The Angst Muffins

Dying to be Noticed

2012-01-24T18:25:00.007-07:00

If you haven't read anything by John Green, you are a bad person.

Really. You should probably fix that right now. RIGHT. NOW. Stop reading my blog (which should hint at the seriousness of this situation. I love my blog, and actively want more readers). Turn off your stupid computer. And drive to the nearest library, or even better, bookstore and grab some of his books. My very favorite is Paper Towns, closely followed by An Abundance of Katherines. So check him out, if you please.

Sorry about the extreme fangirlness. It was prompted because I just finished his newest book, The Fault in Our Stars. And it was beautiful, and inspiring, and hilarious and sad, all without being too cloying or obvious. That's one of the things I love about John Green. He writes grand romances, interesting literary observations, and coming-of-age stories, but you don't realize that until after you finish the book. Because it doesn't scream "X TYPE OF BOOK" in your face. When you read, you're just completely immersed.

Take Stars, for instance. I suppose it's a cancer book. But, as it correctly identifies in the story, it's not a cancer book. Cancer just happens to be one of the problems that the characters are faced with. But it's not a Problem with a capital P. It's just a problem. It's just life. It might even be Life. Considering I finished the book fifteen minutes ago, I don't think I'm qualified to assign capital letters quite yet.

And I don't have to. Contrary to what you might think, this blog post is not a review. I'm not going to analyze Stars, or dissect the characters, or discuss how well-placed the literary allusions (Shakespeare, Emily Dickinson, TS Eliot, William Carlos Williams, Ginsberg, and more!) were. Instead, I'm going to make this post about me.

Surprised? You shouldn't be. Once again, the fact I'm blogging is a testament to my self-absorbedness.

There was one question/quote in the book I particularly liked. For those who will read (all of you, please?), you might not want to read the quote. Unless you are OK with me ruining that moment of the book for you. Also, there is a swear. I refuse to edit it. Be warned.

As noted by Hazel, the protagonist: "I thought of my dad telling me that the universe wants to be noticed. But what we want is to be noticed by the universe, to have the universe give a shit what happens to us--not the collective idea of sentient life but each of us, as individuals."

Sigh. I love that. I love that even more within the grand scheme of the book.

When I was little, I wanted to be famous. As far as I knew, this was an absurd and unnatural desire. On several occasions, when I talked about that Great American Novel I wanted to write, or the Oscar I would win, my mother would look at me with bewilderment. She'd shake her head softly and say: 'You're the only one of my children who has wanted to be famous. That's so strange.' Or something to that effect.

Looking back at that urge now, I can identify what is was--a need to validate my existence. We all want to be loved, to be adored, to be lauded as intelligent and kind and wonderful. As a kid, I thought the only way to get that was through universal fame. Luckily, that fame didn't happen.

Which is almost so much better. Because now, with the wisdom that comes through such extreme age (sarcasm there), I recognize the kind of fame I wanted is more curse than blessing. I can, and DO, have that love and acceptance through simpler measures.

I can feel the small ways that the universe has acknowledged my existence. I receive love, often undeservedly, from my family, my darling man friend I'm engaged to, my friends, even near strangers. I have a warm corner of the world to call my own. I have acceptance, from others and, more importantly, from myself.

The beautiful thing about that little turn of events is that it's a two-way street. You can't curry favors from the universe without desperately noticing the wonders it holds. In pondering the many ways I've been individually recognized, I stand in awe. Along with having wonderful people around me, I'm also surrounded by that universal beauty. I live in a gorgeous city, one that constantly surprises me with a new glory every day. I know, and actively miss, such intelligent and interesting people back home in Utah. Luckily, I'm meeting and interacting with some pretty entertaining and talented folks here as well.

And then you start thinking on a grander scheme. This world holds SO MUCH. This is a world that has Andrew Bird, the Coen Brothers, Cormac McCarthy, Shakespeare and Coleridge and Beardsley and Emerson and the Beatles and the ancient Greeks and van Gogh and Beethoven and Thai food and Ella Fitzgerald and the X-Files and all things bright and beautiful. And sometimes it seems like they were all created solely for me. I suppose there is an argument out there that could say they were. Something discussing reality and consciousness.

But that's not the point. The point is that this universe is pretty amazing. As are the moments when that truth hits you, straight in the face, and your heart swells and bursts with the miracle of it all.

Ooh La La

2011-12-19T22:14:00.005-07:00

Well. Quite a bit has happened in the past, oh, three or four months. Seriously. These have probably been the most chaotic months of my life. I'll try to give some brief highlights of the crazy shenanigans I've been up to since August.

