Rounders with visqueen

Typic Duraquod

2010-07-10T23:48:00.000-06:00

Need I say more?

March 2010/ June 2008

2010-04-09T01:25:00.002-06:00

Maybe it was the lack
of my green binder
that has slowed me down

until now. But inspiration
was not otherwise lacking.
Maybe there's a feeling of

significance that caused me
to hesitate. Maybe there's
more than one way to hold

my breath. When rain fell
on the Usumacinta river as
I bathed in it, the feeling was

remarkable. Go to Guatemala,
go to Mexico, swim in the river,
and if you're lucky it will

rain, and if I'm lucky
I'll learn how to live
while drowning.

Valentine's Day

2010-03-30T16:03:00.011-06:00

I thought maybe "Viento", but it seemed wrong.

2010-03-02T00:55:00.005-07:00

I can't say your name has ever
sounded like the wind to me.
But I can say that wind has
made me wonder about closing
my eyes and imagining a different
place; about converging places and
silent places; about cold and brown
and rain in the spring. There is
one street that is where wind
blows, there are no faces, but
temperatures and most of them
are warm or cool. The wind doesn't
lie until you tell it to. It doesn't
cry until I have something to mourn.

Stereo box

2010-02-23T15:08:00.002-07:00

I can only please one person at a time. Today I've chosen Billy Carter.

2010-02-09T15:19:00.001-07:00

“I doubt that there exists in any other
system presented for scientific or
practical study a comparable degree of
complexity. Indeed, scientifically
considered, this complexity occasionally
takes on an almost appalling aspect.”

When the moon skims the water that sighs and shifts in its slumber

2010-02-01T14:44:00.004-07:00

I can think of two stories relating to coyotes. One of them has been on my mind. The other is as follows: I went with my brother and my parents to Mexican Hat one summer. 2004, I think. It was a two night trip, we stayed at Burch's Travel Lodge (where, though there was no TV in our room, the free breakfast next door was impressive and featured watermelon and toast, among other things - also, the nightly rate they'd quoted us over the phone was for both rooms together, not per room), we drove up (but not down) the Moki dugway, we had Navajo Tacos, we saw Monument Valley and the Goosenecks of the San Juan and Natural Bridges National Monument (which we would at times call by other names), and we ate pizza in Blanding across the street from a doctor's office. There were other highlights. Here's one of them: we were on the road between Bluff and Mexican Hat when a coyote ran out into the road just a bit in front of us. We weren't in danger of hitting it, as far as I can remember. I didn't see it, however, because I was looking out the side window at the fabulous rock formations to our left. This is how I'm certain it was on the road from Bluff to Mexican Hat, because that's where those particular fabulous rock formations were. Nathan, shortly after, insisted that instead this was just south of Blanding. I think. The funny thing is, though I was absolutely positive that I was right about where we were when a coyote crossed our path then, I don't remember for sure any more. I have no memory of ever seeing a real coyote. Also at Burch's, the Pearson's Nut Rolls were 2 for a dollar. My mom went to buy one, only to be informed that they were 67 cents each if you only bought one. So she bought two for a dollar.

Conspiracy theories

2010-01-19T00:41:00.003-07:00

I learned over the weekend about how a lot of things are conspiracies. Pretty much everything, in fact.

I also went through an entire bag of Ricola Lemon Mint Herb Throat Drops.

And at least once I had to stop singing as I choked up, moved almost to tears.

$200 well spent.

In loving memory

2010-01-12T17:40:00.001-07:00

Oct 11 2003 - Jan 12 2010

If I could teach you to fly, I would

2010-01-12T17:32:00.002-07:00

In a city of thousands
I am the first to watch
you fly. Jumps, boldness,
hesitation, your head and
beak pointing to distraction.

Vivid, surrounded, color and
shades of sky darker and
lighter than the blue of
morning. Sound tells you
it is warm for January.

If I could teach you to fly,
it would be the same. Color
before solitude, boldness before
company, distraction before
destination. And I falling.

In introduction to Tearing the Page

2010-01-11T23:25:00.001-07:00

sometimes I believe that to be true and sometimes I don’t, you know every wise child is sad, but the fact of the matter is, it seems to me,

if we equate wisdom with disillusionment, that is, becoming free of our illusions, oftentimes that can lead to melancholy or sadness initially but it makes me happier to think that maybe there’s a deeper form of wisdom in which you initially experience melancholy and then you experience the ecstasy of disillusionment, but I don’t know about that.

Shadows

2010-01-07T11:43:00.002-07:00

Do you ever have one of those days when you're going to a fake wake and a Wallace Stevens poem gets stuck in your head because of that, and then your roommate starts rolling a piece of newspaper and you think, "So you've had that poem stuck in your head too?"

Then you realize, probably not. But the fact that he made a flower out of rolled newspaper... Maybe.

I think winter has less to do with temperature than it does with longing. Or reaching. The same could be said of Summer, but less accurately, I think.

It's great to be a robot!

2010-01-02T09:53:00.000-07:00

651 170 5131770 007012.

Grass and flowers, revisited

2009-12-23T22:13:00.001-07:00

I

Yo-yos were in for a while.
I was in eighth grade. I learned
some tricks, I was pretty good.
My daydreams involved wooing
the cute girl from my earth science
class in a yo-yo showdown – old
west meets geek meets fad
meets a melted heart. I wanted
a 3-in-1 yo-yo, all-wood, forty
dollars from the company web-
site. It was the perfect yo-yo for
me, I thought. Forty dollars said
otherwise. I never bought the yo-yo,
I never wooed the girl, and I went
on to mostly forget. Perfection is
a rare thing to find, and even rare
to imagine.

II

Alcohol on a cut or scrape has
been hell to me. Fear of the
sting cuts so deeply.

III

On Memorial Day, 2005,
I went with my family to
the cemetery, looking for
stones with names I hadn’t
known before, but names
that I was told belonged
to me. We found a young
magpie, injured or sick on
the ground near a tree. It
was very cold, and my dad
caught the bird and we
took it home in a box. We
hoped to nurse it back to
health, and then to free
it. I secretly wished to
keep it as a pet. It didn’t
recover in the cage where
we kept it. We buried it
without tears showing.

Grad School Dedication

2009-12-13T00:28:00.002-07:00

For Leslie Lynch King, Sr.,
Jimmy Cracker, and
Strawberry Clean,
with all my love.

Grass and flowers

2009-12-08T15:47:00.005-07:00

My Praktica MTL5B Camera
is a prized, if seldom used,
possession. Perhaps I love how
constant it is. Kodak prints

remain Kodak prints, and though
my perspective may change,
the purple flower, and not the
white one, will remain in focus.

No revisionist history will bring
a kestrel's head out of its box,
no wishing can hide that a paint
can once held honey-roasted peanuts.

East German, one battery, all
manual. Even smudges on the lens
can be blamed only on me. And
regrets are dated and catalogued,

Every 3 by 5 in every album
eternal in its message: I
do not take back what I have
felt, I do not withdraw my statements.

I do load a new roll of film.

(Gordon Rees, personal communication 2009)

2009-12-04T12:41:00.005-07:00

So Tuesday afternoon I'm working on calculations for a soil physics lab. Then I stop thinking about it all together because I've got this monster paper due Thursday by midnight, right? So, it's not exactly on my mind, if you catch my meaning.

At least, that's what I thought. Turns out: no. It was on my mind. As evidenced by the following:

Wednesday night I went to bed earlier than I maybe should have. I hadn't made a lot of progress that day on the paper I was supposed to be writing for my Pedology class. At least, I'd made very little progress in the actual writing part. That is, I still hadn't concluded the research portion of the paper, let alone started writing it. The good news from Wednesday, however, was that, after a long early-afternoon nap, I woke up to the conclusion that I'd picked the wrong topic for my paper, and that's why it wasn't coming together mentally or emotionally for me. I changed the topic a little after three that afternoon from gleization, shrink-swell, and ferrolysis to clay synthesis, shrink-swell, and ferrolysis. This was a huge comfort to me, and I became, almost instantly, a much more pleasant person. Unfortunately, there was no one else there to enjoy this dramatic change.

At some point, while I was in bed (and I honestly can't tell you when - maybe just when I'd gone to bed before I'd actually fallen asleep, maybe when I had a brief textersation at about 1 am, maybe waking up randomly during the night, maybe after my alarm had sounded in the morning but before I'd really awakened... Maybe in a dream) the thought came to me: Wait, we did all those calculations using the Q value as if it were our q value. We have to divide by the surface area of the column. That's why our saturated hydraulic conductivity (K) values didn't come close to matching what we'd calculated earlier.

It wasn't until a little later that I realized how bizarre this was. The K value disparity hadn't really bothered me at all. I hadn't been thinking about it at all. And suddenly, in a state of partial consciousness, not only did this lab randomly come to mind, but an error in my calculations that I hadn't been looking to find.

I'm not sure that makes any sense to anyone else, but I can't get over that. A day and a half later. Bam. I have to divide by surface area. Bam. When was my mind thinking about that enough to process all my calculations and come to that realization?

I haven't ever really had a fried pie. Maybe I can remedy that. Maybe not...

There's your trouble

2009-12-01T16:18:00.002-07:00

I was going to spend most of the day working on the 10ish page paper due on Thursday that constitutes a third of my grade in one of my classes. I was going to spend most of yesterday evening on that too. Now I'm thinking maybe that's what tomorrow is for. Obviously I'm in a bad way - I dangled that preposition and I don't care.

On the bright side, I'm almost done with that paper: at least in terms of time: I'm only a couple days away from finished.

Circle of Life

2009-11-28T22:28:00.002-07:00

I'm full of myself.
Sometimes I wonder what would happen if someone else came in and wrote a blog post as me. What would they say? Would they project my own ideals and opinions or would they type what they perceive of me? And if I were to hack into someone Else's blog... what would I write?

Goodnight, dear void.

What's the point of forgetting if it's followed by dying?

2009-11-23T18:39:00.003-07:00

I really am trying. I swear.

I once started filming a movie (with some friends) about a person who would start crossword puzzles but never finish them. Actually, I'm not sure he even started, he might have just thought about starting. I think that's how it was. But he was always certain that he could finish if he wanted to. The sequel to that movie might involve him actually trying to finish a crossword puzzle and failing. It would be devastating to him, but at the same time, it would only confirm all of his unspoken suspicions.

Also, keep your eyes open for Newsies 2: Life in Santa Fe. *Spoiler alert* It's actually about a teenage girl who becomes so obsessed with the movie Newsies that she believes that she must live out the rest of Jack's life by traveling to Santa Fe and fulfilling his dream. (Is that his name? Jack? I'll have to check that before I write/direct/produce the sequel.) But don't worry, I won't tell you here whether or not she succeeds. You'll have to wait 'til it hits the dollar theaters to find out. Or maybe it'll go straight to VHS.

Poems on death

2009-11-18T19:37:00.003-07:00

I wrote this one year ago today. That's why I'm posting it now. I mention it here. I do plan on reading that talk again tomorrow. I think it'll be appropriate once again.

I

I want to talk about my dog -

In June, she was dying from cancer
and I went out to say goodbye to her
before I left on a trip.

We had carried her down the steps to the grass where she could lie in the shade
and we had covered her with a faded brown towel to keep the flies off –
we had tried to pick off the maggots that had already hatched from the eggs they were laying.

As I laid my hands gently on her
this is what I said to her:

How’re you doing, dog?
Are you alright?
I wish I could do something for you.

Dog, do you remember
how when I first got you,
when I called you puppy,
that you spent the night
in a brown cardboard box
and we would take you out
to hold you?

Do you remember that
when you grew a little
I would take you out
to the front yard and
play with you on the grass?

Do you remember that you
didn’t run away then?
Do you remember, dog,
that later we had to keep
you fenced in the back yard
but that you only jumped
that fence one time?

Do you remember how high
you would jump next to that
fence without pulling yourself
over?

Did you choose not to make
that leap out of love, or out
of fear, dog?

Do you remember winters and snow and you would jump, rabbit-like, through it while we watched from inside the house and laughed?

Do you remember thunder, dog?
Or have you chosen to forget
how it tormented you?

Do you remember the nights
when I sat with you and held
you to comfort you until
the storm had passed?
Do you remember how I would
talk to you in those early morning hours
and tell you secrets that I never
told anyone else?

Have you kept those secrets, dog?

Do you remember the nights when
you would jump and whine out
of fear of the thunder, and I would
close my door downstairs and
pretend that I couldn’t hear you?

Can you forgive me, Dog?

Then I spoke to her in Spanish,
telling her all the secrets that
I have never told to anyone.

I looked at my faded brown dog,
and watched her slow breath
and felt her shiver
and I said a prayer:

Let her die, God.
Let her die.

II

A month after my dog died,
I met you.

I told you about her,
and how she never
jumped over the fence
in our back yard.

I didn’t tell you that
one time, she did
make it over.

You said that maybe
God sees us jumping like
I saw my dog
and wishes we would
pull ourselves over.

I didn’t tell you that
I had been terrified that
my dog would clear that fence.

III

It’s been more than a year since
my grandmother died of cancer.

I was alone with her when a nurse
came with forms for her to fill out.

What should we do if your heart stops?
she asked.

Let me die was my
grandma’s answer.

If you stop breathing?
Let me die.

If you enter a coma?
If you lose consciousness?
If you can’t swallow your food?

Do not resuscitate.
Let me die.

IV

If I don’t dream of you at night,
it’s not because I’m not trying.

Wind in dry corn is an autumnal silence

2009-11-13T11:03:00.006-07:00

That's the kind of line you write in your mind after your first few minutes biking into the wind on a gravel road when you're trying to avoid thinking about other things. And when you have to stop to take a picture of that dry corn.

Every solitary child rules the universe

2009-11-10T11:28:00.002-07:00

So I can now add pear cheese pie to this list.

