"They should have taken the bus."

I saw Up yesterday with my family. That makes time number three, by the way. Pixar is completely brilliant. If you haven't seen it, go, and stop reading now because I make no promises about spoiling things.

The movie is not what I expected it to be. Granted, I don't know what anyone really expects from a movie that was advertised as a film about a guy who hooks up balloons to his house, but the best thing about Pixar films may be the fact that I never know exactly what kind of movie I'm going to get going in. The advertising is a little deceptive.

This is probably never more sharp than for Up, which, for all intents and purposes, isn't really a kids film. Sure, there are some gimmicky moments that are certainly geared for a younger audience, but, on the whole, the film is very adult in nature. Carl begins life as a would-be explorer. His adventures with a blue balloon take him to the somewhat more elaborate "ship" of Ellie - a girl who shares his obsession with explorer Charles Muntz but happens to be more bold in the way she goes about life. The two form a friendship that ends in a marriage and a wonderful life together. In perhaps the most brilliant two minutes of film I have seen in years, the audience views what must be at least forty to fifty years of marriage and the ups and downs they have - setting up house - picnics - wanting to have children but not being able to - planning trips to Paradise Falls that never quite make it because of other expenses, and Ellie's eventual death. In the three times I've seen the film now, I'm still amazed at how quickly the audience goes from laughing hysterically to complete and total silence. Even the youngest kids in the room know that something has shifted thanks to the score (well done, Michael Giacchino.) It's beautiful and heartbreaking - and they never make it to Paradise Falls. Ellie's lifelong dream of setting up house in the middle of no where never quite got fulfilled and Carl is left alone.

It is partly because of this that he gets the idea to balloon his house to Venezuela. The rest of the movie follows as Carl tries desperately to walk his house (literally) over to Paradise Falls along with stow-away Wilderness Explorer Russell who has never been really camping a day in his life but wants to earn his "assisting the elderly" badge. Russell is worthy of a completely different blog post so for now, I'm going to stick to one of my favorite moments in the film - as they're walking through the woods, Russell mentions to Carl that the wilderness is different than he expected, and that he's decided that the boring stuff is what he likes more, because he remembers it. He talks about going to get ice cream with his father and counting cars that go by the shop based on colors.

This relates to a moment in the film when Carl comes across Ellie's "Adventure Book" near the end of the film. At the beginning of the film she shows Carl the "Stuff I'm Going to Do" section - a blank part of the book where she was planning on filling in all her adventures. For almost the entire movie, that little blank section of scrap-book was the source of all of Carl's guilt. But then he actually looks at the pages and sees that Ellie has filled them in with all the "boring" stuff. Eating dinner. Picnics. Reading together. Everything that they did for day to day life. Her adventure - grand as it had begun when she was a kid - had shifted into something more fulfilling.

This idea of adventures being better in the every-day part of life has been on my mind quite a bit lately. I've been thinking about the goals I have for myself and the way that most people see those goals as wasting my education or a chance for a good career. But then I think about my family - I think about the parts of my family that I love the most. I love that my dad goes out of his way, even on Father's Day, to make breakfast for us before church. I love sitting with everyone half piled on the same couch so that we can watch old family videos and eat popcorn together. I even love being piled into the same small van for endless road trips around the country. We don't have the most elaborate family adventures together, but it's never mattered because the trip itself isn't as important as just spending time together.

So to the small child in front of me who proclaimed after Carl and Russell should have taken the bus to avoid the storm that tossed their make-shift hot air balloon house around - you might be right. But where would be the fun in that? And where would be the movie in that? Carl's lesson at the end is a lesson well learned - when we get where we thought we always wanted to be, we end up sitting in our easy chair and saying. . . "now what?" Unless, of course, the journey is seen as an important part of the destination.

Look Harder

This summer has been a busy one (hence the complete lack of posting.) I've been going to class and working almost full time, preparing to go to England next month and thinking about my curriculum for the fall (not too much - the idea of getting ready to teach kind of scares the heck out of me.) Along with all of this, though, I've found the time to read about ten books in the last month. I bought a bunch at a sale the school bookstore was having and - miracle of miracles - all of them have been fantastic. I pulled each book at random off the shelves proving that, for the most part, you can actually judge a book by the quality of the cover!

My most recent read has been The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart. The book is funny and exciting and well crafted - everything in the book is a set up and a pay off by the end. The characters are distinct and each has a different talent that comes in handy at the end. I was very pleasantly surprised by how much I liked it. It's what would have happened if The Series of Unfortunate Events had been written more intelligently and with less pessimism.

Which, actually, brings me quite nicely to my point for the day. After I finished the first book I picked up the sequel. At the beginning of this book, Reynie (the main character) is having a discussion with Mr. Benedict about how frustrating it is to see that the world still has not changed much since their adventures in the previous novel. This is part of the conversation they have:

"Let me ask you: Have you ever had a dream in which, having spied a deadly
snake at your feet, you suddenly begin to see snakes everywhere - suddenly
realize, in fact, that you're surrounded by them?"

Reynie was surprised. "I have had that dream. It's a
nightmare."

"Indeed. And it strikes me as being rather like when a person first
realizes the extent of wickedness in the world. That vision can become
all-consuming - and in a way, it, too, is a nightmare, by which I mean that it
is not quite a proper assessment of the state of things. For someone as
observant as you, Reynie, deadly serpents always catch the eye. But if you
find that serpents are all you see, you may not be looking hard
enough."

The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Perilous
Journey

Trenton Lee Stewart

Paperback Edition, 37-38

I don't know if there's really anything else to add to what Mr. Benedict put so well. I have been trying recently to be better at focusing on the positive parts of my life. I'm trying not to gossip so much or be so quick to join in on negative conversation. It's true that there is no situation we can be in that complaining won't make it worse. The news is really, really good at the complaining thing. It all reminds me of that scene from Newsies where Jack is talking to Davy's family about headlines that make newspapers sell - they need words like "nude", "corpse" . . . etc. The people that complain, those squeaky wheels, get more attention than the wheels that are functioning just fine under the current pressure.

Semi-short post shorter: Always look on the bright side of life.

Literary Elitists are Boneheads

NOTE: You can view an updated version of this essay here.

This post is for catharsis. Catharsis that I desperately need after a semester with a certain professor so dreadful that I have to get one last essay (albeit unsent) to defend myself. Seeing as said professor grades on whether or not she agrees with our opinions. . .

We read nine books this semester. Or rather, we were assigned to read nine books this semester. I read six (which, by the way, is saying something. A-type personalities like me usually fight through all the books but. . . I just couldn't bring myself to do it this time.) One of the books really touched me. I thought it was well written and interesting, the story of the main character reminded me of parts of my own past. So I presented this professor with the idea that I would like to write the response paper for that particular book as a creative non-fiction essay instead. She approved the idea. I turned in my essay a few weeks later with a one page explanation about how much I had enjoyed the book and how I couldn't bring myself to dissect it as I did other books. I included the following quote:

The elitists are such boneheads they think literature exists to be admired. Wrong. Literature exists to create memories so true and important that we allow them to become part of ourselves, shaping our future actions because we remember that once someone we admired did this, and someone we hated and feared did that.

Literature matters only to the degree that it shapes and changes human behavior by making the audience wish to be better because they read it.

It becomes importantly bad only to the degree that it entices the audience to revel in actions and memories that debase the culture that embraces it.

Next to that, questions of how one literary work influences other literary works, or how the manner of writing measures up to the tastes of some elite group are so trivial that you marvel that someone who went to college could ever think they mattered more.

Orson Scott Card, July 29, 2007, "Uncle Orson Reviews Everything"

This is a quote that has stuck with me pretty strongly over the last few years. It's a survival quote, really, as an English major. As someone who really does enjoy analyzing literature, it is important for me to be able to step back and just enjoy reading for the sake of it. After this quote I wrote "This is why I wrote my essay in this particular way. To attempt in some small way to explain why literature is important - not in the way that it can change the world and influence social movements, but in the power it has to change the way that individuals think and behave."