-I completed my student teaching. Woah. This was the most exhausting, exhilarating experience of my life, and boy did I love it. I never thought that I could be so frustrated and so enchanted with students. I taught Humanities, English 9, and Honors English 9. I learned so much during my few months there, but the most important was this: I am a teacher. This is what I am supposed to do. There are countless things about my instruction I'd change for my own classroom, but I still loved teaching. I did well. There were kids I struggled with and kids that were a delight. But overall, teaching was a beautiful, beautiful thing. I got brownies, hand-drawn pictures of dragons, and awesome stories every day. Definitely worth getting up at five every morning.

-I got engaged and survived a long distance relationship! I should get a medal.

-At the last minute, I bought a ticket from my friend Thom and went to the Foo Fighters concert. Best. Decision. Ever. I have no idea how I could have considered not going. Dude. Dave Grohl rocks my world harder than I could have imagined. PLUS he played the drums for opener Cage the Elephant. I died. And then screamed really loud. And then died again. And loved every second of it. Oh, Dave Grohl.

-This semester, I also tested practically every gyro available in Provo. I don't know why, but there was never a time when I didn't want a gyro. Oh, what delicious morsels.

-I became a record person. Yep. After finally getting a lovely sound system to accompany my record player, I started listening to vinyl. You guys, it's totally better.

-For the first time ever, I dyed my hair. I decided to take baby steps, and just added a few turquoise streaks. You know, something nice and subtle. I look awesome, and punk rock, and classy. All at the same time.

-I enjoyed a lovely afternoon at Gardner Village with Rosemary and Mary, some of the only girls on the planet who can make shopping an enjoyable experience. We found the strangest conglomeration or ridiculosity and awesomeness in Anastasia's Attic, and then ate delicious food. Twas a day most marvelously spent.

-Spent way too many hours dancing to "Lonely Boy" by the Black Keys. Lauren, Ashley, Annie and I went a little crazy with this song. But we totally have the dance memorized now.

-Finally caved in and watched all of Parks and Recreation. Best three days of my life. Ron Swanson forever!

-And the biggest, most ridiculous thing I've done is finish school and leave Provo.

That's right. I left Utah Valley.

YES.

Today, I packed up my final college apartment, said goodbye to my last college roommates, and drove away from BYU for the last time. Tomorrow morning I head up to Seattle, where I plan on spending at least the next two years.

This has been an intense, difficult time for me. My relationship with Provo has become more antagonistic, especially over the last year, but there are parts I love in it. It is the most crazy, messed up, ridiculous town in the US, but it will always hold a special place in my heart. I formed some forever friendships there, and I don't even believe in those things. It opened me up to some amazing opportunities. It enabled me to grow in ways I didn't think possible.

Life is not perfect, and thinking back over the past four and a half years I have spent roaming around Provo and BYU, there are so many things I would change. But I don't think I would have become the person I am today without living in Provo and going to BYU, so I am incredibly grateful for that.

The other day I was randomly listening to iTunes, and this song came up.

I hate Rod Stewart, and will never forgive him for the monstrosity that is "Maggie May," but I think that this song encapsulates my feelings perfectly. Somehow or other.

Even though I do wish I knew what I know now when I was younger, I'm still happy I had the process of learning everything. I had good times. I had great times. I had times that I wish I could forget. But each moment added up to where I am right now, and I am completely satisfied with that.

So here's to my new adventure. But more importantly, here's to you. Odds are, if you're reading this blog, you've helped shape the past four years in one way or another. So I want you to know, thank you. I've appreciated knowing you more than you could know. Whether you are family, friend, classmate, ward member, or random acquaintance, it's been wonderful knowing and learning from you. And as I start this new chapter in my life, a chapter that thrills and terrifies me, I want you to know I cherish you.

And now, I'm moving forward. Let's see how this goes.

So

2011-10-25T10:03:00.005-06:00

This happened.

As you can tell, we're super excited about it.

Be Still My Soul

2011-09-05T21:05:00.004-06:00

Well, after returning from a much-needed weekend in Seattle, I have just a couple things to say.

1. I love my boyfriend. Yep, it's blog official love.

2. I love Seattle.

I was honestly surprised at how fantastic it felt to be back in Washington. When I left, I was grateful for my time there but relieved to return to the land of mountains and sunshine. I didn't feel like my connection with the city was that deep. I appreciated Seattle, but it was a stopover, a happy footnote in the Adventures of Cat. But oh, how wrong I was. As soon as the plane dipped over the water, I was amazed. I could breathe again. My shoulders relaxed. My heart was lighter. True, a lot of that might have to do with the incredible company I had this weekend, but for the first time in a long time I felt calm. Relaxed. At peace.

I don't feel at peace in Provo. I can't feel at peace in Provo. From my first moment back in Utah Valley, my stomach tightened and my esophagus closed off. A constant tension developed between my shoulder blades, and I can't seem to shake this ever-present feeling that my being here is wrong. I'm not comfortable in my old stomping grounds. Every nook and cranny of this place holds haunting memories of last year, memories that make me full of hate and anger and nausea. Memories I would give anything to completely obliterate so they no longer infect my soul.

