrying? Who is freaking out? Not me. Thinking seriously about something doesn't even imply that I'm freaking out just because I don't have an ironclad, bulletproof, and foolproof plan. It just means I'm thinking about it.

Second--I've watched people realize that years have gone by in a space of time that felt like mere moments. Sometimes making decisions takes years. People are 30 before they realize they wanted to be married by 25. People are married for 5 years before the realize they wanted to begin having a family 2 years ago. People are 40 before they realize that they never did anything to make their dreams realized. It DOESN'T mean they led meaningless lives--ALL IT MEANS is that time flies.

So I'm thinking seriously about my future because there is so much I want to do. If I wait until I'm 30 to BEGIN doing the things I want to do, or seeing the things I want to see, it just won't happen. By the time your 30 you've got a thousand responsibilities, children, debt, and a steady job. Those are good things; don't get me wrong. And it won't be the end of my world if I'm on my deadbed and wasn't able to do EVERY single thing on my list of 'Things to do before I die' but I want to know that I did what I could to see the world, to experience life, and to come closer to God. I want to know that I didn't squander years 1 through 29--in my own way, on my own terms.

So I'm going to think about things now--right now, while I still have the time to change the things I'm not happy with, save money for things I'm not willing to let slip away, accomplish the things I think will make the world a better place, and feel the things that will make me a better person. And if that bothers you because it took you 29 years to get where I am today, don't tell me I have time.

You can't wait for life to happen to you.

Isn't that something else adults say?

Milkshakes at 10:30

2009-05-24T14:31:00.000-07:00

Isn't that so like us?

"Milkshakes at 10:30" is perhaps the best phrase I can think of to epitomize my three roommates and I (Colleen, Marissa and Janice were my roommates sophmore year of college). But further than that, it's this trait I have--to fit things into the cracks of life because the day is just never long enough.

I thought of "Milkshakes at 10:30" when Marissa and I were doing our apartment year-end, move-out cleaning for cleaning checks and we decided to have milkshakes in what seemed to us the dead of night. We both had relatively early classes and liked to be in bed by 10. In reality, that night, it was probably 11 or 11:30 since we'd been up cleaning. But every girl knows that Milkshakes at 10:30--while a great idea for morale--is an awful idea for our figures. But it was the end of the year, we didn't care, and we had milk and ice cream in the fridge/freezer. Also another trait of mine: nothing should be allowed to go to waste if you can help it. At 10:30, or whatever time it was, we decided we could help it. And thus we had milkshakes.

I can't remember these milkshakes being better than other milkshakes we'd had in the past. In fact, if anything, they were less than mediocre. But we were together, and it would be one of the last girls' nights we'd have for a long time--since she was getting married in the summer and I was going off to London in the Fall. We were cleaning, but it was a girls' night none-the-less.

Things are really changing. When things change you're forced to look at your life with a little more introspection than you might have before you realized the change was taking place. I'm turning 20 in a little over two weeks. Perhaps anyone older than that reading this post will think it insignificant and paranoid that it scares me. But if you really know me, the fact that it scares me is fitting, understandable, and significant.

I'm awaiting the new FOX TV show "Glee." They've already aired the Pilot and plan to air the rest of the 1st season in Fall. In words similar to Rachel Berry's: I know I'm just a sophmore but I can feel the clock ticking away and I don't want to leave my teens with nothing to show for it.

Maybe, like Dave Ray suggested, this is the first step.