Now, I knew this was going to be somewhat risky. Said professor is, after all, a literary elitist. She is the elite of the elitists. I've never, ever, in my life, ever, met a professor so fully entrenched in literary elitism. So yes. It was a risk. But the book we were reading (Mr. Pip by Lloyd Jones) is all about how the reading of Great Expectations changes a young girl and how Mr. Pip as a character means so much to her. I figured that, in spite of the jab towards people who suffer from a rampant case of English Major's Disease, she was a fair enough person that she would see that the quote was actually supporting the lesson taught by the book she assigned in the first place.

Apparently not.

Today was our final. I got my portfolio back with the top page of this essay (not the rest of the nine pages of it, which, by the way, I strongly suspect she didn't read) and an A- on it. The only comment is to the side of this quote and it reads in part: "Not true. This is a very silly remark. See if you can figure out why?"

So, literary elitist professor in the BYU English department, here is my response:

No. No, I don't think it's a silly remark. In fact, I think the fact that you can't see how important it is that books touch people on an individual level shows how blind you can be as a professor. You are a smart woman. I respect that. But how else are literary movements or social movements supposed to begin if not by individuals who read a book that is so moving and important to them that it changes the way they behave? Card's idea is not "silly" - it is incredibly poignant. I do not want to be the kind of teacher next year and years following that expects my students to read because finding metaphors and symbols is fun. I want my students to read for the pleasure of it. I want them to read because when you cannot travel physically it is a relief to travel mentally. People refer to "escapist" literature as a bad thing, but I don't know if that is always true. There is a place in this world for literary analysis. Heaven knows I enjoy it. But I don't read to analyze sentence structure or symbols. I read because I can't help myself. I read because reading is more a part of me than my own blood. I read because the characters I love have changed me, because they are my friends. If you are narrow minded enough to think otherwise, then it's a mercy you aren't teaching Junior High. They would eat you alive.

Catharsis over. As for you, Mr. Card, if you happen to stumble upon this at any point by some freak chance, this A- was well worth the satisfaction of knowing that I finally managed to touch a nerve in this woman. And you're completely right. Literary elitists are boneheads. And that particular bonehead didn't comment on my writing at all and gave your words an A-.

Susan Boyle, when I jump the pond, I'll vote for you.

Here's one for everyone who thinks the world is against them.  Utterly incredible.  You Tube won't let me embed it, but trust me.  You want to click here.

We read to know we're not alone.

I had an interesting discussion last night about the role of fiction that I don't think I was altogether prepared for.  I don't even remember how the topic came up, but I do remember saying something along the lines of how I hope there are good fiction books in heaven otherwise I don't think I want to go there.  And I mean good fiction.  Fiction that isn't necessarily about people in the church kind of fiction.  I don't want my only option to be Charly by Jack Weyland.  

The person I was having this conversation with didn't seem altogether convinced.  Maybe as a non-English major he just hadn't considered it, which is fine.  From what I can tell in the brief amount of time I spent with him (it was on a double date - he wasn't my date) he seemed pretty well put together and nice enough to laugh when I inadvertently managed to be more sarcastic than I intended to be (which was more often than it probably should have been.  Need to work on that.)  Really, I think this is something that I think about quite a bit simply because so much of my life revolves around reading and fiction.  

So I'd like to elaborate on that now.  I still think there will be fiction in heaven.  And I don't think we're going to be limited to certain kinds of fiction either.  I have this idea that God has sent us to this earth to build and to create and to hone the talents He has given us, and that these talents will be used in the next life as well.  I don't think that seems unreasonable.  Why shouldn't books continue?  I think that books, and fiction books/stories/etc. especially, provide another way for people to learn to become more like the Savior.  Let me explain: 

First of all, the Savior taught in parables.  He taught in parables because the stories could be understood on multiple levels.  In that way, I think, the best fiction of our day can serve the same purpose.  One of my favorite sections of the Doctrine & Covenants is about the apocrypha, where the Lord says that if you read it with the right spirit you will find truth - that not all of it is right, but that you can be uplifted.  There is a connection here in that stories help people to see things from different perspectives that they had not considered before. 

I was also reminded of 1st Nephi 19 when we are instructed to "liken the scriptures unto (ourselves)."  We are told to take these stories and apply them to our own lives.  "This is like when _______ had to do ______, I should try _______ to solve my own problem."  In that way, we are taking stories that are part of our culture and pulling from them lessons we need to know.  This is how other stories work - only in this case the stories are "physically true" as opposed to the stories that were "created truth."  

When it comes down to it, I think it is a matter of the Lord recognizing that people learn in different ways.  All things testify of Christ, but that doesn't mean we all recognize those ways.  We think differently.  We feel the spirit differently.  Those who are adept with science and math (unlike me) can look at the universe and the way it all fits together and know that God is in it.  I don't see those connections.  But I do see those connections in humanity in the books I read.  I learn by reading.  By putting myself into the fictional feet of other people.  Ender Wiggen.  Harry Potter.  Anne Shirley.  Jane Eyre.  Briony Tallis.  Lucy Pevensie.  Tom Sawyer.  Etc.  The lessons I have learned about humanity and perseverance from these good (and occasionally not so good) "people" could not have been created in other ways.  There is a place for storytelling in the universe.  An important place.  And while I admit to a definite bias as an English Teacher, and understand that there are many other ways to learn and to draw closer to the Lord, I will argue until I am blue in the face that fiction is important and that I don't believe it is only a mortal tool of learning.  Heaven wouldn't be much of a heaven at all if there wasn't entertainment.  Theater and music.  Discovery.  Moments of peace and reflection.  The sheer pleasure of sitting on a quiet beach with a book so gripping you simply can't put it down.

Nothing distracts reading a test more than reading a book.

In case you hadn't already figured it out by the title of my blog, I'm a bit of an Anne of Green Gables obsessor. That is putting it very lightly. I will fight tooth and nail with anyone, anyone, who dares claim a stronger relationship to Anne than I have (I've done it before. It's not pretty, and I do win.) I have grown up with her and rather than going into the details of this comparison, take my word for it. We are two peas in a literary pod.

As such, I generally enjoy finding ways to compare my life to my semi-fictional friend. It happened this weekend when I took the Praxis: an exam set out to prove that I am (or will be) worth my salt as a teacher. In other words: I have to know more than the average high schooler. The whole time I was there I imagined myself in that hall Anne goes to for the entrance examination to Queens. That was much more satisfactory than taking the actual test.

Here's how it works:

BYU and UVU students (apparently) do some kind of school switch for the exam. Since the exam started at 7:30 in the morning (my favorite hour of the day), I got up at 6:00 (my other favorite hour) to eat and get dressed and generally wake myself up. I armed myself with two #2 pencils with good erasers, a book to read during down time, a water bottle to keep myself awake and to keep myself from coughing, cough drops and gum to help as well, and some kleenex (since I wasn't about to use the scratchy non-lotiony school kind.) Let it never be said that I go anywhere unprepared, especially to tests.

This is where things get odd.

For those of you who will be taking the Praxis at some point in your life, let this serve as a warning.

Our room was divided into half English Education and half Elementary Education majors. This is important because the Elementary Education majors have calculators that feature prominently later in the scene. We are told that this is a very important test that will influence our future lives and that if we don't pass our entire educational career will have been for NOTHING. It is serious, and should be treated seriously. I am officially humbled.

We are then told that the test is two hours long, that we are not allowed to leave unless we have an absolute bathroom emergency. I have to keep my horrible driver's license picture on my desk at all times (for what, exactly?) and nothing else. We are not allowed to eat, drink, or chew gum. If we do, we will spill on our tests, and then they will not be scan-able and we will fail. Food? I understand. Water? I look around. I don't see any open glasses. Just water bottles. And gum? That doesn't make any sense at all. If you're dumb enough to accidentally spit your gum into the middle of your test, you probably wouldn't have passed anyway.