This is why I should have just skipped everything else and gone to Thomas Pynchon from the start

2009-11-09T00:02:00.002-07:00

From Vineland:

Question was, would it be this time, or one of the next few times? Should he wait for another spin? It was like being on "Wheel of Fortune," only here there were no genial vibes from any Pat Sajak to find comfort in, no tanned and beautiful Vanna White at the corner of his vision to cheer on the Wheel, to wish him well, to flip over one by one letters of a message he knew he didn't want to read anyway.

As per your request

2009-11-05T12:43:00.002-07:00

I want to know the trees

Powerpoint slides – a novelty
in my high school – taught me the
trees. Fifty of them: Common name,
Scientific name, Principal identifying
characteristics. Populus tremuloides, Little-
leaf Linden, Weeping White birch,
Acer negundo. Amateur pronunciations

of Latin drew snickers at times: Salix
matsudana, Catalpa bignoides. I’ve
forgotten most of what I learned. Now

I want to start again, but this
time not just fifty, this time all of
them. Starting with the leaves, and
moving down. From the trunk down,
without looking up: I know you.
Eventually, just from the roots. The

reaching I recognize, the suction I
feel unmistakably: I know you.

Then from trees to birds: Harrier,
Cooper’s hawk, blackbirds. A chasing
game? Or life and death? Mimus
polyglottis: So you know him also?

A feather, this flutter: I know you.
And from there: roads, books, oceans,
fields, Cracks, waves, flashes: I know you.

I want to sense your footstep,
hear your feeling: I know you.

July and November

2009-11-03T11:25:00.002-07:00

So if the luckiest guy in the world ended up not being quite as lucky as he had originally thought, he might incorrectly think that he wasn't really the luckiest guy in the world, or that he was no longer the luckiest guy in the world. And it might take a few months before he again realized that his luck never really changed.

Alone and solitary only look alike in a photo.

2009-10-27T22:17:00.002-06:00

These are the plums, revisited. I was going to do cherry sap from the same roll, but that picture has never been digitized. In some ways, that's very comforting.

Some colors I wouldn't dare put in a rainbow.

2009-10-26T23:23:00.012-06:00

So it's been more than a month since I last sang, and this was starting to bother me. I've really been wanting to sing, but my current living arrangements don't allow it. I've got neighbors. I live in a duplex. And when I go to school, there are other people studying. And there's really nowhere where I can be alone. Some of you may think that I'm being far too self-conscious or ridiculous or something to feel that I can't sing just because I have neighbors. Others of you have heard me sing. I mean, actually sing. I'm just sayin'. So, today, I decided to ride my bike west until I got to the middle of nowhere where I would feel like I could sing. I eventually found a spot - near the hawk (pictured) - but it took longer than expected, so I only sang while on my bike. That's also where I was when I took the majority of these photos. Digital images.

Migratory

2009-10-16T23:12:00.003-06:00

There are birds that fly over, which feels significant. The sky at twilight isn't poisoned the way the word is, but instead is yellow, orange, yellow-orange, vespering.

See, birds flying over gives this place a feeling of openness, of belonging. Not belonging, but not alone either. The horizon seems to suggest that there's a place from which birds might come, a place that they might go. I came through here on a train, once. I knew I would return. I didn't know that reflecting ponds of water in a recently graded construction sight would lead me to spontaneously salute the not-yet-yellow sky.

Supporting documents

2009-10-13T22:44:00.002-06:00

Rain...

Tortillas.

Not everything, maybe

2009-10-10T13:33:00.004-06:00

So the bruises, the little red spots, are gone from the tips of my fingers, the ones I hit over and over again while roofing the shop out behind my family's home. That's good, because I was sometimes reminded of Isaiah 49. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't doing any comparisons, it's just that those verses would come to mind, and that probably wasn't for the best. Anyway, sometimes forgetting is good, in a way.

The nails were very short, see, too short to hold normally, so I had to hold them with my hand palm up between the first two fingers:
This led to me hitting my fingers. Also, if anyone would care to read my palm, all those lines are absolutely accurate. I know, incredible life line, right?

I wish I could remember everything

2009-10-10T11:31:00.003-06:00

When I was five, my family took a trip to the Washington D.C./ Maryland area, where my grandparents and several other relatives lived. While there we visited Annapolis. In Annapolis, there are brick streets. Not everywhere, but in parts. There's a roundabout that I have in mind which I might also call a traffic circle, and I believe it was there that I started to walk out into the brick street as a five-year-old when my dad grabbed me. Because the streets were brick, I didn't think to look both ways before crossing, but luckily my dad was paying attention because he narrowly saved me from being hit by a car coming around the circle.

In Argentina, I was in San Martín when, while we were talking with a man on the side of a dirt road in Villa del Carmen, a little girl (3 or 4?) darted between us running out into the street just as a car was coming. I grabbed her by the shirt about a second before a the car passed -- the driver hit his breaks as soon as he saw her, but he couldn't have stopped in time. The girl gave me a mean look for grabbing her.

This is out of character, but I liked this:

2009-10-10T01:46:00.007-06:00

So I went out on a bike ride because it felt like Mendoza this morning.

2009-10-06T22:33:00.005-06:00

8:34 pm

Air is never sickly –
hazy, smoky, foggy, crisp,
dry. But never sickly.

I imagine this haze
is a veil of fog
rising out of asphalt,
and dirt streets,

brick buildings lit
too dimly inside. I
imagine the coldness
of the morning.

I imagine the
smell, the not-home-
baked bread and I
imagine the exquisite

beauty of those
chains of crusty rolls.

8:40 pm

Darkness is not
only thick, but visible
in a way that’s hard
to imagine inside.

One moon isn’t
enough on a night
like this. Its
yellow is too

Autumnal, its fullness
too near to me, its
roundness too incomplete.

I will not look to see
if it waxes or wanes,
I will look at a dark path
to see it does not cut.

8:46 pm

Cain and Abel must
anticipate swapping stories.
Brothers in a lonely land
must share more than
a table and lentil soup,
Dipping torn crusts, and
buttering cut bread.
A hot knife was never
needed to slip through
and divide
such exquisite feeling.
When I sat and ate with
them, I looked from brother
to brother and
felt at home.

SORRY

2009-10-03T01:00:00.001-06:00

Christmas Lights

2009-10-01T10:17:00.003-06:00

I guess those are Christmas lights, technically speaking. They're being used to decorate the sign in front of Baja Tacos in Santa Fe. Some of the best food in the world is there - I personally recommend the bean and tofu burrito smothered in green chile and the breakfast burrito (without meat) smothered in green chile. I've never actually had the breakfast burrito smothered in green chile. I wanted that, and I thought I ordered that, but I'm told I only said, "with green chile," and all the breakfast burritos come with your choice of red or green chile inside. The burrito was still fantastically delicious. However, I'm afraid I was also ordering the same thing for William, and he was rather disappointed that his was not smothered. One thousand apologies without changing, che. The red chile is also good there. I recommend the green. Also, I'm rather pleased with the fact that I was able to get the lights there at all - I had to go in and edit the HTML by hand, which isn't something I'm particularly trained to do. I had a class in seventh grade that prepared me some, though.

Astronomy

2009-09-27T11:26:00.003-06:00

So there are a lot of things that I was going to do over the Summer that I never did. Many of these things began with the letter S. I did other things instead, and I have plenty of regrets.

Here is one regret: On more than one occasion I thought about poems I know involving stars. I always remembered First World and The Song of Wandering Angus and Poema Veinte. There's this other poem I memorized in high school - A Song by Joseph Brodsky, and it's been bugging me for a while that there's one line of it that I couldn't remember. Last night I looked it up, and it's this: I wish you were here, dear, I wish you were here. I wish I knew no astronomy when stars appear, when the moon skims the water that sighs and shifts in its slumber. I wish it were still a quarter to dial your number. The one part I couldn't remember was I wish I knew no astronomy when stars appear. I really regret not having remembered that line because it's one of my favorites in the poem, and I could have added this to the poems I know about stars when thinking about those things. Also, who knows how many girls would have fallen in love with me had I remembered it? Seven or eight is the best estimate according to this site.

California

2009-09-19T18:40:00.006-06:00

I feel that a blog post is in order, because I've moved to a new place. Some people would like updates, I'm sure. Tell them they're free to call me.

Here's something I haven't told anyone yet, though: near the library there's some kind of tree or plant or other botanical item with this terrible smell. At first I thought the older, very heavy-set man sitting on a bench there had been smoking pot. This turned out not to be the case. Either that, or he left a very lingering smell. He was a large man, so I guess it's more than possible that he would leave a lingering smell.

So one time I went up the canyon with some friends and there was a bonfire and we came home smelling like smoke. If we told you we'd met with some people who were smoking pot and that's what had scented all our clothing, we may or may not have been lying.

I think landscape designers and grounds crews and landscapers should be required to study plant odors.

I think green is a fine color for a room.

Sometimes I think, what if? That's a dangerous thing to think. I apologize to anyone who has been hurt by my thinking, what if?

Here's a statistic: AT UC Davis, on peak days, there are 20,000 to 30,000 bicycles on campus. Today is not a peak day.

Note 4

2009-09-03T08:32:00.002-06:00

It's a dry place, my place of birth. So the rain at the airport when I landed was unexpected. But it seemed right. This land is, after all, a part of me, and I a part of it, I guess. When I look out of the small airplane window and see it streaked with rain as we taxi to our gate, I imagine sorrow, pain, memories not easily forgotten, a thousand memories too quickly remembered, Springs and Summers and silence, and I am not really surprised even in this dry place.

A Second Lovesong

2009-09-01T11:45:00.002-06:00

So this baby goat loved
his mother very much.

"I love you, mother,
very much. May I climb
onto your back to be
near to you?"

So he would climb onto
his mother's soft back
and stand there for hours.

The view from up there
was incredible. He could
see into the next pen,
out across the yard,
dozens of other goats
who all gazed back up at
him in admiration.

Maybe the best idea I've ever had

2009-08-13T11:54:00.003-06:00

"I am for an art that is political-erotical-mystical, that does something other than sit on its ass in a museum. I am for an art that grows up not knowing it is art at all, an art given the chance of having a staring point of zero. I am for an art that embroils itself with the everyday crap & still comes out on top." - Claes Oldenburg

So I'm going to need 100 second graders. We're going to do 2nd grade flash mobs, but very carefully rehearsed ones. One of them will involve the Olympic fountain at the Gateway in Salt Lake, 100 plastic bottles of different colors, and a carefully choreographed dance.

I just need someone who can help me find willing second graders, someone with a lot of plastic bottles, and someone who can choreograph bottle fountain dances.

August 13, 2009

2009-08-13T11:35:00.002-06:00

So here's the breakdown:

Imagine a really hot day, but that you don't want to be hot. That's about the feeling. But the AC's out, so what can you do? You live with it.

And you remember that winter is coming, which is only momentarily comforting, 'cause you really hate the cold.

Here's the idea: A boxer, a prizefighter. One of the best in the world. Win after win after win. Championships. Trips across continents. And then a change of plans, a dying father, a decision to leave the ring, and then an ordinary life. Not unlike a lot of stories, but instead of going back to the ring in a miraculous comeback, he moves to a little town and gets involved in local politics with dreams of ruling the world again only to find that everyone's corrupt. He tries to make reforms, can't beat the system, so he just goes back to his house with dreams of planting a plum orchard in his big back yard. But he knows he's going to need more land and a lot of money for the start-up costs. So he just stays put, deals with the murder of his dog, and lives one day at a time. And the drunk guy who thinks about hitting on his wife while they're out for a walk would do well to reconsider.

Don't worry, though, because at least winter is beautiful. If you really hated it that much, you'd have moved by now. And dreams of a plum orchard are more than enough.

Elder Holland on Lot's Wife, Paraphrasedish

2009-07-30T02:03:00.002-06:00

Her attachment to the past outweighed her confidence in the future. In short, she doubted the Lord's ability to give her something better than she already had.

At the risk of repeating myself.

2009-07-30T00:53:00.003-06:00

"The sage is full of anxiety and indecision in undertaking anything, and so he is always successful."

This is a quote that I've used before, but I felt like repeating it so that it would be seen/seen again. It's always reminded me of you. Whatever that means to you.

I'm done

2009-07-27T08:16:00.003-06:00

I'm done being miserable, thanks for your patience.

It's funny how long it's been since I've had pancakes for breakfast. It's not uncommon for me to think, "Maybe I could make pancakes this morning." But I never do. This morning, for example, I will have cereal again.

Lunch is anyone's guess.

Understanding

2009-07-25T23:25:00.002-06:00

Suddenly, I feel like I understand Charles Bukowski a little better. Not his actual poetry, I haven't read that.

You win some, you lose some.

2009-07-24T00:40:00.001-06:00

Today, I did some of each. I hope.

Something along those lines

2009-07-21T22:21:00.003-06:00

Here we go... Have you ever read the book Frankenstein? By Mary Shelley? I haven't, and I only partially regret that. There are a lot of books out there, and I can only read so many of them in my lifetime. Do you think Eternity will be enough time to read every book? Or will there be an eternal stream of new books being published? This is one of the great questions that must come to haunt each of us at one point or another in our lives. Here's another: If you were a seagull, where would you live? I mean, it's just as cheap to live in Vancouver as it is to live in Costa Azul. Etc. So your choice wouldn't be based on monetary concerns. This may just haunt me for the rest of my life, because I'll never know the answer. And I'll always wonder if maybe I'd be one of those seagulls at Cape Henlopen. And I'll always wonder if I would be a happy seagull at Cape Henlopen. Or would I have doubts about my choice of residence? Would I dream of Miami Beach or La Verkin or Akron at night, and wake up with cold sweats? This will haunt me: do seagulls have cold sweats when they doubt? What about French Fries? Would I eat French Fries as a Seagull?

Here's the frightening thing: These questions are really starting to bother me. Not the French Fries. I really don't give a dang whether I'd eat French Fries or not. I don't really give a dang that French Fries is generally not written with the first letters capitalized. But the other seagull questions are starting to bother me. If I were a Spanish Seagull, I'd be a gaviota. I think I could live with that.

