Gossips know no bound. The oasis that BYU once was is now often a mud puddle. I can't wait to move on in life.
People look at you differently when they've talked about you: out of the corners of their eyes and only for a moment. People that don't even know you.
Today I received some postcard love from Germany and sent some to Tawain.
The day I got my tax refund, I was giddy. Money in the bank. A cushion. A rainy day fund. Something generally not afforded college students.
Two nights later I had this dream. I was in one of the rooms on one of the highest floors of the Bellagio, looking out the window over the fountains at night. I was contemplating and smiling about whether I wanted to book another night there or go somewhere else.
And with that, anyone could know what makes me feel carefree, where my mind is at right now, and exactly what the nature of my independence-lust is.
Once upon a time, I was making a profile picture for this event. I did it at work, and apparently forgot to erase the photoshop files, because when I came in today this was the desktop wallpaper:
The best gallery stroll yet started tonight with a stop at the Covey where we listened to the artist talk ("It's, wait for it... wait for it... chaos.") before making our way upstairs where we ate finger sandwiches and looked at leather art while a little boy screamed and roared in the men's bathroom and everyone looked around awkwardly to see who would go in.
On our way went into this antiques store (Iron Horse antiques) (surprisingly open at 8pm) after debating on the doorstep about going in for a full minute. One of the best finds in Provo yet. And listening to the owner get so excited about his match collection, and explaining how buying estates works, was the gem of the evening. Seriously, you need to go there. He also showed us where the makeshift gallery was for a cubano artist and that they are currently working on expanding back and having a seating alcove where he'll display his old bicycle collection. I plan in making boyf stalk the store with me until we can see it finished.
We visited the new studio, Innovations, where we colored with chalk on their chalkboard walls, adding to the scribbles and doodles of all who'd been there before.
Then we visited my favorite, the unnamed artist's studios next to the old Los Hermanos location, home to simple exhibits and works in progress. It is my most inspiring place in Provo. (Pictures to come next month, for real, I will not slack anymore.)
We saw these people dancing in the seats of their parked SUV and we busted some moves and danced with them a moment.
Lastly we visited the old Albertsons building the university bought and turned into a book binding / letter pressing / storage center--no big deal--where Jessica indeed takes book binding. It was wonderful, legit, and inspiring.
Now I should go to bed and let my muscles sleep, but I just want to music.
The girl whose hair tie flies out, her hair going everywhere, and she doesn't even care cause she's mid-shimmy.
The young, beautiful mama with the baby bump who keeps looking at herself sideways in the mirror to see what her moves look like in her new body.
The girl who's shakin it like she's home alone in front of her bathroom mirror.
These women are my women.
Every morning we wake is a little resurrection. There's a reason 'bed' sounds like 'dead'; we rejuvenate and recuperate all night. Then we rise with the knowledge we've gained, perhaps with more gained during the experience of sleep; we have an opportunity again; we do more work.
I love eating breakfast in the dark living room while I watch the sun rise.
Many couples here seem to me as children. Sometimes it makes me feel out of touch with the couples' prerogative, sometimes I just want to go back and play too. Increasingly, though, there's a feeling that there won't be a need to go back, and that these two years have been for a great purpose for us.
Still, there's comfort knowing he'll still place his foot next to mine in the temple as we're silent, or make eyes at me across the way. Those are really the things I long for after two years of talking. It's a marriage of two worlds that keeps a relationship.
I love going to the hair salon. Absolutely love it. I love watching the people, eavesdropping, being part of a little world of sisters brought together by the desire for fabulous hair.
My stylist today didn't try as hard as the last to make the smallchat I am so, so bad at. I like to imagine that they keep track of returning customers so they can keep notes on you. I would be ok if mine was something like, 'Friendly but painfully quiet. No inhibition.'
My favorite part of the conversations went like this:
'My boyfriend tells me I have bad breath. I never floss. Can not flossing give you bad breath?'
'Hm. If you leave food on the counter for a week, it will start to smell. I guess it's the same thing, except with food in your teeth.'
'EW. I am so going home and FLOSSING.'
His cadence is the most soothing thing in my world. The voice of a singer: crisp, melodious and careful, full of consonants. One of my homes.
And I sleep to it.
In the LDS church we study the life and teachings of a different prophet each year. This year we're studying George Albert Smith, and the manual begins with his impressive list of 11 ideals he sought to live by. I was so impressed by his list and by his conviction and insight. In a class I'm taking we're studying a lot about the twentieth century, which is unfortunately the century of the world wars, dictatorships, and broken families, constructs, and people. The traditions, beliefs, and value systems of ever-before were inept when it came to treating the broken of WWII especially, but all the residual wars. We just finished reading The English Patient, which encapsulates all of these issues beautifully and hauntingly. All of the characters are suffering from what would later be identified and treated as post-traumatic stress syndrome. We discussed its treatment, and our teacher explained that the road--presented again in a list like President Smith's--to recovery has been marked by these key aims and eventual characteristics:
-few illusions
-deliberate reattachment
-laughter
-celebrate life
-unaffected generosity
-thanksgiving
-"one day at a time"
I do not pretend to be understanding any victim of PTSD, nor anyone who has suffered incredible, personal trauma. Identifying reading is a great mistake in society today; if the reader cuts out differences between herself and the characters of a narrative, she is simplifying and marginalizing them in order to make them match herself. Imposing herself or cutting in to a narrative does gross violence to it, disfiguring it and leaving the reader having learned nothing. Understanding is not the job, but rather respectful listening is the greatest gift any one can give to the grieving, to the hurt, to the sorrowful.