Then comes the bad news.

We must stay in our seats for the duration of the test. Even if everyone finishes in the first five minutes, we have to stay for the full two hours. And when we are finished, we are not allowed to read. When I ask instructor number one about this, she tells me that reading is a distraction. (Insert eyebrow raise here.)

So the test starts. Feeling somewhat cheeky, I ask to go to the bathroom half an hour into the test because I am more than half way done already, and bored with answering questions. I take my time.

I come back in and finish the rest of my test with nearly an hour to spare. I take a nap. I go to the bathroom again. I sit down and write on the back of my test booklet the following list:

Things that are more distracting than reading:

1. The boy sitting behind me and to my left who persists in bouncing his feet on the ground, and who has the noisiest marking pencil ever.
2. The calculators. I think the Elementary Education Department has trained their students to believe that the louder they press the keys, the more correct their answer will be.
   
3. The clock on the wall that gives a little buzz every couple of minutes.
   
4. The pages turning in the test booklets that people are (wait for it): reading.
   
5. Instructor #1 at the front of the room. . . (wait for it again). . . reading.
   
6. Instructor #2 who leaves the room every fifteen minutes or so and then comes back in for no apparent reason.

So there it is. Nothing distracts reading a test more than. . . reading a book.

I'm not the other woman, I just came here with a guy who met up with a girl. . .

I decided that I would be more bold than normal yesterday. More bold than normal means that I was dropping hints toward a certain individual of the male gender that I am interested in getting to know. Not in the "I'm really interested in being your girlfriend" way, necessarily, more in the "I don't find you boring and I think it'd be fun to talk with you some more" way. So I mentioned to said male-specimen that I'd like to go up to the fireside but didn't want to drive, was he going? And he said yes he was going and would I like a ride? And I said yes, what a clever idea.

All was going just swimmingly until said male got a phone call from an unknown (to me) individual when we got inside the Mariott Center. This person happened to be a female. This person also happened to be a female that male specimen is interested in and has been out with several times.

Doh!

Male asked me if it would be awkward. Inside my head I am screaming "YES. Do you even have to think about asking that question to know that answer?! Because if you have to think about it then seriously. . ." But instead I politely smiled and said "No, I don't care, whatever you'd prefer" because what am I supposed to say and in we went. Me. Him. Girl. Girl's friends. And I can't even imagine how awkward it must be for her to have him show up with me. Good grief. The best laid plans indeed!

So this got me thinking. I think everyone in the world has had awkward dating stories. My mother says that they go away more or less when you meet the right person. I hope so.

In the mean time, I am going to cope by laughing at another strange situation (unfortunately) all revolving around one person. Sure hope said person doesn't read this. . .

The scene: I am seventeen. I am also sick. Home alone in my pajamas and bathrobe watching Anne of Green Gables or some other "bonnet movie" because that is what a sick girl ought to do. I get a phone call. Boy has something for me. I tell boy I am sick. He says it won't be long, do you care if I stop by? I say. . . ok. . .

Boy comes. I stand in doorway so that boy will not come in. Boy hands me a box and leaves. The conversation lasts no more than two minutes. I retreat back to the living room, pause the movie and open the box.

Inside is the "Evenstar" necklace from Lord of the Rings. Not a fake one. The real one. The $100+ one that comes in a box with a certificate in it. The one that symbolizes Arwen's immortality. The one that Aragorn wears for years in an attempt to hold on to that flame of their undying love for each other. Very possibly the most conspicuous piece of jewelry in that movie for someone without elven ears to wear including the ring.

And he has not given it to me on any holiday that I'm aware of. Christmas is several months ago. My birthday is not for a couple more months. We are certainly not dating and. . . what the heck was that supposed to mean?! Is he giving me his immortality?!

I put the necklace in the back of the top drawer of my dresser. It stays there untouched for many years until one day I am getting a ride home from boy. He says "so. . . did you ever wear that necklace I gave you?"

". . . No."

(Insert long silence here.)

No, Dr. Dermatologist, I do not want your high powered drug.

The scene: Dermatologist's office in an undisclosed location.
The players: Myself (known as UL - Unfortunate Lilymaid), Dr. Dermatologist (DD) and his assistant (We'll call her Pam, just for kicks.)
The time: approximately 8:45 AM, 25 February 2009

At Open: UL is sitting Down Stage Right in a semi-comfortable chair reading The Life of Pi, wishing she were asleep or studying for a test that she must take later that day.

Enter DD and Pam from Up Stage Left.

DD: Hello! What are you reading?

UL: The Life of Pi

DD: I think I've heard of it but I don't know that I've ever read it.

UL: That's nice.

DD pulls up a chair and looks intensely at UL's face.

DD: Have you ever considered taking an ultra-powerful but very expensive drug that will dry out your skin and make you moody and require monthly blood testing and is harder to prescribe than most narcotics but clears up face problems in 5 out of 6 of my patients? (Drug will hence forth be known as "accutane" or simply "ultra-powerful drug")

UL: Yes, you spoke to me about that last time.

DD: Let me ask you something. How old are you?

UL: I will be continuing in early twentysomethingdom next May.

DD: Are you dating? Planning on getting married? Pregnant?

UL: No, still no, definitely without question no.

DD: Then now is the perfect time to take the ultra-powerful drug! Your not all that horrible skin will be really super horrible, but no one will care because they are not dating you. And then when someone does finally date you, you will be free of such cares!

UL: See, I've done some research into this ultra-powerful drug and everyone else who has been on it had skin issues about six times worse than mine.

(Pam is currently typing on the computer. UL concludes that Pam is either taking notes on the conversation, checking her Facebook, or chatting with "Jim" through google chat.)

DD: Well, yes. This is true. But you have a spot right there (points to the two zits currently taking up residence on UL's right temple) that could be cleared up FOREVER with this ultra-powerful drug. If you were my daughter I would take you by the collar and shake you and tell you that you had to get on this drug now! You're probably really glad you're not my daughter, right?

UL: (nods, but is really thinking "Nofreakingkidding.")

DD: So, what do you think? Not that you're not a lovely girl, but that little spot on your face is driving me crazy and the only way we can get rid of it and make you truly beautiful is with ultra-powerful drug treatment.

UL: (starting to be somewhat annoyed/put out): No thank you.

DD: Are you sure? Because most girls' acne disappears by the time they're 20. And if it continues beyond then, they are most certainly doomed to suffer from adult acne until they are 54 and hit menopause.

UL: (He's not met many of my friends. And since when is 20 the magic number?) Actually, I'm pretty happy with what I'm taking right now.

DD: Alright. Well, when you change your mind, here is my card.


In other news, UL is currently in the market for a dermatologist who is equally as good natured as current DD but perhaps not quite so quick to jump the gun on last resort drug use.

Not Quite Valentine's Day Musings

I spent Valentine's with my grandparents this year. I probably should have gone to my ward Valentine's Day Dance but for some reason I'm feeling stubborn and would rather spend my time lounging around in my pajamas. Which is more or less what I've done all day. I watched all four hours of Jane Eyre this morning. Mr. Rochester is utterly wonderful.

Which leads me to a long-overdue blog post. I've been sitting in front of the computer for about two hours trying to decide between watching a movie on Hulu and (I know, you can mock me later), rifling through various fan-fictions I used to obsess over a few years ago. I got a good laugh at myself and decided I ought to do something more productive.

Partly due to the season and partly because of a (brief) increase in romantic activity in my life I've been thinking about the curse of being single in Provo. It all reminds me of one of Bill Cosby's sketches where he says something about how parents love their children but they want to get them OUT of the house. That is, as far as I can tell, a common experience in the Single's Ward life. Not all wards, mind you. My ward right now isn't nearly as bad as some I've been in. But in the Facebook universe we live in where people can advertise their relationship status to infinite numbers of people with the click of a mouse, it's starting to feel like we're creating our own tabloid lives with a relationship obsessed audience. If you're single people expect you to either be defensive about it and to make fun of your status in an attempt to say you don't care(guilty) or expect you to mope or . . . I don't know. And if you're dating someone, wahoo! Congratulations! How long has it been? Have you looked at rings yet? What kind of cake are you getting?