My Greatest Passion

2009-07-21T10:26:00.004-06:00

Yesterday, my life changed forever: I rode on a MONORAIL! Among other things... But let me tell you why my greatest passion is: MONORAIL. They go on just one track! They're in the AIR! They're featured in the song Johnny on the MONORAIL by the Buggles!

I didn't take this photograph, but I could have because I WAS ON THIS MONORAIL! Actually, I sort of did take this photograph, but in a different sense than is usually implied when one says that he or she took a photograph. I took it from this web page: MONORAIL!!!

I now know all about the Supreme Court from 1967 to 1980.

2009-07-12T00:13:00.002-06:00

You name it, I know it. Or I'll make it up. I can even make it sound pretty convincing.

Best Fourth of July Ever

2009-07-04T23:26:00.000-06:00

Take that, October 19

2009-06-23T14:29:00.004-06:00

So you remember how I said that Sunday, October 19, 2008 had been one of the best days of my life? Monday, June 22, 2009 beat it hands down. Some of you will eventually know why, I reckon. Others may or may not figure it out.

Let me tell you this, which is completely unrelated:

I'm going to Salem today to vote on the bond election for the Nebo School District. I plan to vote in favor.

Pain and Lilies

2009-05-25T20:51:00.004-06:00

I saw pain two times in the desert.

For what am I looking?

I thought it was appropriate for crushed aspirin to fall from my backpack onto the sand. But it wasn't nearly enough. Sometimes the desert reminds me of a song I hate, sometimes it reminds me of immensity, sometimes I cry with those who aren't actually crying. I do not think that they will cry for me.

"When you expect your opponent to yield you should also avoid hurting him." This came in a fortune cookie, written on a fortune. Probably in 2000 or 2001. Have you ever wondered if maybe you are that opponent whom you should avoid hurting? Have you ever wondered if maybe you should have licked up that aspirin despite the sand that would come with it? Have you ever written an essay about love crushed, only to discover you were both mortar and pestle and sand grain and aspirin?

"What's the point of forgetting if it's followed by dying?"

This is my Memorial Day 2009.

National Turtle Wax Gifting Day

2009-05-21T16:36:00.000-06:00

Also National Turtle Wax Gifting Day.

National Toaster Gifting Day

2009-05-21T16:22:00.001-06:00

May 22, 2009 will be National Toaster Gifting Day. Like a Billiken, it's luckier to receive a toaster as a gift than to buy your own. Luckier still to steal one.

I just ate a lot of guacamole

2009-04-09T22:07:00.000-06:00

It wasn't even very good guacamole.

Learning

2009-03-26T11:18:00.003-06:00

I just took a survey for seniors about to graduate from BYU. The final question, or one of the final questions, asked for me to describe an experience at BYU that significantly affected how I think about learning. I chose the lab I did last month for my geology class which involved drawing a few lines and coloring, and then counting up sections in which I'd colored both yellow and red. It was a total waste of time, but it got me thinking about how little I've learned in so many classes compared to what I could have learned. I think it comes down to the fact that learning in a university setting is often motivated only by the desire to fulfill a requirement - get a good grade on a lab and in a class, graduate, get into grad/med school, or get a good job. I'm afraid that more often than not, that's why we do assignments and why we go to school. So in the survey I described this and said that if I were to create a university, its mode of operation would be fundamentally different than that of BYU. And that more learning would take place. I'm pretty sure this is true.

I'm not sure that this is exactly the kind of response they had in mind. I hope it is.

I also hope that they give out free hot dogs to encourage me to donate to BYU.

My trip to UC Davis

2009-03-05T17:33:00.003-07:00

So it seemed like it might be in order for me to give some sort of report or summary of my trip to the University of California at Davis, from which I returned late Tuesday night. In case anyone's curious, and hasn't heard my report yet. For that reason I began this post, but I've changed my mind, and will instead discuss my trip to Smith's last night. This wasn't a particularly interesting trip, but it's what came to mind.

Here are two things that occurred at Smith's: 1. I went to buy salsa, and decided I didn't want the Pace Picante Sauce, even if it was on sale. Nor did I want Kroger Picante Sauce, which was on an even better sale. Instead I bought the Pace Tequila Lime salsa which was maybe on sale. Maybe not. But it sounded more delicious at the time. 2. I saw some canned beverages in the Foreign Foods aisle, and remembered that Greg was raving about a lightly carbonated all juice canned beverage earlier that evening. I decided to look for such a beverage in order to purchase it. Later, as I was walking through the store, I saw the chilled beverages aisle, which I think mainly includes beer, hard lemonade, and the like. I decided the drink I had in mind probably would instead be with the soft drinks. Then I forgot about it, and didn't buy it. I did see Chili flavored Lindt chocolate at a fantastic Fresh Values price, which I did purchase.

The chocolate might technically be a third thing, because it wasn't really conected to the drink in any way.

His breathing turns a wheel

2009-02-16T11:03:00.002-07:00

I'm thinking that one of the coolest moments in President Obama's life this year had to be when he looked at the calender and saw Presidents' Day and realized it's now his day too. If you catch my meaning.

I think my brother knows this kid.

2009-02-15T16:40:00.002-07:00

Here's one of the most hilarious things I've ever heard/seen involving a stranger on a bicycle that may be someone my youngest brother knows:

So I'm walking up the long hill/ramp at the south end of BYU campus - the one divided between pedestrians and cyclists - and it's snowing. This was yesterday early afternoon, just a little before 2 pm, and when I'm maybe 100 feet from the top of the hill, a kid on a bicycle starts down it on the other side. He's remarkable in that he's got a bass violin (double bass) in a soft bag over his shoulder and is carrying it behind his back in this manner while riding his bicycle. I've seen him before, and I always think this looks a little ridiculous and rather dangerous. But right as he's gaining speed heading down the hill with his string bass on his bicycle into the snow, I hear him say (and I don't think he was trying to say this to me but was talking to himself - which wouldn't surprise me from the kind of person who carries a bass violin on a bicycle), " I can't see." And then he weant speeding down the hill squinting to try and keep the snow out of his eyes, and wobbling a little. I found this absolutely hilarious.

2009-02-06T17:55:00.002-07:00

Here's the essay in it's final form, which I'll be reading next Friday at the English Reading Series at noon in the HBLL auditorium. If you don't read it now, and come on Friday, it will be more of a surprise. I'd recommend reading it and skipping Friday, but that's your call.

Love is Like Grinding Soil

Love is like grinding soil. This thought came to me last week while I spent an afternoon doing just that - grinding soil samples. It's a time-consuming task, it requires great care, it can become tedious, and it gets a little dirty. But there are occasional moments throughout when the ways in which shades of red and rich browns and near blacks contrast with a creamy-colored mortar and pestle cause sudden waves of inspiration, scatter sudden drops of beauty, incite sudden floods of joy. Add to that the eventual rewards – satisfaction, knowledge, and eight dollars an hour – and the parallels to love are numerous and obvious. Or at least this is what I imagined as my arm tired from beating away to crush grains of sand into a floury powder.

The analogy is, of course, ridiculous. Although there are two or three similarities, it's difficult to imagine two things more dissimilar than love and soil grinding. But somehow the comparison, for a brief moment, seemed apt to me. And after a little thought and a little research, I've discovered I'm not alone in using analogies to try to pigeonhole love by tying it to something a little more concrete – like a mortar and pestle, or a pigeon hole. It seems, as a culture, we tend to talk more about what love is like than we talk about what love really is.

Search for "love is" in a database of pop music lyrics, and you'll quickly see what I mean. If we can believe pop musicians (and when it comes to love, why wouldn't we?), then love is a losing hand, a losing game, just a game, a contact sport, and a blood sport. Love is a battlefield, camouflage, and war. Love is the holocaust, a killer, a cannibal, it is dead (but also living and life) and it's a life-taker. Love is like cancer, the cure, bad medicine, drugs, a cigarette, and heroin. Love is like a shooting star, tears from the stars, and brighter than the brightest star. It's wider than the sky, and like the wind, or the sun that comes out after the storm, or a cloud, or the rain and the sea. Love is a shining sea, an ocean, a river, a flood, a tidal wave, a heat wave, the seventh wave, all seven wonders, just a myth, just a lie, no big truth, nothing but the truth, the law, a higher law, a crime, but also not a crime. And love is hate.

Beyond these relatively simple comparisons, however, there are some even more creative analogies: according to Bo Burnham love is like a homeless guy "finding a bag of gold coins and slowly finding out they're all filled with chocolate;" Jewel compares love to barbed wire flowing through her veins; and who among us can forget what Dean Martin taught - when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that too is love.

So maybe my soil grinding analogy wasn't too ridiculous after all. In fact, it may even be an improvement on many analogies to love. It's certainly an improvement on some of the other analogies I've written. For example, in high school I was asked to write a love song. In it, I compared love to dead plums hanging from a dead branch and a freezer full of ashes buried in my back yard. More recently, I wrote a love poem in which the object of my affection was represented by a dead sea lion washed up on the beach. The sea lion, and the poem, met their ends in flames – a pyre of simile and metaphor.

Maybe examining my own analogies to love is the best way to shed some light on why these are more than just a ubiquitous feature of bad poetry, but also a spreading societal phenomenon. (Whether it's spreading like a flood or like cancer I can't say.) I've chosen to create these analogies mostly because I don't know how to accurately describe what love is. In fact, I don't even know what love is. But I do know a little about some of its attributes: love is a many splendored thing, but it's also terribly complex, and it's understood first in the heart. That is, I know that love is hard to explain. So I've dodged that bullet altogether by not even attempting to explain love, but instead explaining something that might be vaguely similar to it. And as a result, a battlefield, a cannibal, and dirt in a mortar and pestle become love.

Another possible explanation for why we use analogies to describe love is that not only can the analogy allow us to pretend to convey meaning, but it can also allow us to disavow that meaning if it isn't well received: "You thought I was comparing you to a dead sea lion? Why on earth would I ever do that?"

There might be other more substantial explanations for why we use analogies to love. It's possible that these analogies actually explain facets of the diamond that is love in a way that nothing else can. It's possible that they convey emotions felt on the roller coaster of love that are otherwise inexplicable. Maybe analogies add beauty and depth to the poem of love. Maybe they've got some actual literary merit.

This is evidenced by the fact that such analogies aren't limited to pop music. They've also been used by some literary heavyweights: Rochefoucauld said that true love is like ghosts, Charles Bukowski wrote a collection of poetry titled "Love is a Dog from Hell," Emily Brontё compared love to the wild rose-briar, T. W. Robertson described love as being like red-currant wine, and even Shakespeare wrote that "Love is like a child, That longs for everything that he can come by."

There's a good chance, however, that these examples prove less about the validity of analogies than they prove that even supposedly great authors have chosen to dodge a few bullets themselves. Maybe all this proves is that Shakespeare, too, was a cop-out.

Looking at the dozens of lyrical and poetic analogies to love, as well as my own analogies, I have no idea what any of them really mean. To say that love is like an ocean sounds nice at first, but does it really make any sense? How much does love really resemble a giant body of salt water? And if love is really like an ocean, then is it becoming more acidic because of increased carbon dioxide emissions?

Red-currant wine paints a nice image of love, but Mr. Robertson himself would have to admit it's a bit of a stretched illustration. Maybe he came up with that one after drinking a couple too many glasses of the stuff.

And maybe Mr. Martin had some sort of epiphany while picking bits of tomato sauce and pepperoni from his eyelashes, but he's left the rest of us baffled.

Comparing love to dead plums may be terribly romantic, but does it really have any connection to truth?

If I learned one thing from my eleventh grade English Class, it's that all analogies are false. Maybe, given that, love is like an analogy. Except it's true. And maybe, given that, an analogy is the best possible device to explain love.

In the end, whatever the reason we use analogies when we talk about love, it's a part of our culture that's not about to disappear. Love is such a devastating and engulfing enigma, such a strange and beautiful beast, that it seems to demand the comparisons.

You see, using an analogy to explain love is like finding yourself in Rome without knowing a word of Italian, and you desperately want to communicate, but can't. Instead, you have to trust in a stranger you meet, who nods when you ask if she understands English, to explain to the museum guard that the ancient vase was already shattered on the floor when you entered the room. The analogy is the stranger, the person you so desperately love is the guard, and your love for her is on the ground, crushed into a thousand shards.

Crushed like a bad analogy under the foot of a heartless English teacher.

Crushed like grains of sand in a mortar and pestle.

Love is like grinding soil

2009-01-25T19:37:00.004-07:00

So here's the deal: I was told by a friend that I have to enter a Valentine's day writing contest about love. So I've been working on this essay. If you want to give me any comments, including grammatical/grammarical corrections, those are also welcome.. And I'll send a check for $100 to the first person who can guess what my favorite part is. (Speaking of which, I offered Stanley, who is heading home to Taiwan in a week or two, $50 if he'll propose to a girl at ward prayer tonight. $55 if I get to pick the girl. But he has to get down on one knee with a fake ring. And I stand by my cash offers - rest assured you'll get the check if you meet the requirements outlined above.)

Here goes:

Another possible explanation for why we use analogies to describe love: not only is the analogy a tool that allows us to pretend to convey meaning, but it can also allow us to disavow that meaning if it isn't well received: "You thought I was comparing you to a dead sea lion? Why on earth would I ever do that?"

There might be other more substantial explanations for why we use analogies to love. It's possible that these analogies actually explain facets of the diamond that is love in a way that nothing else can. It's possible that they convey emotions felt on the rollercoaster of love that are otherwise inexplicable. Maybe analogies add beauty and depth to the poem of love. Maybe they've got some actual literary merit.

This is evidenced by the fact that such analogies aren't limited to pop music. They've also been used by some literary heavyweights: Rochefoucauld said that true love is like ghosts, Charles Bukowski titled a collection of poetry Love is a Dog from Hell, Emily Brontё compared love to the wild rose-briar, T. W. Robertson described love as being like red-currant wine, and even Shakespeare wrote that "Love is like a child, That longs for everything that he can come by."