Tangent.
Still, while we discussed this list, it was profound to me that it could help anyone, with any sorrow, great or small (though perhaps always great to them, in that time), inside or without. We discussed how generosity, especially, levels the field of things we cannot control--it draws people to us, creates a support system, gives us peace. These lists are mini-manifestos; they made me consider what ideals I esteem, respect, and observe in my life.
They make me want to be actively engaged in the creation of my own happiness.
Everyone pursues exercise for their own reasons, having their own motivation. For me, it is discovering my body. Discovering the capacities. Feeling things that can't be felt unless I physically work and push myself.
I always feel like I've lost ten pounds after a work out, though a body changes much slower than that. Being in tune with my muscles, listening, stretching, I feel only the strong, essential, core form of myself. After becoming so aware of the lean strength deep within me, it's only upon seeing myself again that I realize there's more there that then doesn't seem to belong, doesn't match how I feel.
I continue every day, working hard, knowing that only diligence will bring forth that strength inside to show on the outside. We act in the manner of what we want to become, and will, I believe, one day be surprised that we have become.
I don't look like it yet, but I-I-I work out. There is no shame or self loathing in that. Only hope, joy, and that amusing feeling of being a dark horse.
That is what it feels like to me, and there is beauty in this journey.
Years of age: 22
Zumba: up to 8 times a week
Yoga: up to 5 times a week
Muscle Milk: in the mail (ordered online for a sweeeet price)
Working: 20 hours a week; still in love with all my co-workers and with Harold
Bedtime: 9:30 pm
Recent guilty pleasure: black currant dark chocolate / Toffifay
Swimming: doggy paddle like a pro, three times as fast (still slow), can't tread water yet (still) (Saunaaa)
Boyf: T - 3.5 months
Last documentary watched: The Philosopher Kings
Been binge eating (ok not really, but kind of): Slab pizza and Jamba
Celebrities I stalk on Youtube in my free time: Ryan Gosling, Ewan McGregor
Weirding me out: Extensive Jung studies for senior seminar is making my dreams crazy vivid and, well, crazy; remembering them a lot more
Currently reading: The English Patient
Big deal of the day: Spoke in church (cried like a baby, like always; worth it)
Birthday gift to myself: Zumba headliner top and a Gaiam gym bag
Birthday gifts from my wonderful family: stovetop teapot, Moleskin notebook, two singings of the birthday song
Excited for: Tax refund
Daily must-haves: ridiculous amounts of water, granola cereal, a really good laugh
Jams: We Found Love, Good Feeling, Mueve Sin Pena, Tree of Life soundtrack, Sexy and I know it
Paint
Master the Party Rock shuffle
Spend time with my dad
Beat my brothers at Wii
Read and drink tea before bed
Watch documentaries
Yoga
Sleep by the Christmas tree
Play board games
Play cards
Standardized testing rolled around my fourth grade year; I still distinctly remember taking the writing portion. I wrote a short story about a girl with a poster of a Scottish terrier in her room. She discovered that if she colored his collar blue he would, magically, spring to life and play with her for a time. (My childhood love and longing for a dog had not yet faded away.) A few months later, I remember my teacher, Mrs V, approached me during reading time. "Megan," she said, "I want to show you this book. A ten year old boy wrote it and got it published! People your age can do amazing things." (Try as hard as I might, I have never been able to remember the name of or find this book. Yet.) I don't know if I realized then or if I have the memory of a later realization, but I knew she was encouraging me to write.
In sixth grade, my teacher, Mr T, called me into his office. He is one of my favorite teachers--believed in me, though I was the awkward girl, and insisted that if I arrived in middle school and they gave me trouble about entering at the high level classes he recommended me for that I should have them call him. I sat in his office and he had one of my papers in hand. "Megan," he asked, "this is a great essay but I can't shake the worry that it's not your work." The one time in my life I've been accused of plagiarizing, but I knew he esteemed me and was honestly troubled about it. I insisted I wrote it myself and later laughed with my friends that I should probably dumb it down.
In eighth grade I had a wonderful teacher, Mr M, who allowed us to submit our writing to him, whether for school or not, and he would read it, make notes, and hand it back. I put many a poem in that turn-in manilla folder on his desk. That was just about the entirety of my poetry period, but his notes were always heartfelt, while still helping me to improve. He had me sit down with his TA many times to discuss citation, style, formatting--many things the class wasn't ready for but I was already trying to use (and usually botching pretty bad). (Don't even get me started on the time--third grade--I wanted to learn cursive so badly I made up my own and the teacher had to move cursive up on the curriculum so she would be able to understand my writing again.) I had many important, personal talks with Mr M and while my reach was further than my writing was good, he is where the heart in my writing comes from.