The reason I bring all this up (yet again) is because of a discussion we had in one of my classes on Friday about the way girls in the church are educated and the huge dichotomy it brings up, especially in such a concentrated area of people scrounging around for their mate. I can't speak for boys of the church (obviously), but it seems to me that most of the girls and single women of the church are taught that their virtue and worth is greater when they are virgins. Who hasn't been to a lesson where a well meaning teacher has chewed up a piece of gum and then offered it to someone by way of object lesson. "No one wants your chewed gum." Ouch. Not that I'm condoning sexual promiscuity. But there is this extreme that is rather stifling - a tug of war between one definition of chastity as being equal to virginity and the push to graduate from Single's Ward High eternally tied. But everything should happen in the right time and the right place. Isn't that a better definition of chastity? Participating in activities at the right time and in the right place?

Which is my point for the day. It's no wonder so many girls I know are simultaneously obsessed with dating and completely terrified of it as well. The pressure from outside forces and the ever illusive Facebook status change and online relationship obsessed stalkerazzi wanting to know your every move is huge. If you let it get to you. (Her relationship status changed! Oh no! I wonder what happened?! I'm going to send messages to half of her friends to figure out why.) (Again. . . probably guilty. No one is immune!)

Sure - it would be great to have celebrated Valentine's Day with my sweetheart, but there will be many years ahead of me at some point for that. I am happy with where I am. I'm excited for what the next year has in store for me. I have a family that loves me and good friends. With that in mind, I wish you all a belated Happy Valentine's Day and hope that whatever your situation, you spent it with people you love.

Wise Courage

Last night I sat in front of my computer for about three hours typing out an outline of an article for my Post-Modern American Literature class, (which, incidentally, involves reading four books by non-American writers. Go figure.) Our current project does involve an American author - we are reading The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien.

The article I was outlining discusses a re-definition of what makes a person courageous. "Courage," argues literary critic Carl Horner, "cannot be separated from wisdom, temperance, and justice." (See "Challenging the Law of Courage and Heroic Identification in Tim O'Brien's If I Die in a Combat Zone and The Things They Carried for more.) In other words, courage doesn't exist in a vacuum. It is influenced by our social constructs of how events should proceed, how courage should look as opposed to what it is, an intangible concept we've given a face to.

It's a division of virtue easily mistaken for something else - do people act out of self-sacrifice because they are afraid of looking afraid and really come off looking courageous, in spite of their mindless agression? Horner argues that most men aren't nearly afraid of death as they are of going home cowards, at least in a war setting. Ultimately, Horner conceeds to O'Brien's definition - "if we are not thinking, we are not human. If we are not thinking, by extension we are not brave in the human dimension. Proper courage is wise courage."

The word "courage" has come up several times in the last few weeks and months in emails and articles and books and whatever else I've read and listend to. One incident that stands out particularly strongly involves and email from a friend saying that going against the church on Proposition 8 is a courageous thing to do because it goes against the norm in Utah. To an extent he is right. It would, by dictionary definition, take a certain amount of courage to go against the masses on the issue - but is it the kind of courage that I want to have? What quality of courage do I want to obtain?

The reason I'm writing about this is, perhaps a bit predictable in light of the events yesterday. I watched the news along with everyone else that has a scrap of patriotism and respect for our country and celebrated the fact that our country has, at least for now, some hope for the future and a small scrap of dignity to cling to on the world scene. But something I saw bothered me. Images of the mass crowds of people in the Mall booing images of President Bush and cheering as his plane left Washington. These are, presumably, the same people who have been telling McCain supporters to suck it up and accept President Obama and give him respect as the choice of the nation.

I don't agree with everything President Bush did. I don't think he is a perfect man or a perfect leader. Nor do I think it is fair to blame everything on him, or to blame everything on Congress. But I do think he is a good man. The popular view of Bush being an illiterate unintelligent monkey who led our country down that dark path of recession and war due to his mindlessness drives me crazy. It is unfair and not true. Wherever the "blame" lies for all this, it isn't just on one man. It is on far too many things that are out of anyone's control.

So at this time of transition, I tip my virtual hat to President Bush for doing all he could in the last eight years to do what he could with what he is given. As my President, he deserves respect. As a good man and a human being, he deserves to maintain his dignity. It will be interesting to see what the next four(+) years bring to our country and whether or not the popular opinion of President Obama shifts at all.

How many (almost) college graduates does it take to find a Starbucks?

This is the story of a girl on a mission.  Her small sister had not been dreaming of sugar plums over the yule-tide season, she had been dreaming of figure skates and graceful feats of athleticism  on a sheet of ice.  The loving mother of these two girls, being a kind hearted soul, decided to promise the smaller one that, at some point before she returned to school, the family would embark on an ice skating adventure of fun and joy.  

This would have been much more easily accomplished if everyone else was as excited about said adventure as the small one was.  Older brother managed to get out of it by flying home early.  The rest of the family seemed doomed to the journey, however begrudgingly. 

On the day of the trip, Mother, older sister, small sister and small sister's friend drove in one car with Father and (no longer that small) younger brother drove in the other car to meet at the indoor ice-arena at approximately 2:00 PM (1400 Hours.)  This plan went swimmingly (if a little late) until the female vehicle realized that the arena, which had been open for a similar trip the previous New Year was closed.  Mother and older sister were ready to go home.  Small sister and friend were very disappointed.  Small sister was close to tears until Mother decided to suggest an even colder idea: the outdoor ice arena down town!  Brilliant! cried the younger passengers.  Wonderful! Smashing!  Please, lets!

This is the part where the boys get out of the adventure in favor of watching bowl games.  Older sister begins to see the benefit of competitive sports.  

So older sister drove the car down town and eventually (an hour later) found said over-crowded very small ice arena playing loud rock music and containing a plethora of people including two Mennonite girls, teenaged boys and girls attempting to flirt, skating students attempting to skate, and men dragged in by their wives away from their respective bowl games wearing jackets and hats to support their teams instead.  

To compensate for the cold and the fact that older sister had only dressed for indoor skating, she decided to go in search of a Starbucks to buy a warm drink of the chocolate variety.  Surely there would be one!  Or three!  Or twelve!  Within four city blocks alone!  It could not be so very difficult!

Older sister drove up and down a plethora of city streets in an attempt to find Starbucks.  Mother had told her that there was one near where her father worked but she could not see it.  She determined that either 1) she needed glasses; 2) she needed to be a wizard to see it; or 3) Mother was crazy.  After driving around without success down nearly every street in the down town area that seemed remotely safe, older sister decided to go to another coffee place a little farther away.  Other coffee place had, as she recalled, a nice variety of sandwiches and quiches and other snacks as well, since she had not eaten her noon meal yet.  This pleasant thought in mind, older sister found that the delightful coffee shop that had held all her hopes and dreams was closed.  Not just for today, but for every day.  Hopes and dreams were shattered.  There was (very nearly) weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth. 

Older sister decided that she was tired of driving around and that she should stop wasting gas in Mother's car.  As she was driving back, through the hazy waves of the hot drink-free desert, an oasis was seen on the corner - a Starbucks!  At last!  Older sister had found some luck!  She parked by a meter and went in.  There was no line.  She ordered one grande and one tall beverage for herself and for her mother.  The cashier said "Mayhaps may I interest you in something else?"  Older sister wished she had interest in another drink simply because he used the word "mayhaps".  Roughly $6.37 later, older sister is back in the car and on her way back to the outdoor ice block.  Things are looking up.  Especially when small sister's friend announces that her feet hurt and she is almost ready to go.  

Thank you, Starbucks.  Thank you.

