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

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

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

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:

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

"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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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.