As with the dozens of lyrical and poetic analogies to love, I have no idea what my own analogies mean. To say that love is like an ocean sounds nice at first, but does it really make any sense? How much does love really resemble a giant body of salt water? And if love is really like an ocean, then is it becoming more acidic because of increased carbon dioxide emissions?

Red-currant wine paints a nice image of love, but Mr. Robertson himself would have to admit it's a bit of a stretched illustration. Maybe he'd had a couple too many glasses when he came up with that one.

Maybe Mr. Martin had some sort of epiphany while picking bits of tomato sauce and pepperoni from his eyelashes, but he's left the rest of us baffled.

And comparing love to dead plums may be terribly romantic, but does it really have any connection to truth?

In the end, whatever the reason we use analogies when we talk about love, it's a part of our culture that's not about to disappear. Love is such a devastating yet encouraging enigma, such a strange and beautiful beast, that it seems to demand the comparisons.

Crushed like a bad analogy under the foot of a heartless English teacher.

Crushed like grains of sand in a mortar and pestle.

Cellular Telephones

2009-01-17T22:27:00.002-07:00

Here's maybe the second best thing about Cellular Telephones:

If you want to talk to yourself, but there are other people around, you can pretend to get a call, and then you just have to do a little fake intro conversation and go into whatever it is you want to say. No one will be the wiser, unless you're a really poor actor, and it's obvious that no one actually called you, and then you'll look even weirder because you're not only talking to yourself, but you're pretending to talk to someone else, and even waiting for them to say stuff.

Here's maybe the third best thing about Cellular Telephones:

Rural electrification: seedbed of the unforseen.

Called life, she is a pomegranate pecked clean by birds and entirely become a part of their flying

2009-01-14T16:56:00.002-07:00

This is something I liked:

"All the world exists because God keeps asking, 'Do you love me?', and God keeps answering, 'I love you.'"

Sunrises vs. Sunsets

2009-01-10T14:53:00.006-07:00

So I thought of one other story about bad poetry that I thought I'd include in a separate post:

My high school had a yearly "knowledge bowl" competition, which I entered all three years that I was there. My first year, this was as a sophomore, I was on a team with Ross W. Warren (the W. stands for William - he wasn't too fond of that name and probably wouldn't want me to include it here) and Catherine Green and Sherry Cope. There was a rule that each team had to have two guys and two girls, which was instituted after my older brother's all-male team blew the competition (much of it co-ed) out of the water. The way they explained the new rule when it was announced was that it was intended to "give the girls a chance," so my sister refused to ever participate while she was there, even though Johnny Frandsen (?) practically begged her to join his team. Anyway, Ross and I were by no means sexist (though Ross might have been a little sexist at that point - I can't say for sure) but we weren't around when they made their outrageous statements justifying the co-ed teams, so we didn't feel like a boycott was necessary. Our problem was that we didn't have many female friends, so Ross basically walked up to a group of girls who were in some of our classes, and asked if there were two who wanted to join our team, and Catherine and Sherry volunteered. That's only sort of my memory - I think I've mostly invented it, but I have no other memory of how the team was assembled.

On the first day of Knowledge Bowl competition, I went to meet my team outside of the auditorium about 15 minutes before our first round was supposed to start, as we'd arranged. However, no one was there. I waited a while, wondering why nobody was showing up, until a minute or two before we were supposed to be competing, the three of them showed up together. Apparently, someone had reported to the principal that Ross had made the girls on our team sign a contract saying that they'd never answer any questions or participate in any way - just sit there to fulfill gender requirements. This was in no way true (though it wouldn't have been entirely unbelievable from Ross), so the principal, after Catherine and Sherry assured him that they'd never signed any such contract or made any agreement like that in any way, decided not to disqualify us. We went on to win that first round handily. The girls didn't say much, but I think eventually both of them answered multiple questions. A lot of that related to their being less aggressive in buzzing in to answer than Ross and I were. But after buzzing in, we'd have a few seconds to discuss things if we wanted, and even if they hadn't buzzed and didn't give the answer, they would give their opinions in these situations.

Later, while we were waiting for another round, we were sitting in the auditorium watching two other teams compete. We also happened to be sitting right behind the team against which we were about to compete. We would, as a team, whisper answers to questions as this round progressed. Mr. Mike Olsen was reading questions, and he got to one which he began by giving a category - "The category for this next question is: Bad Poetry." So I immediately whispered, "Charge of the Light Brigade." Ross laughed, and Mr. Olsen read the question - "What poem contains the following line: Into the valley of death rode the six hundred?" My jaw dropped and I turned and looked at Ross, who was also in shock, because I'd been right. When neither of the teams competing at the time got it, Mr. Olsen read the answer, and immediately all four members of the team in front of us turned around and stared at me with these kind of "What kind of a sicko are you?" looks - apparently they could hear our whispering. I just kind of smiled back with a "You've got no idea" smile, which must have been enough to intimidate them because we beat them pretty easily as well.

We went on to make it to the finals that year, and were competing against two teams of seniors. Justin Thorpe and Matt Edwards were on one of the teams, PJ Bingham, that cocky son-of-a-gun, was on the other. There were other people, but I personally knew Justin, Matt beat out my sister for Valedictorian, and PJ was a cocky son-of-a-gun, so I remember them. The whole school came to watch the finals in an assembly, but those competing got out of class a few minutes early to do... whatever, so I left class at the appointed hour only to find PJ Bingham exiting the classroom next to mine. We had no choice but to walk to the auditorium together, and he took advantage of that opportunity to do some trash talking. He said something about how it was pretty good for a team of sophomores to make it to the finals, but everybody knew this was going to come down to a competition between the two teams of seniors. I nodded politely and smiled, and said he was probably right, but I'd have two more years to keep trying to win.

So the competition began, and after maybe half an hour, all the prepared questions had been given. The score stood at 21 for the Thorpe/Edwards team, 21 for my team, and -1 for the PJ Bingham (that cocky son-of-a-gun) team. In the match, there were several music questions for which they would play a clip of a (classical) piece of music and we had to identify either the name of the song or the composer. There were also similar art questions for which they'd project a painting onto a screen and we had to name the title or the artist. Justin Thorpe got at least 9 out of 10 music questions, and I got about the same percentage of art questions, which had helped to keep our scores pretty even throughout the match. I only remember PJ Bingham answering one question, and that was one when I thought I'd been the only person to buzz in and gave the answer - Deleware - when he'd actually beat me to the buzzing but couldn't think of the answer until I said it. Justin Thorpe got one art question - and I shook my head in protest because he said The Screamer instead of The Scream for the title of that Munch painting. Mr. Mike Olsen hesitated when he said that, but decided to give it to him.

So when we got to the end in a tie, they were trying to decide how to break it. I thought they should take away the point from that close but incorrect answer and call us the winners, but instead they decided they had a lot more clips of music on their CD that they hadn't used yet, so they'd give us five more music questions for the tie breaker. Ross guessed "Carmen" for an operatic piece - I, though I didn't recognize the opera, thought we should go with Verdi for the composer just because it seemed like Verdi wrote 5 out of 6 operas. It wasn't Carmen. It was by Verdi. And we lost.

Sunrises v. Sunsets

2009-01-10T14:10:00.003-07:00

Sunsets are a lot more attractive that sunrises. I don't understand why, but there are always, or generally, much better colors at sunset. Some people may claim that this has to do with physics, but I would argue it's just a matter of character. But I've decided I like sunrises more than sunsets, overall. Sunsets are just a little too fleeting, if you know what I mean. Sunrises are still attractive, but they seem a little more down to earth, a little more substantive, a little more encouraging. I was on the staff of the literary magazine for my high school in 2003, and mostly helped to judge the poetry and short story competitions. Let me tell you, a lot of junk gets written in high schools. The sad part is that the people who write it must feel like it's good. Anyway, I wrote two poems for the literary magazine. One because each member of the staff was asked to submit one, and one to submit to the poetry competition under a fake name. See, other staff members went around to all the English classes to announce the contest, and by the time they came to my class, they'd invented a rule that poems couldn't be about suicide. So I wrote a poem which I titled "Suicide" and submitted it under the name of Hester Nesbit. It had essentially nothing to do with death, other than that it began and ended with the line "I have no fear of death." I also submitted a story as Hester Nesbit to the short story contest, it was intentionally terrible but written in a way that the other members of the staff might think it was good. I wanted to see what they'd do with it. Unfortunately, there was only one other kid there when we judged the short stories, and he said he really liked it, but Mr. Filmore, our adviser, pointed out that it didn't have any kind of a plot in any way. And the kid said, Oh, I guess that's true. Mr. Filmore asked me what I thought about it, and I said I liked one sentence (I did) but the rest was pretty terrible (it was). Which was the end of that story. "Suicide" didn't win any prizes either, though it probably should have. It wasn't that great, but really, when 9 out of 10 poems are:

I hate the world.
Everyone else sucks.
You're all losers and
can go to hell for all
I care because you are
stupid and don't understand
me. My boyfriend said he
cared but then he was
with that slut the next
night so I just said
f*** you and flipped him
off.

Sorry for the language, but that's a direct quote. Or close enough to a direct quote to justify the language, though I did at least edit that one bit. (I really do try to be sensitive.) "Suicide" just got thrown out with these type of poems by every one else on the staff, and I couldn't say much because I didn't want Hester Nesbit to win the $20 Barnes and Noble gift certificate.

But back to sunrises - the poem I submitted under my own name was in part about a sunrise, and I titled it WINTERS COMING in all caps like that. The idea was that, given that the opening lines talked about snow, you'd initially think of the title as a possessive - Winter's coming - but then you'd realize that there wasn't an apostrophe, so maybe a direct reading, with coming serving as an adjective modifying multiple winters, could be intended. Which was about half of the poem's merit - leading thoughts from a single winter to many, from present to future. I'd reproduce the poem here, but I'd rather not. Really, I don't like it much. But get this - whoever typed up this poem for the literary magazine decided to "edit" it and corrected my title, so that in its published form, it's titled "Winter's Coming." They also changed the damns in Hester's story to darns. This only made it even worse, and it should never have been published, but they only had three or four stories submitted, so they printed them all.

The saddest thing I've ever seen in my life was an article in the Spanish Fork Press about a local woman who'd won a poetry competition. This was all fine, but when I went on to read the article, it turned out it was an online poetry contest that she'd entered, and within just a couple days she got an email announcing that she'd won and they wanted to publish her poem! She could even purchase a leather bound, archival quality volume with gold-colored edging featuring her poem with the other winners! And she could purchase multiple copies to give to her friends and relatives so that they could recognize her achievement! And she could buy a trophy for her 1st place poem! They article featured a photo of her being (mock)presented this trophy by her son or someone. She probably also bought several copies of the book. They printed her award-winning poem, and it looked about like the kind of poem that most often wins poetry contests - really really bad, but acting like it was good. I've never claimed to be a good poet (which is probably a lie), but I've got a pretty good eye for really bad poems, and this one was among the worst. I was heart-broken to imagine her celebrating her victory and contacting the local paper to have them write a story about it. But I'm sure she's still very proud of her poem and her achievement, and has never regretted spending potentially hundreds of dollars on archival quality volumes of poetry and trophies, so there's maybe no reason to be sad at all.

This is all on my mind in part because, as Chandler pointed out, most of the poets we're likely to find in Argentina will be pretty mediocre at best. But I think the purpose isn't to find good poetry or bad poetry or to make any kind of judgment of poetry - but in sharing poetry as a way to meet random interesting people. And moving away from poetry as art to poetry as human.

These are the things I can't tell you:

2009-01-05T22:56:00.003-07:00

I

What I can’t tell you,
I can hide in what I can.

II

For example, I can say:
I wish that I lived in the
sea – black, wet, dark,
wet and floating under
white foam and black
waves. I can write: I

wish white foam would
carry my dead form to
wet sand, dark and
floating around and over
your bare feet. I can

dream that the sun
would dry me to black
and brittle meaning, that
memory and deceit would
evaporate beside white
foam. A divulging pyre.

III

If I were a crab, I would
run the wrong way, not
toward the water at all,
but toward the camera.

IV

The last time I went to the beach,
it was a cold and windy day.

I wasn’t dressed to swim, or even
to wade in salt water. Instead

I was dressed to walk along the beach
and look at the colors of plants

made from plastic – ironic colors
designed to contrast with the grey sky.

I was dressed to discover a dead sea lion
on the beach. To see it from a distance,

but not to get too close.

Polenta

2009-01-03T21:56:00.002-07:00

The purpose of this blog is to tell of polenta and its many wonders. Actually, I've no intention of doing anything of the kind. Instead, I have half a mind to write about Victory. What would be more interesting, however, is a discussion of the Curtiss Candy Company, and the Baby Ruth Candy Bar. Maybe you've heard it explained before that the Baby Ruth candy bar isn't named after Babe Ruth (which seems the obvious explanation for the name) but was instead named after Ruth Cleveland, the daughter of President Grover Cleveland who was born between his two terms as president. But apparently, this was all just a lie made up by the Curtiss Candy Company when they first made the Baby Ruth so that they couldn't be sued. This is all explained here. What is also fascinating is the merger history of Nabisco.

Another Strange Coincedence

2008-12-19T21:21:00.002-07:00

So not only did Mr. Mark Felt pass away yesterday, but Gov. Rod Blagojevich of Illinois quoted the poem "If" by Rudyard Kipling while claiming his own innocence today, which you'll remember was the other poem that Mr. Ernesto "Che" Guevara had memorized.

Why the 4377 not?

2008-12-18T14:38:00.010-07:00

I've got this idea that I think is fantastic. It's like, I don't want to study for my last final which I was supposed to take today (but maybe I'll put it off until tomorrow) because I can't stop thinking through the details of this idea, and how it could be pulled off.