This, My Friends, is an Ice Storm

I went to bed last night with the pitter patter of rain on the roof above my room at home.  Come morning my little town had been turned into a sheet of ice.  Now housebound, my dad and I put on our coats and hats and sneakers and skated our way to the park down the street to take some pictures.  This was the result: 

Things that Make me go *headdesk*

1. Parents who give their children names like Adolf Hitler for the sake of being unique (and then get confused when it makes people wonder)
2. The media being so utterly predictable when they pick President Elect Obama as the Person of the Year.  I don't doubt that he deserves it - it was certainly an historic election.  But. . . really?  He hasn't even really done anything yet . . . 
3. 7:00 A.M. shifts at work.  Ever.  But especially during finals week. 
4. The media figuring out that communication in relationships makes a difference.
5. Some of the ways that people manage to make money for charity.
6. Students at BYU who are so sheltered they call the police when they see men with moustaches. . . and then find out that they are construction workers who are supposed to be where they are.  Or really. . . anything in BYU's Police Beat (the sheltered lives some people lead!)
7. The best show on television being cancelled - though the commentary on the cancellation is pretty fantastic.
8. Some of the things that made it through production.
9. Other things that made it through production. 
   
10. And just. . . what?!

They're all a bunch of phonies

A few weeks ago I went on a date. Yup. I did it. I met a guy and flirted my way into giving a phone number out. And we went on a date. And he was nice. And I laughed and smiled and did what I was supposed to and generally had a decent time. He was (is?) a nice guy. But after it was all over I was a little ticked off at myself. Mainly because I wasn't being "me" at all. I was laughing at things that weren't funny. I was (shudder) giggling. I was dumbing myself down.

Another anecdote: At work today we had a discussion about an editorial in the paper about how girls shouldn't expect guys to be like men in the movies. I said that I think it's fair for girls to expect guys to be courteous and more sensitive every once in a while and that, on the reverse, it's fair for guys to expect girls to toughen up every now and then and be more adventurous (if they lean towards the sensitive side, I suppose). A bit of give and take on both sides. One of the guys in the office then went on about how that isn't entirely true, because most girls actually like a good action film but NO guy actually likes "chick" movies. He said that guys who watch those movies are only doing it because they want the girl to think they like it and (in the case of extra long BBC movies) doing it because it's an extended time in which they can sit next to a girl.

Now on to the point: I just finished reading Catcher in the Rye for my American Lit class. For those who aren't familiar (or need a bit of a reminder), narrator Holden Caulfield hates people who are putting on a show for an audience, essentially. He doesn't like people who "perform". They are "phonies". He seems to prefer people who are candid and as honest as they can be (though there are debates on this since he also puts on shows but. . . that's another essay for another day.)

I understand that dating requires a bit of give and take in personality. I understand that the majority of guys would rather not watch Pride and Prejudice with me - but is it going too far to say that there are NO guys out there who will appreciate a movie (no matter what genre) for the sake of the quality of the film? Does ALL of dating have to be a show? Sure, there is an element of performing - but does it have to be the main dish or can we pull it back to appetizer status? Do people know when the "performing" should start and the "genuine" relationship should begin?

I think this may be why I don't do it very often. Maybe I'm a bit like Holden in that sense - I value people who are confident enough in themselves to try new things but to also stand up for themselves. I don't exactly know where I'm going with this - but I will say that I'm tired of playing the dating "game". I don't want to go out with guys who are performing for me and misleading me as to who they are - and I don't want to do it for them in return. I want to get to know people - men and women - and see them for who they are. I want a deeper level of trust and honesty than that.

And this, I think, gets to the root of the problem with dating in Provo. There are too many options. Men and Women can shop around as much as they want to because there will always be someone better. They don't have to work hard for real relationships because there's always another ward, another apartment, another class, another social - and dozens of single people to meet there. They don't have to try hard at all. Everyone is so comfortable on a surface level, but I don't think many people around here are really all that comfortable with themselves. Which is why I'm packing up and heading out. That's right. After my first year of teaching (in which I am trapped in Provo) I'm going to move. I'm going to start my own adventure in the great wide world and see what happens. Not just in the relationship part of my life, but in the part of my life that is excited for change.

Long story short?

Look out world!

(Oh and, P.S. - to that boy I work with who thinks that no guy likes "chick" movies - I'm pretty sure you're wrong. Or in denial. Or both. Not that all "chick" movies are good - but by my definition of movies that are slightly more "girly" - there are plenty that have substance and quality that are good no matter how you look at them. Action movies that are just about action are no better than romances that are just about getting the couple together.)

((tirade over))

Looking for a window

I have had a rather frustrating writing semester. I've written more than I have in a long time but I haven't really gone anywhere with it. And after a very frustrating interview yesterday with a well-meaning professor who kind of haphazardly told me that my writing isn't good and that I should stop writing about things I've done and write instead about who I am. . . which for me is rather difficult to separate. I don't know that I know what that means. How is it even possible to write about yourself without writing about what you do? Where you've been? It's a concept that I don't really understand.

I think he wants me to go into that "dark place" of myself or . . . something. I'm not really sure. The long and short of it is - I need a new audience for my writing in the very near future. I feel like I've reverted rather than pushed forward into a better place. And naturally this interview concluded with me having a minor breakdown since this was added to everything else I need to get done this week. Not really what I wanted to hear when I was already emotionally broken. So in an attempt to remedy all of this, I'm going to do something self indulgent and write about things that make me happy.

1. The Christmas tree in my living room: There's something so comforting and wonderful about a dark room with the light of Christmas in it. I have never been in a room lit by a Christmas tree that didn't make me the tiniest bit happier, even this time of year when things are stressful.

2. Waking up to a clean kitchen: Ok. So this doesn't happen very often. I have a roommate who likes to cook but not clean and I spend lots of time cleaning up as a result BUT, that said, even though I hate cleaning up after other people, there is something satisfying about doing dishes because of the visible improvement when you are done. I like a clean house. I do.

3. My DVD collection/Book collection: I get a great amount of ridiculous pleasure out of the fact that my DVDs and books are in exact alphabetical order. Yes. I'm actually really OCD about that, probably from several years of working at a bookstore.

4. Not waking up to an alarm. Again - this doesn't happen very often. But it's going to happen tomorrow. I'm skipping my two classes tomorrow because I might explode from stress if I don't and because I need sleep. Desperately.

5. The "Snow" theme of The Nutcracker: I don't know why but this song gives me utter and incomprehensible delight. The first time I saw it performed by Ballet West I was spellbound.

6. Live music: While we're on that theme - I love hearing music played by a live (good) orchestra with feeling. Orchestras that have put some emotion into what they are playing. They don't just sound good - they fill the room with positive vibes and spiritual uplift.

7. Walking outside in the snow: Haven't had the chance yet this year - it's been too warm. But at some point in the not too distant future I'm sure, it will snow here and then I will get the delight of looking out my window and putting a scarf on and indulging in the moods of the season.

8. Oranges: This Thanksgiving we were all talking about how great everything tasted when my grandma said something about how all she wants to do after she dies is to taste an orange. Due to an accident several years ago my grandma lost her sense of taste and smell - which is great for stinky diapers that you want changed but not so great when you want to enjoy your own cooking. I thought about it for about a half a second and realized that of all the tastes in the world I would miss, oranges would be near the top of that list. So would lots of other fruits. Raspberries. Strawberries. Grapefruit. It's such a little thing, really - we take it for granted but when I think about my grandma I am grateful for my sense of taste.

9. Photography: I haven't had many big adventures in my life, but I've had a few - and I love looking at the pictures I've taken to remind me of what it was like. I'm not a scrapbooker by any means. I'd rather spend money on pictures than eight hundred stickers to fill ten pages with one picture on them each. If I had to make a list of things that I would grab first in an emergency given time to pack, photos would be near the top of that list. The trouble would come afterwards in deciding which books and movies I couldn't live without! I'm so materialistic. . .

10. The sound of laptop keys: I know it's kind of strange, but ever since I was young I've had a few sounds that I really like. Fingers tapping to a rhythm of keys on a laptop keyboard or the sound that shoes make on pavement. I used to watch the beginning of The Sound of Music when the Von Trapp children are introduced for the singular pleasure of listening to their shoes on the floor.