Don't worry. I'm working on it.

Add that personal angst to the burdens of student teaching, and the last month has been anything but a cake walk. In short, I needed this weekend. I needed it very badly. Every single moment was perfection. From my first foray into Canada, to the over abundance of delicious breakfast foods, to long walks and quiet conversation, this trip was everything I could have hoped for.

And now I have new faith. Faith that I can endure these next few months. For whenever I get soul sick, whenever the heartache and thousand natural shocks of this woeful existence start bearing down on me, I have a healthy store of memories and dreams to feast on. Memories of bridges and trees and cliff-sides. Steak tacos and jazz in the streets. Gelato and ocean views. Church meetings that lift my spirit and inspire me towards good. Lessons that preach of charity, lessons that strengthen my belief. Mysterious cemeteries with broken stones. Watching movies and finally breathing easy, finally being able to relax.

All of this was set against a background of held hands and constant love. Yes, I might whine and bemoan my sorry lot sometimes, but no longer. Now I have something to remember. How amazing this life is, a life that can be so difficult but offers such blessings in the midst of darkness.

Sifting Through SIFF and Additional Birdsongs

2011-06-05T00:36:00.008-06:00

Today, I did something delightfully indulgent. I treated myself to an afternoon showing of the movie Norman at the Seattle International Film Festival. Worth it? Most definitely.

First off, I had been aching to go to SIFF ever since it started about two weeks ago. It was like what happens every January around Sundance--I feel this inexorable pull, this need to just see one show, to at least experience part of the artsy fartsiness. Every year I don't make it to Sundance I feel depressed, and I think having another film festival in my backyard that I wasn't taking advantage of was getting me down.

But why Norman? Well, that's when the fangirl comes out. Andrew Bird wrote two original songs and did all the scoring for the movie. I LOVE Andrew Bird. Love love love love love love love him. So yes, that was the deciding factor for me to man up and forage into the festival. And by "forage", I mean grab a cheap student ticket and sit in a half-filled theatre at one in the afternoon. Oh yes. I am living on the edge.

Norman was fairly good as far as movies go. It centered around Norman Long, a high school senior whose mother died in a car crash and whose father is dying of cancer. The film deals with themes like run-of-the-mill teen angst about not fitting in and lying to classmates, but with darker edges of self-esteem issues, suicidal impulses, and coping with responsibility. It felt a lot like last year's Easy A, if that movie had been about cancer and suicide and starred a depressed boy instead of a precocious chick. Do I think it will get picked up for distribution? Honestly, no. And if it does, it will undergo some vast changes (unfortunately, I think Bird's score would be one of the casualties). But was it a good movie? Yes. I'm going to say yes. It wasn't great, and needed some more work to tighten up some pretty wide tone shifts, etc., but overall it succeeded.

All the credit for that success goes to Dan Byrd, who played Norman. Byrd is best known for playing light, comedy roles, like the son on Cougar Town or the gay guy in Easy A. He shows off some serious acting chops in this role, making me laugh out loud and almost cry within moments of each other. He brought an intensity to Norman that had me completely caught up in his plight. Despite showing off an ability to emote with scenes of him handling near impossible loads, Byrd still brings his unique humor, with wry line delivery that makes his character surprisingly likeable. This is in addition to some other great performances, especially Richard Jenkins as his dying father and Adam Lambert as the classic profound English teacher. Oh, and the hot chick from Everwood plays a love interest. That's probably important or something.

But on to the score. I first became obsessed with Andrew Bird my freshman year of college. When I say obsessed, I mean obsessed--I completely immersed myself in his music. And I would walk around campus, his songs my own personal soundtrack, and think about how perfect and under-appreciated Andrew Bird was, and how if I ever made a movie it would have Andrew Bird songs. So I made up scenes in my head, small snippets and vignettes, and set them to his melodic voice, dreaming of a day where he would be known (well, that, and of the day that we would meet and he would fall madly in love with me. Naturally).

I think it's important to note that in my freshman imaginings all I thought of were scenes. There was never a whole movie, never a coherent storyline. Andrew Bird's music is incredible, atmospheric, and powerful. And a little much for an entire movie.

I'm willing to make concessions on this point. My love affair with Andrew Bird's music is very intense, and that, coupled with his lack of western touring of late, left me distracted every time the music swelled. The whistles, the strings, the swooping layers of sound--they were classic Bird traits, and I found myself focusing on them rather than the action in the scene.