Here's the idea:

I want to take a trip to Argentina, preferably with a few other people (a couple or three?) this summer with the purpose of writing a book. Maybe for all of May, or something.

The book would be in three parts, I think.

The first, and this is why it would require the trip, would be a collection of poems by amateur/unpublished Argentine poets. We would go around knocking doors, almost like missioning, but asking at each door if they know anyone who writes poetry. And we'd travel around the country for about a month doing this (while, of course, also seeing some sights, visiting friends...) until we found enough of these poets willing to have us put their poems in a book. We'd include the original poems plus our own translations.

Part two would be an account of our trip around Argentina finding poets. This could take a lot of different forms, and would probably take shape as the trip progressed. I'm thinking it might be nice to have one person on the trip with the assignment of documenting everything and putting together this part of the book.

The third part of the book would be a collection of true short stories. One for each poet featured - when we found them and got their poems, we would also interview them for biographical information and some interesting stories from their lives, or something like that.

So that's the idea. I actually am fairly serious about it - I've been wanting to go back to Argentina, and I figure the less I wait, the more likely it is to happen. And I think I'll have enough money to do it. Plus, if you're going to travel around Argentina, wouldn't knocking on doors looking for poets be a fantastic way to do it? If you can think of a better way, let me know. Anyone can go to the tourist sites, and can come away saying that they've seen the tourist sites. But this would be a way to have some real positive interaction with random people. The book, in some ways, just kind of serves as an excuse.

In posting this here, I'm inviting suggestions, and looking for collaborators. Really, I'm wondering if you'd like to join in, Tim. Not only would you be a great traveling companion in Argentina, but you've got those mad writing skills that would be so handy for writing a book. And Caitlin, you'd be much more than welcome to come. I'm sure you'd contribute in many ways, but the main one that comes to mind right now is you'd make it so people wouldn't think we were gay. If Tim gets you that Rosetta Stone software for Christmas, you'll be more fluent than either of us by May. (I don't know if there's anyone else who might read this that might be interested, but if you are, let me know.) But the problem is it would cost a bit of money - airfare is at least $1000 right now, and a month of hotels and food and traveling across a country won't be cheap, even if it is Argentina. Room sharing (but always complying completely with the Honor Code) could cut costs. If we find a way to boil potatoes (or get used to eating raw potatoes), we can dramatically cut food costs.

I guess taking a month off of work/school could also be difficult. But worth it.

Also, I'm wondering about other people to invite. I was thinking I'd invite Chandler - he's got his reasons to want to return to Argentina, knows the East coast better than any of us, and could also contribute positively to a book. I don't know how his financial situation looks, but my gut tells me he's loaded. Even if he is kind of cold.

Do you think there's some kind of grant floating around out there for cross-cultural poetry-related book-writing? I'll look. Maybe there's something more that could be added to the plan to get it funded somehow. Or if someone has some rich relatives? Or maybe some random person with plenty of money will stumble across this blog and feel the sudden urge to donate to the cause...? We could work out a deal to give you a cut of any royalties from the book... (This even has major motion picture written all over it). Otherwise, it'll be a question of pinching pennies for a while. Or pinching Benjamins. But lawfully. If possible.

And if you don't want to go/can't afford it/can't take the time off, it will break my heart and I'll become depressed and spend all of the rest of my life wondering about what could have been. But don't worry about it.

So what do you say?

El Gaucho Martín Fierro

2008-12-16T21:30:00.005-07:00

I was reading up on Ernesto "Che" Guevara today, after he was used as an example in our priesthood meeting, and then there were comments made later that seemed potentially uninformed. They were. And please don't take this as any kind of endorsement of brutality and revolution, etc., but I learned something very impressive about El Che. "He could . . . recite Kipling's "If"and Hernández's "Martín Fierro" from memory." (That's from Wikipedia.) They don't make clear if he could recite "If" in English or Spanish, probably English (which would make it a little more impressive), but Martín Fierro (a 2,316 line epic poem), that's incredible. Maybe there was something wrong with him.

Something else I learned about Che, and this was from the movie Motorcycle Diaries, is that he was a poor dancer. Or at least that's what they showed. I was just at a dance party, though very briefly, because I don't dance. I can't swim or dance. I'm too cool to swim or dance. Which isn't actually true, but it's a line from a song - spoken by Sir Nose Devoid-of-funk, or something like that. I took swimming lessons for several years, and earned the swimming merit badge. And I took a dance class in high school and had the top grade in the class (largely due to the importance of attendance to the grades). But I've never understood the kind of dancing that goes on at a "dance party." Everyone just kind of jumps around randomly, which is kind of funny to watch, but I really can't see anything enjoyable about doing it. And I'd think maybe my hesitation in dancing in this type of venue related to my self-consciousness, but I've never had any desire to dance like that, even when I'm completely alone. But I won't hold it against you if you enjoy dancing at dance parties, some of my best friends dance at dance parties. And when I see them, I laugh at them, because they look ridiculous. I almost feel like they're acting this way to fit in with Provo College Student social norms, but they claim they enjoy it, and I guess I can't prove that they don't. I mean, I enjoy Sacred Harp Singing, and some people can't understand that.

In summary, any movie can be made a little more humorous if it includes a scene with a communist revolutionary trying to dance a tango to a mambo.

Fusion

2008-12-16T20:37:00.003-07:00

I've decided that one of my favorite things about my current living arrangements is that I cook for myself, meaning I can fix whatever I want and will only have to answer to myself. For example, yesterday I fixed butter beans with onions sauteed in olive oil and grenadine syrup with garlic, cinnamon, and parmesan. You have no idea how delicious they were (and very pink). I would never just throw grenadine syrup into my onions if someone else were going to eat the food, but since it was for me, why the 4377 not? And today I was fixing some cheese and spinach tortellinis, and I prepared my own sauce. It started out kind of standard - stewed tomatoes with plenty of garlic, "Italian seasoning" (a McCormick herb blend), a little olive oil, and some salt. Which is about where I would have left it if anyone else were going to eat it. But because they weren't, I figured, 'what the heck,' and threw in some cinnamon, a lot of paprika, some chipotle hot sauce, and some milk to make it creamy. And it was incredible. Similar story with the honey-nutmeg black-eyed peas with extra-sharp cheddar cheese. Or this morning's improvised recipe for huevos rancheros. Or the soy-dogs with cinnamon and garlic. Or the Pero (like Postum but they still make it) with a little cocoa in it this afternoon.

You may have noticed that cinnamon and garlic are pretty common to these dishes. This is because I don't have a lot of spices/seasonings, but I've got cinnamon and garlic. And they are pretty much good in anything, especially together.

Thinking about it though, I do make some pretty fantastic food for other people - over the Thanksgiving break I fixed enchiladas verdes with green chile, mole verde, and crema fresca for my family. But I didn't add any cinnamon. So I guess I'm just a little more conservative in cooking for others, though I'm still an amazing cook. Let me tell you, every meal you eat that I didn't prepare, you're missing out.

Stanley

2008-12-14T13:31:00.003-07:00

So there's this kid Stanley, right, except that's not really his name because he's from Taiwan and just uses the name Stanley here in the states. He's in my ward, right, and he used to sing with me in the ward choir - meaning he came to a couple of choir practices and maybe even sang once with the choir in sacrament meeting, I'm not sure - but he stopped because he claims he can't sing. He's really not that bad, he just doesn't read music which makes it hard for him. But he's given me some good advice, like never send a girl flowers after just one or two dates, and buy the Taiwanese cookies in a pointed box at Chao's (I didn't - I think I may have found them, but they looked more like a diet biscuit than something I'd actually want to eat, so I decided maybe it was the wrong pointed box). He also told me that I look like a polygamist because I almost always wear button-up shirts. But today, for the second time, he told me that I did a good job singing with the choir - that my voice really stuck out. I tried to explain to him last time that in choirs, you're supposed to blend, so saying that my voice stuck out isn't really a compliment at all - more like a criticism. But he told me the same thing again today. He's probably right, but it's not my fault if every other guy in the choir can't hold a candle to my singing volume. I mean, the choir director told us all to sing a lot louder. Everyone else just sang a little louder, but I was obedient and sang a lot louder. Which led Stanley to compliment me on sticking out. He also said if he were to rob a bank, he'd need a driver and one person to hold the door. So if you read something about me being arrested as the door holder in a bank heist, you'll know why.

Soil Degradation

2008-12-11T17:53:00.004-07:00

"Journalists sometimes describe unsexy subjects as MEGO: My eyes glaze over. Alas, soil degradation is the essence of MEGO."

This is from Our Good Earth in the September issue of National Geographic. It's an enthralling article, all about soil degradation.

The final question and answer on this page show just how exciting soil really is, though.

J Pinder

2008-12-04T20:32:00.006-07:00

The title of this post has to do with a cat. My family has four cats now, the best being Sam. The others are Harold (We usually call her Harry - Hera has also been used, though without official sanction [though she is a girl, so some feel it's more appropriate {though it's not her name}]), Lily, and the Gray Cat. I think Tim knows all about the first three cats, I think I maybe even told you about the Gray Cat some time about a year ago. But I probably didn't give you all the details. I certainly haven't given all the details to everyone.

So about two years ago, a little less than two years ago, we got a new cat. There are differing versions of how this came about. I wasn't around at the time, otherwise I could give a definitive answer as to which version is correct. My mom claims that this gray kitten followed the visiting teachers in. Or showed up about when they did and was still on the porch when they left. My brother Nathan explained that he was singing some Sacred Harp music, and this gray kitten showed up at the door meowing. Either way, it was really cold, and it was a small kitten, so they brought it in. I'm inclined to believe the second version of how the gray cat came, for reasons which will be explained.

Once it became clear that we were going to keep this gray kitten, the question of a name arose. I don't remember all the names that were suggested, I'm sure I never heard all of them. Here are some that I do remember: Cleburn, Blendan, Joaquin V. Gonzalez, Blanding, Buen Orden, Ninja Demon, Charly, Frankie, Jimmie, Kai, Spider, Jiminy, Freddie, Remedios Escalada de San Martin, Suomi, Jimmy Peanut, and Strawberry Clean (which I think came from a mis-hearing of Strawberry Queen). Also possibly Socks. J Pinder is short for Jimmy Peanut. If you can figure that out. When she was taken to the vet for the first time to get shots, we figured we'd have to give them a name for her records. This turned out not to be the case, they were fine with just listing her as Cat.

Her name ended up being Gray Cat. She likes to play, to shred paper towels, to catch cockroaches in my brother's closet and take them into the dining room to play with them, to open bags of noodles, and loud singing.

Whenever anyone is singing in my home, the Gray Cat will show up, especially if they're singing loudly. I like to play civil war songs on the piano and sing them loudly - The Vacant Chair or Who'll Save the Left are her favorites - and she'll come and walk around me meowing or she'll jump up onto my lap or grab my arms. This Sunday, I was at home for Christmas related festivities, and while my family sang Christmas songs around the table for Advent, the Gray Cat walked around the table meowing and then got up onto the table walking from person to person.

I'm ashamed to admit that I don't have any photos of any of these cats available to me immediately. Instead, here are some pictures of orange cubic zirconia (a total of 40 cts) and an artificial star sapphire (3.15 cts):

Possible injury

2008-11-24T00:25:00.002-07:00

So I woke up during the night last night not feeling well, and walked into the bathroom where I guess I fainted because I woke up on the bathroom floor. So I got up and I guess I fainted again because again I came to lying face down on the bathroom floor. So I got up again and started to feel dizzy so I got down on the floor and didn't faint. I must have hit the wall and/or other things on one or both (I think both) of those falls because I've got some bumps and/or bruises on my head now.

This has led me to a couple of questions:

1. How can you fall face first and cut the back of your ear?
2. Why on earth would your body wake itself up so it can faint? Couldn't I just have fainted in my sleep and saved us all a lot of trouble?
3. Can you faint because of something you ate?
4. Can you faint from a broken heart?
5. Does anyone want to take a trip to Argentina this summer?

Whims

2008-11-21T20:24:00.005-07:00

Sometimes I do things on a whim. For example, I might buy imitation almond extract (benzaldehyde) or peppermint oil on a whim. Or I might give my little brother the chocolate I just bought on a whim. Or I may learn pager code or send flowers on a whim.

So today, on a whim, I decided to take a bus north. See, I got out of class at 1 pm without any obligations for the rest of the day, and I thought maybe I'd read a book I've been wanting to read, and I wondered whether I'd rather read it in the library or in the attic in which I live or elsewhere. And I thought, why not on a bus headed north? So I took the first bus that came by - the 830. I decided to then transfer to the 811 which got me to TRAX. I was thinking of maybe even taking Front Runner to Ogden or something. But instead I remembered how to get to a park, so I got off on 21st South and took the 21 bus east to the park where I read for a while. Then I walked a little before taking the 21 west back to the TRAX station, from which I took another train north to Temple Square where I got out and walked around for 10 minutes before catching the next train south. It was much colder than I expected. I only had on a light jacket. Light in terms of insulating ability, but dark blue in color. I also walked through water (for the sake of consistency) that was deeper than I'd expected at this park, so my feet were wet. They still are - I'll have to take off these shoes before too long. I then took the 811 back to Provo. It was almost a seven hour trip. I read about 160 pages. Maybe I'll finish the book tonight - I've only got about 40 pages left. And nothing better to do unless another whim hits me.

These are some things that happened:

A goose hissed at me. There were geese at the park, and I walked near them and one hissed. I was in the act of apologizing to the geese for intruding when this one hissed, which made me feel bad. And caused me to fear for my life. There were a lot of geese there.

While walking quickly to try and keep warm at Temple Square, a kind upper-middle-aged man with a wool top coat and a white name tag thought I might be lost and told me I had to go all the way around the fence to get out. I thanked him, and said to myself, "Couldn't I jump over the fence as well?" There are a lot of metaphors involving jumping fences. All of them go back to how my dog didn't jump over the fence in my back yard.