"I reserve the right to be fair."

In my education classes recently we've been talking about how there are times when the "rules" have to bend to accommodate students with special needs. Students that have a hard life at home or have been ill or struggle intellectually, etc. That means that, although I will have a late-work policy as a teacher that will usually need strict adherence, there will be times when that policy will be adjusted depending on the needs of the individual. My classroom management teacher put it best when she told us that she puts the phrase "I reserve the right to be fair" on all of her disclosure documents at the beginning of the year.

Fair and equal are not the same thing. Equality implies that if I have five cookies and two children I will give each child exactly 2 1/2 cookies. It means that what you give one you must give another. True equality is very nearly a kind of covenant where one party gives exactly the same as he receives. It should include exact sameness in quantity, degree, value, rank and/or ability (see the Dictionary for elaboration). To be "fair" is not always the same as being equal. Fairness implies that you are free from bias or injustice - in the case of a teacher, being fair is looking after the needs of individual students.

Where am I going with this?

As this recent election came to a close I more or less decided that I did not care who got the presidency. Both President-Elect Obama and Senator McCain presented themselves well and with dignity and more or less each had something to offer the nation. I am glad to see that our nation has reached a point where we can elect a black man - and the fact that it was by such a large margin is impressive. Regardless of whether or not I agree with his politics, it is remarkable.

There was only one issue that I really cared about by the end of the election - the passing of Proposition 8 in California.

It's been frustrating for me to see how everything has come apart with Proposition 8 and the way people follow the counsels of the Prophet. On an internal level - it bothers me that members of the church have so openly and deliberately gone against the counsel of the Prophet and his counselors. I respect that everyone has different experience with the gay community. Being a theater-person myself, I've had a fair amount of experience myself. I empathize with the struggle. That said - when the prophet specifically asks for support on an issue; you should listen to him. If you raised your hand in support of him at the last General Conference, that means that you have sustained him as a seer and revelator - as one who knows more and sees more than we do because of that connection with God. If you have a testimony in the power of God to speak to man, specifically through his prophet, then you should recognize that regardless of personal experience or understanding - God must know what he is doing. This isn't part of the church's "political agenda" - this is the Prophet protecting the most sacred institution on earth - the family - and asking for our support.

Outside of the church it makes me feel ill to see the reactions that have been thrown around. The term "tolerance" has been completely misused. Those who do not support Proposition 8 ask for tolerance but do not give it - tolerance is a "fair, objective, and permissive attitude toward those whose opinions, practices, race, religion, nationality, etc., differ from one's own" It is defined as "freedom from bigotry". Look at the advertising that has happened. The church's support of Proposition 8 was all very positive. There is not ONE negative add bashing the other side that is supported with the church's name on it. But as I write this there are protests going on outside the LA temple. There was a commercial last week slandering the church's name that presented two "missionaries" raiding the home of a lesbian couple. The "missionaries" stole the wedding rings of the couple, tore their house apart, and ripped their marriage certificate into pieces.

Another example, non Prop-8 related: On Halloween there was a story on the news about a house in Hollywood (I think it was there) that had put up an effigy of Sarah Palin being hung. No one made a big deal about it - it was a political statement. If someone had done it with Barack Obama's image - it would have been considered racist.

The double standard is ridiculous. It makes me ill to watch how the church has been singled out because of our stance on this issue. The church is not slandering anyone. Our leaders have never once encouraged members to show bigotry towards homosexuals. We are encouraged to love all people, regardless of race, political affiliation, gender, sexual orientation, etc. If there are members of the church that go against that counsel, they are in the wrong. That said, the stance of the church on the sanctity of marriage will not and cannot change.

"Make no mistake about it, brothers and sisters, in the months and years ahead, events are likely to require each member to decide whether or not he will follow the First Presidency. Members will find it more difficult to halt longer between two opinions. President Marion G. Romney said, many years ago, that he had 'never hesitated to follow the counsel of the Authorities of the Church even though it crossed my social, professional or political life..'

"This is hard doctrine, but it is particularly vital doctrine in a society which is becoming more wicked. In short, brothers and sisters, not being ashamed of the gospel of Jesus Christ includes not being ashamed of the prophets of Jesus Christ. . . . Your discipleship may see the time when such religious convictions are discounted. . . . This new irreligious imperialism seeks to disallow certain opinions simply because those opinions grow out of religious convictions.

"Resistance to abortion will be seen as primitive. Concern over the institution of the family will be viewed as untrendy and unenlightened....

"Before the ultimate victory of the forces of righteousness, some skirmishes will be lost. Even in these, however, let us leave a record so that the choices are clear, letting others do as they will in the face of prophetic counsel.

"There will also be times, happily, when a minor defeat seems probable, but others will step forward, having been rallied to rightness by what we do. We will know the joy, on occasion, of having awakened a slumbering majority of the decent people of all races and creeds which was, till then, unconscious of itself.

"Jesus said that when the fig trees put forth their leaves, 'summer is nigh.' Thus warned that summer is upon us, let us not then complain of the heat."

From "A More Determined Discipleship" by Elder Neal A. Maxwell of the Presidency of the First Quorum of the Seventy. An address delivered at Brigham Young University, 10 October 1978.

Therapy Session

. . . How can a novelist achieve atonement, when, with her absolute power of deciding outcomes, she is also God?
Atonement, Ian McEwan

Recently I've decided that I should feel no shame in calling myself a writer. I used to think that the term only applied to people who were known for their writing. People who made money off of it. people who were bound between covers and sold to the public for consumption and critique. But, as it happens, I've got two of those three down. I have been published. Once, mind you, but my name was printed in a magazine and the magazine is read world wide. I am now archived online. A short little essay but, there it is. And I've been paid for my writing. Nearly $2000 total. Not bad.

As a result of this re-adjustment of myself, I've been thinking more and more about a writer's role, and, consequently, the trouble I have in being an essayist. Because you do play God, really. You make solid something imaginary - and when that solidification comes from real events - you can run into some trouble. This constant attacking of a subject from different angles in an attempt to try and find "truth" - whatever that is. The past is plastic. By organizing it and putting words into the mouths of the people I write into my narratives, I play God. I give them emotions and opinions they may not have. I structure events to make them more aesthetically pleasing. I leave out what doesn't "fit" or goes too far or is, perhaps, too revealing.

This becomes especially tricky when you are writing for therapy - when you're writing to come to terms with something you either don't understand or don't really like. If you aren't careful you box up something complex and label it to make it simple. You categorize to eliminate the gray matter that doesn't make sense. Writing about life - trying to find truth through words - it's not an easy thing to do.

The quote that this post comes from is a book called Atonement. I found it completely fascinating. It stole my life away, really. The story - the prose - everything about it drove me mad with wishes that usually went along the lines of "why can't I write like that?!!" It's an interesting concept really - what happens when we zero in on one moment of our lives - just one - probably a big one - something we did that changed other people - and break it apart? Look at how - for good or for evil - we've influenced generations of people? And if it was wrong. . . if what you did is now past repair and you can't go back - how do you find atonement in that?

Oh say, what is truth?

Follow up on last week: I was asked out again. This time by email. You can officially add that to the list of ways that should not be used on a first date (if you want to be classy). Furthermore, texting is also out. So is asking by proxy.

I've been thinking recently about modern LDS conceptions of what is "true" and what is "false" and I have more or less come to the conclusion that in many ways - those connotations are slowing us down. The gospel is so much more relative than we give it credit for. Really, I can't think of too many aspects of the gospel that - at least from my perspective - are absolute truth. What it comes down to is this list of basic principles:

1. The church is true.
2. President Monson is a living prophet of God.
3. I am a Child of God.
4. The Book of Mormon is the word of God.

Etc.

Basic (crucial, but basic) hingepoints of the gospel that are either 100% true or 100% false. There's not another way around it for them.