I would go to high school and study many years under Mr W, an incredible teacher who was very fair and very old fashioned. I spent two years as his student and the other two as his TA--I refused to leave his classroom. I'll never forget the day he come back, after starting class, to give me something to do. "Here," he said, "grade these." They were the term papers for a sophomore class--they were a big deal. "Uh... I don't think I should..." "Why not? You would do a great job. You know what you're doing." I insisted he should grade them, but his faith in me is one of the best things that happened to me those years.
Tomorrow I'm headed home and I'll return an English major in the final stretch--my last semester. Words make sense to me. Sentences and organization and style. When I write I have an ability that is not my own. This gift has blessed me beyond my understanding, and has opened the world to me, helped me understand other people, help me grow outside of myself. It is my way into the world.
I am proud to be graduating as that silly kid with horrific cursive, accused of plagiarizing, who couldn't cite a source to save her life or didn't trust herself to grade papers, but longed to grow so much and stretched further than she was supposed to. The writing has always come easily, but the growth never did, and when I cross the stage in April that is what I'm going to be grateful for.
It was vogue in our ward last summer to play Body, Body in the pitch black church house late at night. (The clerk with the keys to the building was one of the most avid players.) It sounded like fun, but the first time I went, it was because I knew he'd be there.
Being brand new to the game means you almost always get yourself killed off early. I even fell to the "Psst, c'here" that got me killed in the Relief Society room. One round we were sitting there, the undead, a small group of us, including him. After a dramatic ninja roll in which he landed right in front of me and asked, "who killed you?" he sat next to me on the opposite couch. Things calmed down and people got chit chatty. All of the sudden, he swatted my knee and said, "how are you??" I told him I was fine. He only held my gaze and after a moment asked, "truly?"
I stared at him. No one had bothered to ask that in a long time. I didn't know if I should tell him the truth, in that quiet foyer, as his face rested on his arm that rested on his knee and he waited--I did trust him, though I barely knew him--or if I should play it off. Moments later, though, there was another shriek, someone newly dead, and I never got the chance. It will always be the moment things could have changed, but didn't.
I didn't play Body, Body much after that.
My ex broke up with me. That's not something I'm open enough about. We dated during those crucial teenage years. I always judged him by what I believed, punished him for what I thought he did wrong, and made no real effort to understand or appreciate him. Any real progress or genuine companionship was overshadowed by my totalitarianism.
When I climbed Timp, my friend David's new roommate went with us. I had never met him before. He told us how he had done wilderness survival with the Army and when we got to the trail head, he took off because he wanted to try to make it to the top "in a few hours."
It wasn't even half an hour before he came back: "I'm going to walk with you guys, if you don't mind." He walked by me and told me about why he had joined the church--because he identified with Porter Rockwell, and if lost, "drunkard" men like that could convert and love the Lord, he knew he could do it, too. He seemed solid enough.
But the higher up we got, the weirder things got. I had packed way too much food and had tons of water, but he would say, "Are you hungry? Have you eaten? Eat this from my pack." I told him thanks, I was fine, and he insisted, "You'll need it." (It was the expensive stuff, too.) Nice enough. We'd be walking and he would turn around and say, "Are you tired? Do you need a rest?" I never did; I'd tell him thanks, I'm fine. Sometimes he'd insist. Nice enough. He offered to carry a lot of our water--nice enough--and bustled that it was one of his heaviest packs but that he could still do it.
At last we came to an ice bridge. The boys had already crossed and were waiting for us. "Alright," he said, standing right up and pumping out his chest, "here's what we're going to do. We're going to come get your packs from you, bring them over, and then lead you over by the hand."
I stared at him. I wasn't tired, I wasn't afraid, I had come to this mountain to show myself I was strong. "I can do it," I said, and I crossed with ease. "Oookay, touché. You sure can," he said.
I don't have any pictures that day from Timp, but if I did--though he was a nice guy--I'd have a picture of the day I decided was my last of being patronized in life.
The HFAC on Sunday nights is one of my favorite things. Deserted, quiet, calm. Last time I went it was still summer, so since Fall semester is in there is new student art, which I love. The JFSB may be my favorite, but the HFAC is my love and I miss days of rehearsals and concerts there.
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| Tiana Birrell, "We become what we want to be by consistently being what we want to become. I want to be a missionary." (This one was so awesome, but it was hard to do it justice. Worth clicking on to see original size.) |
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| Cole Walker, "Nice Frame" |
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| "Environmental responsibility" |
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| Robin Clark, "Untitled" (LOVE this one.) |
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| Another one hard to photograph, but it was so gorgeous. |
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| Ellie Hansen, "Line upon line" |
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