A drunk man got onto the TRAX train headed south, and tripped on the stairs. I almost stood up to help him to his feet, but he was already managing on his own. He wasn't all that drunk. This reminded me of a man (I can't remember his name - this is going to bother me until I do remember, I may have to look it up) in San Martin, Argentina, who I helped out of a ditch after he'd failed to ride his bike successfully while drunk. He was all that drunk. He kissed my hand several times. This memory may also have contributed to my hesitation in helping the gentleman on the train today.

I loaned my cellular telephone to a stranger on the 811 bus heading to Provo. He talked for 3 minutes and 14 seconds to someone that he loved, and who had been expecting him on an earlier bus. I've found that one of the best reasons to have a cellular telephone is to be able to loan it to people on buses.

The time has come

2008-11-20T12:26:00.002-07:00

Of all the stories I could tell about pie, I've decided to tell one. This is about Chess pie. This didn't happen to me. It happened to my brother.

So my brother was living in Baltimore for a little while. In fact, I sort of helped him move into the house where he lived there, and spent a couple nights sleeping on a mattress on the floor of his room. It was not a level floor by any means. The floor also creaked. So it was hard coming in at four in the morning after a 12 hour drive back from Atlanta after the Chattahoochee Singing Convention without waking anyone else up. It was an old house. So the guy who owned the house was kind of a character, to say the least. Which later turned to creepy. By the time he moved out, my brother suspected that he was stealing and/or reading his mail. He was a relatively wealthy man who made it reasonably big in the perfume industry. My brother was making a chess pie at one point, and this gentleman came in and asked what he was making, and asked how it was made and they talked for several minutes about chess pie while my brother finished preparing it for baking. He went to the oven to turn it on, and the owner said, "Oh, the oven's broken." So my brother couldn't bake his chess pie. He thought it was interesting that he'd waited to tell him that the oven was broken until the pie was ready to go into the oven.

I don't know what became of that unbaked chess pie. Maybe it was thrown away. Maybe it was taken to someone with an oven. Maybe it was frozen until it could be taken to someone with an oven. Maybe it was frozen until the oven was repaired. Maybe it was eaten raw. Maybe it was eaten raw by squirrels. These are all possibilities, some of them much more likely than others.

Cry

2008-11-19T16:55:00.002-07:00

Isaac Newton and Gottfried Leibniz – When Isaac Newton published his Law of Universal Gravitation in 1687, he immediately met with criticism from the great German mathematician Gottfried Leibniz. To Leibniz, the idea that one object can affect another object millions of miles away was totally absurd. He dismissed the whole idea as a "self-perpetuating miracle." Newton, who was a very devout man, replied in essence, "I don’t know how God made it that way, I only know that he did make it that way."

This is something I read today that brought me to tears. I knew it would when I chose to read it. It's funny how context can change everything. This is actually a paragraph from a talk my dad gave at my grandfather's funeral. I was in Argentina when he gave it, and he sent me a copy. For some reason this is perhaps the most powerful part of that talk for me.

I wrote a poem yesterday about a conversation with my dog on the eve of her death and an incident with my grandma shortly before her death, and maybe about other losses. This is what led me to read this today - I was looking to cry.

Christ said, "Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit."

A Remarkable encounter

2008-11-14T16:04:00.002-07:00

So, this seemed remarkable to me. I don't think that it necessarily is. In either October or November of 2002, I took the SAT. I'm leaning towards October, because I think it was after the Thanksgiving break that Catherine Green mysteriously knew my score. It turned out not to be such a mystery. But as I was leaving the testing center after completing the test, this other kid who'd also just taken it asked me about one of the questions on the math part, wondering what I'd put and if he'd done it right. My feeling is that I recognized this kid from the 1999 Central Utah Science and Engineering Fair as being a student at Meridian, a private school in Provo. I later had a one week class with him as I started at BYU, so maybe I found out he went to Meridian then. If you know Avi Giliadi, who was on my soccer team when I was in about 6th grade, this kid reminds me of Avi. I probably wouldn't recognize Avi any more, but I think of his name whenever I see this kid. I don't know this kid's name.

Here's where the remarkability index jumps through the roof:
So yesterday I took the GRE (also produced by ETS, and with a very similar format to the SAT, though they didn't have the writing section in 2002). And just now, I saw that same kid from Meridian. I didn't talk to him, he was just walking by outside. But it seemed remarkable that I would see him on today of all days.

Dead plums

2008-11-06T21:00:00.004-07:00

This is a photograph of the dead plums mentioned in an earlier post.

It's a scan of the original film picture, so it's a bit dark.

Although photographs were taken of the freezer full of ashes, I'm not currently in possession of any of them.

And while I'm at it, I mentioned stair descent as being one of my talents - another of my talents is picking good citrus fruit at the grocery store.

The sage is full of anxiety and indecision in undertaking anything, and so he is always successful.

2008-11-05T11:21:00.003-07:00

These are two things I've been meaning to bring up (up with which I've been meaning to bring):

1. I saw this sign on campus that said: "Redefine Service - It only takes a thought." I thought this was fantastic. I'm glad I don't have to actually physically do anything to serve any more now that I've redefined service. I just think about service and I'm set.

2. Almost everyone I know (that is, at least 1 in 10 people) has complained about the two presidential candidates, saying they don't think that they can vote for either of them or that they'll pick the lesser of two evils. I think this is interesting, because I'm 99% certain that if, two years ago, you'd asked me to pick my favorite Republican and my favorite Democrat to be the presidential candidates, I would have chosen John McCain and Barack Obama. Actually, two years ago I was in Tupungato, Mendoza, Argentina with Rodolfo Barros and wasn't thinking much about politics. But I still would have given you those names. I was thrilled with the choices this year. They sent shivers up my leg. I could see them in Russia from my doorstep. Etc.

PERFECTION essay as per your request

2008-11-02T20:21:00.007-07:00

This is the essay I wrote, about which I told you. Unless I didn't tell you about it, because I've only told a couple people about it and I imagine only one of them might ever read this. Though there's a chance that another might at some point. But pretty much, this is for you Austin.

I already explained a little of the background of this essay to Austin. For anyone else, or as a refresher with some new details, I wrote this for a scholarship application. The prompt asked us to write a question that would demonstrate our uniqueness, and then to answer it. The length limit was one page with 10 pt font and 1 inch margins in Microsoft Word (I think). I told people who asked what I'd chosen for a question that I'd written on "When do you like to paint the rainbows." Sometimes I left the "the" out. I really did consider writing on this question, but decided not to be so * * creative. This was probably in my best interest.

Before I paste the essay, I thought I might make a comment. I've often felt that my Senior year in high school was kind of my high point in terms of writing ability. But reading this essay that I considered my best work at the time I wrote it (late December of 2002), I feel that there are a lot of things which I could improve. I mean, just some pretty basic punctuation and grammar and word choice things in addition to some more overarching content issues. A couple lines in there I'd like to go back and bash up note by note. So maybe my writing ability hasn't declined as much as I'd thought. Or maybe I'm just vain enough to always consider my current writing style as something about which it's worth writing home. Either way, I've always (or at least for the last several years) been very sensitive to dangling prepositions.

Though now re-reading it again, I recognize that I could never hope to replicate some of the syntax I was busting out back then. I mean, look at the first sentence in the Christmas paragraph - no way can I see myself writing that kind of a sentence today. And then juxtaposed with the other sentence in the paragraph... not to brag, but...

Anyway, the essay:

If tonight you were to set the alarm on your clock for "PERFECTION," when would it wake you?

I suppose to answer this question I must first define perfection. Webster's Dictionary defines perfection very well, I'm sure, but all I've got is World Book, and neither Mr. Webster nor the good people at World Book wrote my question. I personally struggle to define perfection, for it carries with it a certain ineffable quality. It is flawlessness, but such a definition requires a knowledge of what is or isn't a flaw. It is unsurpassable excellence, but then one must designate that which can or can't be surpassed. The definition on which I have settled still fails to fully describe all the facets of perfection, but I think it allows for the individual to see an individual perfection. For the purposes of this essay, and for the purposes of my present life, I'll define perfection as a state in which everything is as it should be. What, then, is my personal perfection? I am confident that there is no single answer to such a question. I can imagine innumerable situations that would be, by my definition, perfect. I have lived through innumerably more. Life is, for me, a continuing perfection, a perfection which I can only begin to describe, a perfection that defies all description. All I can do is illustrate a few examples of this perfection. All I can say is that everything is as it should be.

Perfection is gathering with my family on Christmas morning and, when the colorless glow from the pre-dawn sky fills the room with a very little light, when 400 vividly colored bulbs on a half-dozen strands of K-Mart lights tangled around a slightly sagging Christmas tree fill the room with a little more light, we sing and read in absolute unison of Christ, some of us smiling, some of us crying, all of us smiling, all filling the room with absolute light. This is perfection.

I often find perfection in music. Playing the organ for seventy priesthood holders every Sunday, though a number of them are somewhat less than vocally inclined, is perfect. Singing with the ward choir is perfect. Playing viola with the high school orchestra, playing to the point of "truculence," beyond the breaking point of not a few of my bow hairs, playing so quietly I have to strain to hear anything, all of this is perfection. Playing the piano, whether it's Brahms, the Beatles, or Blind Boone, I find perfection. Shape Note Singing, a capella, with a slightly nasal tone, the loudest slightly nasal tone I can muster, singing at the top of my lungs until my voice goes hoarse, taking a five-minute break to suck madly away at a cough drop, and then singing a bit more, this is perfection. I've been told this will ruin my voice, but I don't do it often, and when I do, it gives me more joy than I can comprehend. If my voice goes, it will go perfectly.

Perfection is researching cars, cameras, or, though he isn't so handily alliterative this time, Blind Boone.

Perfection is a 73-year-old Bishop who has seen and done it all, or at least all that is worth seeing and doing. A Bishop who was once mayor, who was once on the high-council, who was once a talented artist, who was once a prize-winning gardener, who served for thirty years as a fireman, who last week pulled someone else's calf from the canal, who wouldn't give a dime to a dishonest customer, but would give his last cent and his right hand for an honest friend in need. A Bishop who once climbed mountains. When I see such a man crumple in tears at the mention of his father, that too is perfection.

Perfection is sitting alone on a faded wooden bench under an apple tree that hasn't been pruned for years, and watching the snow fall. It is silent. There is no wind, so the snow comes straight down; that is, unless I watch the individual flakes, for they drift here and there and a little closer, a little to the left, before they fade into the ground. If I try hard enough, maybe I too could fade without sound into the wet, brown grass. It is still silent. And then, I, driven by some force far quieter than the snow, but just as real and just as strong, I shout. There are no words, just a rush of joy, a rush of praise, a rush of perfection. All quickly fades to silent when I close my lips. And though I am certain the noise traveled no more than a foot or two from me, the sound, like that of the falling snow, echoes eternally.

This earth was created by a perfect being, who came here and lived a perfect life. There were no mistakes in the creation of the world, nor in the creation of man, and although there is vast evil in the world, that is only temporary, because no mistakes have been or will be made in the Lord's plan. Our God would not allow anything to be anything but what it should be. Such a testimony of a perfect gospel is a very comforting perfection.

I have found perfection in a hundred-thousand places, but the nearest is here and now. Perfection is sitting in an oversized folding-chair with a small brown cat curled up next to me, just barely purring. Perfection is using the line, "Neither Mr. Webster nor the good people at World Book," it is making subtle jokes about Blind Boone, it is writing an essay that I think I really like.

When, then, would my alarm clock wake me if set for "PERFECTION?" Tomorrow is Tuesday, and I have to catch the bus, so it will wake me at 5:51 A.M. I will hit the snooze button once, and only once, and I will truly wake up at six o'clock, half-ready for another perfect day. That, I think, is the way it should be.

Shorthand

2008-10-29T22:22:00.004-06:00

Who wants to learn shorthand? If you ask me, it could be the new pager code. Well, maybe not. But it might be more practical, if not nearly as cool.

Pie

2008-10-26T15:55:00.002-06:00

I was thinking earlier that I've had enough experiences involving pies recently (as well as over the course of my life) that I could write a decent blog entry on the subject. The pies include:

Pumpkin
Apricot
Strawberry Rhubarb
Pecan
Some kind of Cranberry with cream...
Chess
Blueberry
Vanilla Cream (small and half)
Aunt Maureen's Chocolate Pie
Key Lime (x3 + )

But right now I kind of think that this is neither the time nor the place...

One of the best days of my life

2008-10-19T17:57:00.005-06:00

Today isn't yet over, but I expect by the end it will still be one of the best days of my life.

In sacrament meeting today, I sat next to Stanley, who's in the Elders quorum presidency. He asked me to play the piano for our priesthood meeting. The hymn was 322, Come All Ye Sons of God. (He had it written down as Come All Thy Sons of God.) This isn't an hymn that I've played a lot, but I'm pretty sure I've played it a couple of times in the past. So I wasn't too worried about playing it without practicing in advance.

As announcements were being made at the opening of the priesthood meeting, I decided I probably ought to open the lid a bit on the baby grand piano in the chapel, because a musical number that had been played on it earlier was a little quiet with the lid closed. And this was supposed to be kind of a rousing song, and I was also a little afraid that people wouldn't know it well, so quiet piano wouldn't help them sing with confidence. So I opened the lid.

We got to the hymn, and I thought it went fine. There's one spot that was a little tricky for me, and I had to improvise a little leaving out a couple of notes, but overall it went fine. There were two things that could have been better - I couldn't see the kid who was leading the music very well, and I couldn't tell if he was trying to speed things up, slow them down, or if he just didn't know how to conduct music very well. In trying to look around the lid to see him and follow the music that I didn't know very well, I decided maybe it was the third, so I just ignored him and played at what I felt was a reasonable tempo. The other thing that could have been improved was the singing, which seemed kind of weak and disengaged. Like maybe most people didn't know the song very well. I tried to play with gusto to encourage a similar response from the congregation, but I didn't get it. Neither of these two things bothered me too much, but they could have been improved.