But there is another huge part of our life that is a little more grey. We are told that we shall "know the truth, and the truth will set you free" - another name for Christ is "the truth" - so we are essentially trying to find truth our entire lives. We are trying to return to him. Our life is - or should be - a journey to find truth.

But these individual truths can change. I especially like the chapter in the D&C where it talks about the Apocrypha. Joseph was told that the Apocrypha had been corrupted by evil men - and that those who read it with the spirit would be uplifted by the elements of truth that it still contained. This, to me, speaks to the individual ways that each of us feel the spirit and live their lives.

Take for example the way people worship on the Sabbath. There really aren't hard and fast "rules" about Sunday worship. We are instructed to keep the Sabbath Day holy, but never told how. In my family, that meant coming home after church, changing out of our nice clothes, playing games with each other, watching a movie, and maybe getting together with some of our close friends for dinner. Some of my friends have no screen-time on Sunday, they stay in church clothes all day, and only spend time with immediate and extended family. Is one of us "true" and the other "false"? No. We just feel the spirit in different ways. We build schema's for ourselves.

Another example: I find books and music and movies to be great spiritual builders for me. They make me want to be better. I find truth in the books that I read, even when they contain subject matter that may or may not make other people comfortable. I'm reading a book right now, for instance, called Atonement that is based on how the lives of everyone in the book change because one girl decides to blame the wrong person for a rape that she witnessed. It isn't an easy or light kind of read. But it has made me think quite a bit about choice and the consequences of our actions when we deliberately try to hurt people.

The movies I watch, again - I don't let the MPAA determine my conscience on this subject. There are movies of every rating that - to me - don't contain much substance or benefit at all. Lots of the kitchy LDS films through some of the more recent films by actors like Will Ferrill provide absolutely no substance for me. They entertain people, but don't necessarily do anything for them at the end of the day. I don't see the artistic value in it. It's my own standard of judgement. Then there are some rated R films that I've either seen all of or seen edited versions of that I have found much more benefit from. They make me think more than the latest LDS comedy on life as a single adult. (Item: I think we should use that term like we do with words that designate handicaps - "an adult that is single" instead of "single adult". I'd like to think that my single-ness doesn't define me.)

My point isn't that watching these movies or reading those books or worshiping your own way is bad or good - what I am saying is that I think our culture could do with a little bit more understanding. What is right for one person may not be right for another in terms of day to day life where we haven't been given direct instruction. And thank heaven we haven't - it's a higher law. We are not the Children of Israel.

In many ways, the application of the gospel is plastic. We each need to find our own way, so to speak. We all see truth differently. We have different perspectives and experiences. As far as I can tell - God is really the only being that can decern perfectly what is absolute truth or absolute false.

The point? We could all afford to be a little more patient with one another.

"We're doing worst first dates."

I win! Ok, it was a minor league hockey game. He brought his brother, and when I went to the bathroom, the game ended and they forgot about me.
(Pam, "The Client", Season Two of The Office)

I work in an office full of many single people. We spend a lot of time talking about dating. This is really unique to BYU, I know, but what can you do? That potentially awful time of life where you're in a feast or a famine - it starts to feel a lot like clothes shopping to me. You go into the store with an idea of what you would like, but you grab lots of clothes anyway if they look like they might work/are the right price, and then you try them on in front of a mirror. Sometimes you get an opinion. If you're me you put them all back. Some people buy a ton. I don't know. Maybe the metaphor is flawed. But I've been thinking about what makes a good first date - and here's my list.

1. Short. I don't think there's much reason at all for a first date to go beyond an hour or so. It's really all you need. A nice event (ie, dinner) that involves talking to one another. Something that is planned but not over planned. I don't think it's fair for guys to put so much pressure on themselves to come up with WAY CREATIVE first dates. It puts undue pressure on the girl to say yes again and it takes too much effort on the part of the guy. Besides - after about an hour or so, you more or less know if you're interested in seeing that person again.

2. Promptness: This is the situation that inspired the post in the first place. Hypothetical Guy asks Hypothetical Girl out on a date. Girl says yes. Guy does not call girl for more than a month. Guy calls girl on a Wednesday for the following Friday. Girl says yes. Guy says that he will call girl on Thursday after he figures out what they are doing and that Girl should plan on something around 7:00 Friday. Girl does not hear from Guy until approximately 4:30 the following Friday. Girl not so cleverly tells Guy that she has other things to do. See - here's the thing. Maybe this is picky, but I don't really think so. If a guy is interested in the girl and he asks for her number - he has about a week (maybe two) of grace period with which to use the number. This doesn't mean that he has to take her out in that oneish week - but some kind of contact to let the girl know he is still interested would be nice. Furthermore, dates should be planned before calling to schedule, and the guy should followup. It's courteous. Not to mention that the girl needs to know how to dress/if she should eat/what time she will be back, etc. If this is me being anal, then so be it. But for a first date or so - spontaneous activities don't so much fly.

3. Groups are nice: I'm a big fan of first dates in groups, generally speaking. It takes pressure off everyone involved and kind of relaxes you into behaving more like yourself. At least it does for me. I always feel a little bit too much under the magnifying glass on a first date alone with someone I don't know all that well. If you've known the person longer, it wouldn't be a big deal.

4. Planned in advance: I mentioned this already in number two, but have something in mind already. Maybe even a few things. One of the nicest things a guy ever did for me on a first date proposal was options. He had two equally great (and unique but not over the top) ideas in mind and he let me choose. It was probably the best first date I ever went on.

5. Post date - if you're interested in going out again - you've got that two weekish grace period back. And say thank you, even if you aren't interested in going out again. I like it when I hear my roommates calling to thank their dates for taking time for them. Again - this is kind of picky, but it's about courtesy.

Long story short: It's all about courtesy on that first impression. So, sorry to the (Not so) Hypothetical Guy that I'm ditching on tonight. But I've got a paper due on Monday and about 300 pages of reading to do and. . . I'm not going to wait around for you to remember me.

"I saw it. I saw it with my own eyes."

I return from my several week hiatus of blogging rather exhausted from the first few weeks of a new semester, but also rather happy to be back in school. Aside from one very monotonous class where I listen to a man tangent for two hours twice a week, my classes are quite satisfactory. They are also quite time consuming, hence the lack of blogging. I return a conquering hero having not completed all my homework for the night, but enough that I can afford a small break.

As part of the scholarship I won for creative writing I am required to take a creative writing class. Shocking, I know. I had signed up to take a class from a professor I haven't studied under before but I walked into class on the first day and she said something to the effect of "if you are here to write anything other than poetry, this isn't the class for you." Well. I have no desire to write poetry any more than she would have the desire to read it. Poetry is not, has never been, and never will be my forte. I just don't appreciate it as much. No big deal. The world has many poets.

So I've managed to get myself into a creative non-fiction writing class taught by the same professor who led my study abroad to England last year. Much of this class feels like it's starting over for me on things I don't really need, simply because I've been writing creative non-fiction for long enough now that I don't really need the introduction. So I've been using much of the class time to just work on my own stuff.

Much of that is because some of the discussions in the class have started driving me a bit mad. (Prepare yourself, I'm about to sound elitist and snobbish.) One discussion in particular that was frustrating to me is one that we had last week about exactly what creative non-fiction means. Because even though it is marked as "non-fiction", there really isn't such a thing as absolute truth in memory. It doesn't exist. Our "earliest memories" may or may not be real. The way we tell an experience may be different than exactly what happened. We consciously and subconsciously re-write the past all the time.

This makes some of them feel dishonest. Because the past has to have some kind of existence somewhere, right? Everything is present before the Lord - if nothing else, He has to have a record of the absolute real truth.

But does that matter for me? As a writer, does it matter if I tell the exact absolute truth as I saw it with my own eyes or is it more important to try and capture some other "essence" of my "memories"?