But this was the best, or possibly second best part of the story: The instructor who gave the lesson today in Elders quorum began by apologizing for the hymn, which he said he chose - he had hoped for a rousing priesthood song. And he pointed at me (I was on the front row) and said, "It wasn't your fault that it was so slow," which got a decent laugh, at least from me and my friends sitting right behind me. I'm pretty sure if it was anyone's fault, it was mine, because I had chosen to ignore the conductor. (I'm still fairly confident that he wasn't trying to speed things up, but if he was then it was even more my fault.) The instructor mentioned how songs at devotionals just really drag, and that this hymn had felt that way. I felt a little bad that he'd felt it had dragged, but really I thought the tempo was fine so I enjoyed the way he pretty directly criticized me by trying not to criticize me.

A little later he asked me to read something, and pointed at me and said, "Piano player..." searching for my name. Robbie then sent me a note (written in pager code) saying that he and Greg are now going to call me piano player.

This is possibly the best, or second best part of the story: After the meeting ended, the 1st counselor in our bishopric, who's a really nice older man, came up to me and made sure I understood how much he appreciated my piano playing, and he thought it was a fine tempo. And he told me about his nephew who plays piano and asked me some questions about what I like to play, and said I need to make sure I don't neglect other aspects of my life, which was his lead-in to ask, "How's your dating life?" I told him I'm not an avid dater.

And then the executive secretary in the ward (who's an excellent pianist) came up to me and told me he thought I'd played the hymn just fine. And later the Bishop told me he'd liked how I played the hymn.

I think it was just those three, though there may well have been another person who said about the same thing. If I'd been hurt by the instructor's remark, these comments would have been incredibly appreciated and helpful. Because I wasn't, they were incredibly appreciated, if not necessarily helpful. It's nice to have such nice people around. This could be an indication that people see me as insecure - I'm generally not.

This played a small role in making the day so great. Another thing that was enjoyable was in our ward choir when the director told the basses to bring out one part where we had a slightly different rhythm, and told us to sing as loud as we could. I didn't, but I did sing out loud enough on that one distinct note that she looked up and laughed each time.

This reminds me of high school orchestra - every now and then Mrs. Larsen, the director, would tell the violas to play out in a part of a song. It was my goal to make sure that that never happened without her later telling us to tone it down just a bit. I was generally successful. I can't claim that I played viola particularly well in terms of tone, but I can claim that I played viola particularly loudly if I felt like it. We recorded a tape to send to Knott's Berry Farm before we played there on our "tour." (We played out in a barn where no one ever went, and our audience consisted entirely of our high school marching band which we accompanied on this tour. We didn't play anywhere else.) Mrs. Larsen played the tape back for us, and I could be heard above all the violins combined. This can be explained not only by my exceptional loudness, but also by the exceptional weakness of our violins. And by the fact that one of the two microphones used to record us was hanging about three feet above me.

Two not entirely unrelated items

2008-10-17T11:17:00.008-06:00

The first item to which I refer in the title is the story of my first date.

The second is pager code. Last night on a whim I decided to learn pager code provided that Robbie would do the same. He agreed, and by now we're practically experts. Any one who wants to be cool should also learn pager code. My understanding is that pager code was invented to make something like text messaging possible with pagers. It's a list of numbers that represent letters. The only complicated part (once you've learned your alphabet) is that letters aren't separated within words, and there's some overlap. For example, 11111111 could be wwu, wuiu, wuvu, iwwi, vuuv, iiiiiiii, viwu, etc. And 177177 could be illnt, njm, itlmj, etc. I've also noticed that so far, we've kind of ignored punctuation. 8117 865156774, 969312 5003 15 11164 700 5007.

This is what happened on my first date:

This is what happened before my first date:

This girl (for this blog I'll call her "Maryn") came up to me during lunch at my high school one day in October 2002. She asked if I wanted to go with her to Masquerade (which was traditionally a girl's choice dance). I maybe acted a little taken back, because I was, but said sure. She asked if I wouldn't like to think it over for a day before I made any commitments. So I said sure. And the next day she asked if I'd thought it over, and I guess I sort of had, but really there wasn't much about which to think, and so arrangements were made for the date.

This is what happened on my first date:

I remember that I was wearing dark brown pants and a green shirt, because my sister told me I looked like a tree. I don't think she meant it as a compliment, but maybe subconsciously she was thinking about that poem "I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a tree." And Maryn picked me up, and didn't mention trees. We were with one other couple, and were to meet up with a larger group at another girl's home. We got there, and no one was around, so Maryn found the back door was unlocked and let us in. This was a slightly uncomfortable situation, sitting around in this home that we'd entered questionably, but it got much worse when the parents of the girl for whom we were waiting showed up. They seemed rather surprised to see us, but were kind enough to let us explain that we were waiting for their daughter who was already nearly an hour late. Finally, and I'm not sure how because this was before cellular telephones were in such widespread use, we got in contact with the missing girl and discovered that she'd forgotten that they were supposed to meet us and had already gone off and begun the major activities of the evening. It was Masquerade, so for costumes we were supposed to go buy random stuff from DI. They'd already finished this, we hurried and got some ridiculous stuff, then went to dinner at someone else's home - they'd ordered pizzas, but because we were more than an hour late, there were about three slices left for the four of us. Maryn excused herself and I chatted with a friend, explaining when he asked about my costume that I didn't realize we were supposed to dress up. (I was wearing a quasi-terrible knit Halloween vest and some semi-ugly pants.) And when I went outside to find my date, I discovered that she was recovering from a crying spell, being comforted by another girl. I guess things were going poorly enough that she felt bad. I tried (but not effectively) to help her feel better. This was probably the most difficult moment of the evening for me, because I felt really sorry for her, but didn't know what to do.

The low point of the evening for her was yet to come, however. We were driving somewhere (I'm not sure where) and following behind the girl who had earlier abandoned us. We had to make a left turn onto SR 198 between Spanish Fork and Salem, and as the lead vehicle pulled out, Maryn took advantage of the small break in traffic to follow closely. But the first car (a Bronco) stalled and we rear-ended them. Luckily, the bronco's trailer hitch hit the center of our license plate, and folded the plate in half, but there was no other contact between the vehicles. Maryn's dad hadn't wanted to let her drive, and had made her promise to be careful, so she was terrified of the consequences of this incident. We went to another girl's home, and her brother used a hammer to try and flatten out the license plate so it wouldn't look so bad.

The dance itself was kind of boring - none of us really felt like dancing after all that. I don't know that I've ever really felt like dancing. So we sat around for a little while, danced a couple songs because it seemed imperative, and then we took off. We got Frostys from Wendy's, and went home. I had a fantastic time, I really couldn't stop laughing, though I tried to because I felt bad for Maryn, but really, it was kind of hilarious.

Now I'll repeat that story, but in pager code:

657116774, 1 1110177.

See how much more concise that is? And way too cool.

Probably not really blog appropriate

2008-10-16T12:32:00.004-06:00

Apologies to those who have been impressed by the consistency of theme in this blog, but this post is now necessary.

In my high school, the yearbook staff would conduct a survey of seniors each year to name the "most-____"/"best-____"/"etc.-_____" students in the class. For example, my older brother won the "best-sideburns" award. I've got friends who were named "biggest brown noser" or "most-smartest." Other categories included "most likely to multiply and replenish the earth" or "best polished gun." I can't be certain that I didn't just make up that last one, but I'm 99% sure that I did.

When I was a senior, I had a certain reputation. "Diffident with the ladies" is how one friend put it at the time. More recently, another friend described it as "not an avid dater." I figure anyone who is reading this probably recognizes that both of those statements are putting things mildly. Because of this, someone (my memory could be wrong on this one - and I'm not sure if I ever knew the entire story - but my feeling is that it was Mary Wollenzien) decided it would be funny if I won "biggest-flirt." And Mary, being on the yearbook staff, made sure to tell everyone to put me down for that category as they voted. Apparently, this was effective enough that I won. Either that or they lied and claimed I won any way.

You might think that I could have reacted negatively to this. You'd never vote for a self-conscious kid with a bad stutter for "best public speaker." But I couldn't have reacted negatively because I knew that this was all only done with the best on intentions. And, though I'm a little self-conscious about my speech (I went to a speech pathologist in elementary school because I couldn't pronounce my "s"s well [and though I've improved, I still wonder if I don't have a bit of a lisp that no one {out of kindness} mentions]), I don't stutter. So I just laughed at the biggest flirt thing as much as everyone else, if not more.

The sad part of this story is that for each category, they had a male winner and a female winner. And I had to go get my picture taken with my female counterpart for the yearbook, and she was in tears. She won because she really was a flirt, but felt really bad that people felt that way about her. (I think she also had a boyfriend, and she didn't think he'd be too happy with her receiving this honor.)

I was also told that I had received the most votes for "most-smartest" [sic] but that there was a rule that any individual could only win in one category, and the year book staff decided I should win the "biggest-flirt" award. I don't know if this is true (it could be, I had a reputation for more than just being really shy), it kind of has the feel of something someone might make up to make sure I didn't feel bad.

Anyway, this label is one that has brought me untold grief ever since. And all of it (100.00%) has come from my youngest brother. The same one who ate all the gumballs.

This is the explanation.

Five years ago today

2008-10-11T20:45:00.006-06:00

I don't remember the actual date. It would be easy to look up. But it was in October of 2003, and it was the day of the BYU Homecoming Parade. As was today. So I'll claim it was five years ago today. This is what was significant about that day:

Unlike today, I went to watch the parade with my family. I was living in the Deseret Towers (may they rest in peace) at the time, and walked down to the arboretum where my family typically has gone to watch the parade. I don't know if they were at the arboretum this year, or if they even went at all because I didn't think about it until too late, and they never contacted me to see if I wanted to join them, so maybe they didn't go? I'll have to clear this up with them shortly. But as I was walking past the Law building, I remember distinctly thinking that time did not matter on this day. I don't think I was wearing a watch. My reason for this will be made clear shortly. But I remember thinking, "there are days when time matters, but this isn't one of them," or possibly, "today, unlike some other days, time doesn't matter." I really don't remember the exact words that I thought, see, but I remember the overall idea of the thoughts that I had while walking past the law building. It was overcast or early, probably overcast because it wouldn't have been very early. And the leaves on the trees near the law building had changed from green to yellow, meaning that they were yellow on this particular day. After the parade, I went shopping with my family. I'm sure at least two (probably three) of my brothers were there, as was my mom. I'm not sure about the rest of the family. My sister would have gone, in all likelihood. We went to K-mart. I think it was the Provo K-mart, though it could have been Spanish Fork. $50 says it was Provo. And of all things, I decided to buy a watch. Which didn't seem out of the ordinary at the time - I needed a new one. The band had broken on the old watch, so I kept it in my pocket. Then the face got crushed. It was plastic instead of glass. Glass would probably have been crushed just as easily. So I needed a new watch. But it wasn't until a little later that it struck me as unusual that I should buy a watch on the very day in which time didn't matter. I chose one with a silver band and a dark blue face. Acqua brand, with indiglo function. I'm wearing it as I type. I haven't had to change the battery in the last five years. I didn't wear this watch for a few months in Argentina for fear that I would get robbed. (I did get robbed once while I wasn't wearing this watch, and the punks would have certainly taken it if I had been). But I kept it by my bed and used it to check the time whenever I woke up during the night and wondered what time it was. This is where the indiglo function became very useful. I recently wore it while camping in Guatemalan subtropical forests. Our only water supply (other than the huge amount of rain that fell essentially every night) was the Usumacinta river. We swam in the river to bathe. The first day I did this, I forgot to take off my watch. It says it's water resistant to 30 meters. Apparently water resistant has nothing to do with keeping water from filling the inside of the watch. So until I left Guatemala, really, there were droplets of water inside the face of the watch that made it difficult to read, especially when it got hot (all the time) - the water inside the watch would heat up and evaporate, but wouldn't escape and would just turn to kind of a fog on the inside of the glass. After this the indiglo function quickly dimmed until it stopped working all together. Then after a couple of weeks the watch finally stopped keeping time. I took the back off the watch when I returned to Utah to let things dry out, and intended to buy a new battery. But after a day or two I reassembled things and the watch returned to life. Even the indiglo function. And to this moment, it still runs just fine.

So even though time didn't matter when I bought this watch five years ago today, time did matter today. I checked the watch several times. Usually because I was late. And because I wasn't sure if I should leave the beekeeping class early. I was glad that I didn't. Some of the best information came at the end, and there wouldn't have been a telephone for me to conduct political surveys if I'd arrived at my next stop any earlier. Also, I needed to know when to take my next cold-eeze lozenge. I've heard more than one person swear by these drops. I got a cold on the banks of the Usumacinta and took them and was well sooner than anyone else. So I'm counting on similar results this time around.

The above-mentioned rain:

A love song

2008-10-10T21:06:00.006-06:00

I was told to write a love song. This was in May of 2003. This is what I wrote:

Dead Plums hang from
a dead branch, and there
is a freezer full of ashes buried in my back yard.

They hang there, as though
they might fall without
notice, just drop to the
ground, falling far enough
to destroy any desirable
quality they might have had.

And they might not
have had any such
quality.

But they won't fall.
They will hang on that
dead branch inexorably,
and inexorably, inscrutably, intolerably,
you
will desire them.

Tenacity binds them
to the branch and to you.

If only I were as tenacious.
If only I were among the ashes.

The story behind this is a very long one. I could write a novel and still not explain it thoroughly. (Theoretically speaking, of course - I don't know that I could really write a novel at all, other than by copying and pasting. There was nothing in the rules against copying and pasting. And I was the original author of everything copied and everything pasted. [This is another long story, and a very sad one if you ever read the novel that came out of it.])

These are the final paragraphs (with some slight edits and omissions) of that "novel":

As I was walking home, I thought maybe a car would hit me and kill me. Or maybe the bus could have been involved in an accident earlier. And either way I would die. I imagined that you would read the paper in the morning and see something about my accident, and you would come to my funeral and would cry...

As I was walking home, I thought maybe a car would hit me and kill me. Or maybe the bus could have been involved in an accident earlier. And either way I would die. I imagined that you would read the paper in the morning and see something about my accident. And you would be surprised and shocked and would think for a moment about how fragile life is.

And this is the logo I won for "finishing" my novel:

I titled it Self-Portrait as a Day Dream. The subtitle is "A cut-and-paste novel mostly never to be read." I've read everything in it, but not every time that it all appears. That's the benefit of cutting and pasting. You write one page, and with a few clicks, suddenly you have fifty. The rules never said anything about not cutting and pasting. Or copying and pasting. Which is really more what I did. It all had a purpose, though, in theory - the idea of repetition with small changes here and there.

Anyone who reads this 'blog entry' is welcome to ask for a copy of the novel. I'll probably turn them down. But I will write a novel about the love song for anyone who wants it. This is the advantage of a blog about rounders with visqueen. I can make any offer and not worry that anyone will take me up on it.

Found item of potential interest

2008-10-10T18:43:00.006-06:00

I found this in a bag of clothes that my brother was giving to charity:

As far as I can tell, 'Night Stalkers' doesn't have any meaning in any culture other than the obvious one. Hopefully this was just a poor translation. This link leads to a loosely related item of potential interest.

Smile

2008-10-04T22:16:00.004-06:00

There are times when I can't remember something, and it bothers me until I remember it. For example, tonight I was trying to remember the last name of a missionary with whom I lived for a couple months. After a couple minutes of thinking, I remembered just his first name. This was a little strange because I never called him by his first name. Also, his first name doesn't really suit him. I remembered his last name maybe half an hour later: Contreras.

Other things that have bothered me when I couldn't remember them:

- The word "vigilante." I spent several hours trying to remember that word one day in June (probably) 2006.

- What book it was that I'd read recently in which the narrator describes herself as "intense." That one kept coming back to haunt me off and on for a few days, though it didn't bother me constantly the way Elder Contreras or vigilante did. I did remember in the end when I couldn't stop trying to remember for a few minutes. It was Growing Anyway Up by Florence Parry Heide. I bought this book for my mom for Christmas last year, and read it over the break during the week that we were essentially without power (electrical). Part of the reason that I couldn't remember this book for a while is that I was expecting it to be something that I'd read more recently.

(This book is part of a story about Christmas gifts. Last year, I got this book for my mom, The Bigness Contest for my younger brother Evan, Tales For the Perfect Child for my older brother Nathan, and Fables You Shouldn't Pay Any Attention to for my sister Ellen. All of these were written by Florence Parry Heide [you may know her as the author of Treehorn Times Three. The last paragraph of the Wikipedia article about her is fascinating.] And actually, I may have the books reversed with Ellen and Nathan's gifts. But my mom had a similar idea and got Tales For the Perfect Child for William and Some Things are Scary [but in Spanish: ¡Qué horror! - also by Mrs. Heide] for me. And maybe one other? Possibly for Adam? Luckily, there was no overlap in giving the same book to the same person. A second interesting, probably absolutely remarkable story about Christmas gifts has to do with Billikens. These are luckier if stolen than if given as gifts.)

- For maybe a week last month I kept seeing in my mind the face of an actress who looks maybe tired or serious, then smiles briefly in a really sympathetic/kind sort of a way, and then drops the smile. I thought this might have been from a movie I'd seen, or a television show. I don't know how many times or for how many hours I tried to remember where I'd seen this smile. And then I remembered - it's from the Multigrain Cheerios commercial that they've been running recently and which I really think is kind of a poor commercial.

- One night, in a dream, I was talking with someone and couldn't remember the word for a scientist who studies insects. The only thing that came to me in this dream was optometrist, and I knew that that wasn't right. So I didn't sleep well that night because I kept half-waking up trying to remember the word. When I did wake up in the morning, I had to pause and focus and I remembered it right away, which was a relief. (If you see the glass as half-empty, you're a pessimist. If you see it as half-full, you're an optimist. And if you see the glass through lenses that you prescribed yourself, then you're an optometrist. [This came from the David Letterman show.])

Seminary Answers

2008-09-27T14:11:00.006-06:00

The title of this post doesn't have reference to what have sometimes been termed the "seminary answers" or "Sunday school answers." Instead I'm thinking about a seminary teacher by the name of Brother Harris who at some point recognized that I could always tell where he was headed, and knew exactly what answers he was hoping to get to certain questions. Especially when he was trying to do a lead-in to some topic. He'd ask questions expecting/hoping for a certain set of answers, and then he'd turn things on their side a little by suggesting what might be more appropriate answers. The trouble was, too often people didn't understand the importance of the expected answers coming out first. But he figured out that I knew exactly what he was doing and exactly what answers he needed, so he'd sometimes ask me specifically even though other people had hands raised and I didn't. I really only remember one specific incident along these lines, but my feeling is that something of a similar nature happened on multiple occasions. The one time I do remember it happening, the question was along the lines of "If you won the lottery, what's the first thing you would buy?" Now, as this was a seminary class, these really bright/pure kids (and I don't mean to mock or anything, they really were some great, pure kids) immediately began to give answers like "Pay tithing!!!" (with all three exclamation marks) or, once that had already been said a time or two, "Donate to the (insert line from tithing/offerings slip here) fund." Well, I could see that Bro. Harris really didn't want these answers, that he was really heading in a completely different direction and he couldn't get there with tithing. I was caught off guard just a little when he ignored the half dozen hands in the air and asked what I would buy. (Maybe with a little more emphasis on the word buy this time.) So I didn't have an answer exactly in mind, but I just said the first thing that came to my mind, "I'd buy some four-wheelers." Anyone who knows me well would recognize how ridiculous this answer was - I could have just as easily said a shotgun or a talking pony - and I think Bro. Harris knew that four-wheelers were nowhere on my list of most desired possessions, but I imagine a look of relief sweeping across his face with a smile as he asked what things like four-wheelers other people would buy. And the class got back on the track that he wanted.

This may well be my proudest moment.

Talents

2008-09-26T15:15:00.002-06:00

I should be doing homework, but I thought I'd pause briefly to list one of my talents:

Going down stairs

Someone once told me that I'm good at going down stairs. Sometimes, when people compliment you, they're just trying to be kind. I think in this case it was nothing more than a statement of fact. I am good at going down stairs. This is one of my talents.

Re: A largely non-related incident

2008-09-22T17:00:00.004-06:00

A follow-up to the previous post on gum balls (gumballs):

I was home yesterday for my dad's birthday and saw that more than half of the gumballs are gone. I'm told my youngest brother went home for a day and ate essentially all that are missing. Probably over 100. He argues that it was over the course of two days (though he didn't claim that it was more than a 24 hour period) and that he didn't eat as many as first appearances might suggest.

Che, 100 Gumballs? I thought I knew you. My friends (said after turning to face the camera), this is what is wrong with America.

Regrets

2008-09-19T13:26:00.004-06:00

I heard a speaker this week who said that there's no reverse in life, that we can't go back, so we just need to focus on the future and move forward with a positive outlook. Something like that.

At first this sounded fine, but I'm now convinced that this is much too narrow a view of life. Of course there's a reverse in life! We can't redo anything physically, but if life were only physical, then this whole exercise would be pointless. If I regretted 2/3 of my past and made those regrets central to my present, I'd be perfectly satisfied. I think that this is not only supported rationally, but doctrinally.

How about that

2008-09-15T15:40:00.001-06:00

It's funny how things work.

Dirt

2008-09-13T22:38:00.001-06:00

100 apologies without changing, but all posts from here on out may or may not be related to the overall theme that has served this blog up until now - namely, rounders with visqueen.

So I saw a movie that I liked at times, and in it one boy tells the other he would eat dirt before telling the other a lie. The second boy asks, "Would you really eat dirt if I asked you to?" "If you asked me to... yes, I would. But you wouldn't ask me to. Would you?" This isn't really what they said, they were speaking in another language. But the subtitles ran something like that.

So, beyond the immediate emotional impact of the scene and its importance in establishing the relationship which becomes central to the film, this was interesting to me as I thought about people for whom I would eat dirt if they asked. There are other things that are harder to do than eating dirt. I also thought about what these things might be. I didn't come to many conclusions.

And now the clothes dryers were out of order, meaning that I've had to air dry my laundry. This was not a significant problem.

This park in particular

2008-09-11T22:08:00.001-06:00

So I recently returned from the same park where the original inciting incident took place.

For today:

Rounders: some
Visqueen: none apparent

But I was thinking about a number of occasions in which I've done time in this park. On one occasion I remember clearly walking after having left the park, and thinking about the poem by William Carlos Williams:

There were the roses in the rain
Don't cut them I pleaded
they won't last, she said
But they're so beautiful where they are.
Agghh, she said, we were all beautiful once
And cut them and gave them to me in my hand.

I didn't look that up to check that I still remember it properly. If anyone wants to offer corrections, that would be magic. I also don't remember the title, if it had one.

But I thought that that was an especially appropriate poem at the time. I don't think it would have been entirely appropriate today.

Another time that I went to this park was for a birthday party for three people. I only knew one of the three, and wasn't sure if I should take a gift for the other two or not. In the end I didn't. I did bring a bag of miniature chocolate bars, as the invitation had requested that each guest bring food to share. The interesting thing was that, arriving fifteen minutes late (I didn't want to be the first one there when I knew that I wouldn't know anyone there but this one che) I was the first guest there. But in the end that was to my advantage, as I was able to meet the other two birthdayists, and also a number of the guests as they slowly started to arrive minutes later. I was also the only guest to bring food, but that was also probably advantageous, as the food provided by the birthdayists was extensive. There were some jelly beans that I and my friend enjoyed, even though others didn't like them much. For a gift for my friend I quietly gave him a copy (unwrapped) of Treehorn Times Three. (I didn't want the other celebrants to feel left out when I didn't give them anything, but I'd never met them and only had one copy of Treehorn Times Three. This was a mistake - you should always have multiple copies of Treehorn Times Three on hand in case you need a gift for anyone on any occasion.) He later read it, or at least some of it, and enjoyed it to some degree.

I don't remember thinking about any poems after I left the park that day. William Carlos Williams probably wouldn't have been exactly apropos on that occasion either.

I wasn't thinking of poetry on the walk from the park today. I did think about some songs:

Lord, in the morning, Thou shalt here my voice ascending high. To Thee will I direct my prayer, to Thee lift up my eye Up to the hills where Christ is gone to plead for all His saints, presenting at His Father's throne our songs and our complaints.
(There are two tunes to this song, I only thought of one.)

Now shall my inward joys arise and burst into a song, almighty love inspires my heart and pleasure tunes my tongue. God on his thirsty Zion's hill some mercy drops has thrown, and solemn oaths have bound His love to shower salvation down. Why do we then indulge our fears, suspicions and complaints? Is He a God, and shall His grace grow weary of His saints?

These lyrics might also be inaccurate. It wasn't 'til much after I'd left the park that these came to mind, and have very little to do with the activities of the evening or the park itself.

A largely non-related incident

2008-08-30T18:14:00.000-06:00

This is really not closely related to rounders or visqueen, but instead occurred at a family reunion, though with a very different family, which I think is enough to justify its posting here.

See, there's this activity at the reunion where a jar is filled with small gum balls and there's a sheet of paper beside it for anyone and everyone interested to guess how many gumballs are in the jar. The closest guesser got the gumballs. Well, I took one look at it and said 260, which was a little lower than the average guess up to that point. More people were in the 300 to 350 range. This seemed too high to me. That's why I instead immediately said 260. This was in the presence of witnesses, and can be verified if it comes to that, but I think at this point that my guess will really be a non-issue if this ever does go to court.

I later decided that if I were to guess, I'd up my guess to 1,000. See, if I won having guessed 260, that's a lot of gumballs. But if I won having guessed 1,000, that's a lot more gumballs. I'd much rather have 1,000 gum balls than just 260. (This is only true in theory, not in practice. I don't like gumballs much.) The higher you guess, the better your prize if you win.

My Dad was holding the jar to count gum balls along two dimensions, and as he later explained he then calculated the total number by estimating hexagonal close-pack of the gumballs, and with his rough counts arrived at the number 247.

Later in the course of events, the winner of the contest was announced. The total was 249, and my Dad, off by only two, had the closest guess. He had left for a few minutes to take care of some work related task, so my Mom accepted the prize - the jar (a typical mason jar, but with a handle on the side)** along with all the gum balls - in his absence.

This is the point where I took pride in being off by just 11 when I hadn't done any counting, thinking, etc.

This is also the point where my siblings and I began to laugh, because not only do I dislike gumballs, but no one in my immediate family likes gum balls. Some of us will occasionally chew gum, but generally not gumballs. And here my father had won 249. (If only he'd guessed 500, we would have had even more gum balls without wanting them.) So my sister decided to pass the jar around among the kids at the reunion to try and get rid of some of the gum while we had the chance. She got rid of maybe 30 to 40 gumballs. I didn't take one when offered.

Anyway, potentially the best part of this story, and something that you probably shouldn't know if you attended the Norman reunion and lost the gumball guessing contest, is that, as my sister was told while passing out gum balls, the person in charge of the contest was counting the gumballs as she filled the jar but was interrupted and lost count so just went with the number listed on the bag***, but figured there may well have been more than 249. We'll never know. And if there were more or fewer is now a question for the courts to decide. 260 has been suggested as a more accurate number, despite the figures based on a hexagonal close-pack.

*As a side note: Maybe my Mom will give the gumballs away to our neighbors. This is something else that we can never really know.

** Correction: It was actually a wide-mouthed mason jar with handle.

*** Later evaluation concluded that 249 would be consistent with a serving size of 3 gum balls and 83 servings in the bag.