The funny thing is that when I try and write about the conflict in what truth is absolute and what truth I construct for myself - it frustrates me. I can't really define it. All I can really say is that when I write, if something feels honest to me, then I run with it. Even if I know that it isn't exactly true. Take my England essays for example - there were times when I would downplay or exaggerate certain elements of a story in order to bring out other more important points. The point of an essay isn't to put a stamp on this inanimate thing you have in your head - to put words to something that is wordless - it's the same as adapting a book to film. You have these two different mediums - mind and word - and you have to find a way to reconcile the two.

It makes me wonder, though, whether God will take into account, somehow, what our memories tell us. I'm sure there are several stories in my mind that are somehow not right thanks to time and space and perspective shifts - but does that matter?

The longer I think about the word 'truth' the more I feel that there aren't many 'truths' out there that are 'absolute' in the conventional connotation of the word.

A Golden Chain

Kindness is a golden chain by which society is bound together.
~Goethe

Most of the time, I feel like I have a vocabulary that is adequate enough to describe just about everything. I have almost always been somewhat gifted with language. I don't say this to be cocky or conceited - I just recognize that an understanding and appreciation of language is one of the gifts I have been given from God. I feel a bit like Hermione Granger, really, in her firm belief that answers to any questions can be found in books. There are a few times, though, when answers cannot be found in books and emotions cannot be expressed in words. It isn't possible. There are not words in English or any other language to describe my gratitude right now for the experiences I have just had.

This summer I have been involved in a play that has brought many miracles to me. It is a testimony to me that my Savior is aware of me and what I need, and that he has guided me to places that I need to go. I would never have auditioned for this show on my own. I hadn't heard of it at all in the first place - but even if I had, I wouldn't have gone. The show is The Promised Land, a play about the first two books of Nephi in The Book of Mormon. Anyone who knows me even a little knows my thoughts on kitschy, sappy literature abundant in and around religious works of fiction/film/stage/etc. They bother me because they box everything that makes the gospel complex and intellectual and frame it into a nice, happy ending sort of picture. They don't take risks. They don't challenge anything.

My friend Rachel made me come with her to these auditions. Well. . . "made" is a bad word, I suppose. She encouraged me to go. I thought - what the heck. I hadn't been in a play for more than a year despite my many auditions, I didn't have anything else to do this summer, and if nothing else it would give me a chance to clog my pores with some stage make-up I have that would only have dried out more from lack of use if I didn't do another show soon. So I went. I got cast. It was the best thing that ever happened to me.

This isn't to say that the show didn't have its flaws. But I'm not here to advertise the show or talk about the story - the show is over now. I'm here to somehow attempt to express through words my gratitude to my friends, to my family, and to my God for literally pouring blessings down on me that I may or may not have "deserved" but certainly needed.

A bit of background: People think that because I am comfortable in social settings that I am a social person. This is not entirely true. Most nights I would rather read a book or watch a movie or work on an essay than make the effort to try and hang out with others. It's safer. I don't risk anything with a cup of tea and a book. Getting close to people is an emotional risk that is rather hard for me due to several experiences that don't need to be elaborated on here. That being said, I hold my friends very dear to me when I get them. In high school I had a group of friends draw me into their circle and build me up exactly when I needed them. Now most of them are married and gone and we don't talk much/at all any more. My group of study abroad friends are married and moving on as well. This play gave me the examples of a dozen or so people who are strong, genuine, generous people of the finest pedigree. I am honored to be considered one of them. I hope that we continue to spend time together even though the show is over.

The show struggled. Not because of a lack of talent, but because of several factors working against us. We were performing in a new theater. The venue is beautiful but largely unknown. The Olympics were easier to access and cheaper than the show. There was the stigma of religion to overcome. We ended up having several shows canceled, including one that my brother was supposed to attend. My brother has been through the mill the last few years. He really has. Details aren't necessary, but suffice it to say that of all the people I know, I wanted him to see it the most. He needed it. He needed to feel that spirit and be built up by the message. I was devastated when the show was canceled. But my wonderful, amazing friends banded together instead and found a way for him to come down. For two days I got to spend time with my brother and talk with him and show him around the city. He got to see the show twice. It was, quite literally, a miracle for both of us. I will never forget it.

So for whomever reads this, my point is this: if our spiritual growth depended only on reading scriptures and attending meetings like dutiful lemmings, then we would all be made monks. There is so much more to this life, and the next life than that. We are not here to just be spiritually prepared for heaven, we are here to be prepared for the social structure of heaven as well. The social structure and the culture of heaven - thank heaven they exist! I don't like the idea of spending the eternities only reading Ensign articles. Good books, good poetry, beautiful music, opportunities to make and build friendships - if they don't pepper the shelves of heaven's libraries and fill the rooms then I don't want to be there.

Abort! Abort!

I just got back from a family vacation in Mexico early this morning. One thing I love most about my family is that we leave our vacations on good terms and still loving each other. Some families leave trips like this bitter enemies for the next two months until time and space start healing wounds. We're all so good natured that (usually) when things start imploding (or exploding) we just chuckle at the irony and chock it up for something to laugh at later. It's how the Dayleys travel.

One thing I noticed on this particular trip, though, is that plane travel seems to be kind of subtly reverting back to a very Titanic-esque order of business. At least on US Airways. For example, only first class is fed anything. The rest of the commoners have to pay more money to get a drop of water. I wonder if this still applies to screaming babies/airsick passengers.

Airsick passenger in Coach: I'm not feeling very well. I'm pretty sure I'm going to vomit into one of your pathetically small little bags if I don't get some ginger ale into my system soon. Do you have any. . .

Stewardess: Well, Sir/Ma'am, I would be happy to serve you whatever drink you like if you could give me $2. Then I will give you a US Airways commemorable Dixie Cup full of ginger ale to settle your upset stomach.

APIC: But I don't have any cash. Everyone knows that it's stupid to carry cash these days, and even if I did have cash it would probably not be $2 worth.

S: Well, I'm sorry Sir/Ma'am but our guidelines are quite clear - we are not allowed to serve beverages to coach class without a small fee under any circumstances.

APIC: You would prefer that I vomit all over your carpet?

S: Of course not Sir/Ma'am. But for a small fee we could upgrade the status of your complimentary vomit bag. We now provide them in three sizes and colors, as well as scented and unscented options . . .

APIC: But I don't have any money. You're going to have to clean all this -

S: Unfortunately, stewardesses are only in charge of cleaning up messes of any kind in First Class. If you would like me to clean up your vomit, I would be happy to do so for an additional $20. . .

All right. This is a small exaggeration, I admit. But only a small one.

Here are some other great things I saw on my way home yesterday:

1. There was so much humidity in the air in Puerto Vallarta that the plane we boarded was smoking. Seriously. It looked like they'd put dry ice into all the vents. I half expected to hear some kind of creepy music over the vents. I asked the stewardess about it and (after paying her a few quarters for her time) she told me that it was just the condensation and that there was no need to be worried. Very reassuring.

2. There was a woman walking around the Phoenix airport yesterday wearing something that looked like an old Shirley Temple costume (the short, ruffly tap dance skirt variety), pink cowboy boots, and sporting a fro. A big, curly, blondish fro. Amazing. I love people watching. Thank you to that woman, wherever she is, for brightening my day.

3. We waited on the tarmac in Phoenix for an hour (after an hour delay for weather) because the mechanic had to come check something before we could go. The crew did nothing to inform us as to why we were being delayed, so finally after about forty minutes, I asked. I was informed (after spotting her another couple of dollars for her time) that we were waiting for a mechanic to come and sign some paperwork. Apparently, one of the three bathrooms on the plane was out of order. We were still allowed to fly even if the bathroom was not functioning, we just had to have the mechanic come, confirm that the bathroom was broken, sign a paper confirming this fact, and then we would be allowed to go.

I'm being serious.

We waited for an hour for a signature.

Rest assured, though. All class distinction was maintained. The two or three people in first class were guaranteed exclusive use of their bathroom, and the fifty or so of the rest of us had to argue for time over the hole in the back. Phew!