But, all that fandom aside, there were several moments where the music didn't fit the tone. Most notable among these was a humorous scene where father and son drink some celebratory scotch, but the addition of an insistent violin chorus makes the exchange more unsettling than called for. Once again, it wasn't always that distracting. The opening credits, scored with a whistled introduction, and two new songs (credited as "Night Sky" and "Arcs and Colombs") used during romantic interludes were well-placed. And there was a standout moment with the song "Dark Matter," which was used perfectly in the film. Makes sense, since director Jonathan Segal has cited that song as his inspiration for working with Bird.

Regardless of any missteps, it was nice to spend an afternoon with Andrew Bird. I've missed him. It was also nice to have some time to indulge my inner snob. It doesn't get much more pretentious than seeing a movie at a film festival, all because your favorite indie musician did the music. All I need is a vintage scarf and a hipper-than-thou attitude and I'll be set for life.

Must Be This Tall To Ride

2011-06-04T00:50:00.006-06:00

Well, I just watched Reality Bites again. Dearie me, what a great movie. Except every time I watch it I wish, with all my heart, that I could find Ethan Hawke even just a little attractive. I mean the character he plays is fantastic, intriguing, and has that whole dirty musician thing that's usually my weakness. But I can't get over his greasy weasel face. Such a shame.

Anyway, watching it inspired me to write. To write candidly, and with very little censor. Well, little censor for me, that is. Going from an emotionless brick wall to a wall with a small crack might not seem like much, but take what you can get.

If you've read this blog at all, you might guess that I'm a little media-obsessed. I'm an escapist in the truest sense of the word. Well, maybe escape isn't quite right. I don't seek to lose myself in the art of the day. Actually, it's the opposite--with every piece of music or TV or movie I watch, I try to use it to figure out my own existence. In fact, this trait has been exhibited several times on the ol' Angst Muffins, and even in a previous post about Reality Bites (found here). But I'm starting to wonder if this isn't the best tactic to take. Possibly, just possibly, stories by others do not carry clues to figuring out my own puzzling situations. What a blow.

That sounded a wee bit crazy. It's not as if I take everything I watch to be some great mystical Ouija Board. I don't think that I should mimic character's actions or anything. But the reason media is fascinating is because it forms connections, and I do believe that the more you examine the connections, the better any viewing/reading/consuming experience will be.

Take this Christmas Break for instance. Things you need to know about my Christmas Break: A- Fall semester was absolute Hell.
B-Over Christmas Break, I watched the series My So-Called Life in it's entirety.

I am not proud of this statement. Mostly because, all nostalgia aside, My So-Called Life is a terrible show. No, really. There is not a single likeable character in the mix.

* RANT* Except for Ricky. Ricky is pretty great. I never really understood why he hung out with Rayanne, except for the whole momma-bear 'no one will look out for her if I don't' spiel. She's a bad seed Ricky! You are better than that. *END RANT*

But back to MSCL, as the cool kids say. Really, just an irksome show. Like I said, bad characters, sophomoric, irritating dialogue ("It was, like, so totally elemental. Like my soul was, like, all, exposed or something." I don't think this is a direct quote, but it might as well be), and episodes that seemed to jump around and were over-dramatic, over-acted, and straight up annoying.

And yet I loved it. And what's more, I identified with it. Go figure.

There were times when I would finish an episode and just sit and squirm, I identified with Angela Chase so much. You see, back then, I had my Jordan Catalano, a guy I was oh-so-into, but like Jordan, all he wanted to do was make out in the high school furnace room and ignore me in front of his bandmates (not literally, that's referencing a story arc from the show for emphasis). And that Christmas, I had my Brian Krakow, the childhood friend, the boy next door who just wanted a shot, but circled my street on his bike one too many times (once again, a show reference, not reality).

And I thought, 'hey, MSCL. These can't be the only options, right?'

So I would sit a fume and vow to find the third character. An escape route. And all this time I would sit and have internal monologues that were undoubtedly in Angela's voice, and then I would get frustrated because my subconscious sounded like a fifteen year old girl. I didn't ever want that, even when I was fifteen.

See, I think that was the part that bothered me the most about finding myself in Angela Chase. She was a sophomore in high school. And I was twenty-one and finishing up college. There should not have been any comparison, right? I should not be sympathizing with the struggles of teenagers.

Sometimes I seriously worry that I have stunted growth. That is not to say that I am immature. In fact, I've usually considered myself more rational than other people my age (she said ever so smugly). That sounded condescending, and I apologize. It's not intellectually, or physically, but emotionally. I joke that I am an emotionless brick wall, but for a long time, I think that was true. I didn't start letting people in--whether it's friends or relationships or whatever--until college. So I guess it makes sense that I'm a little behind, desperately trying to catch up to the high school sophomores of the world, to figure out how interacting with others is supposed to work. I'm working on it, but sometimes progress is slow. Sometimes, I still think it's easier to just shut everything and everyone out. But alas, as I'm discovering, I'm an unexpectedly social creature, and I don't think the arms-length method of living would be worth it in the end.

So I'll progress. Slow but steady. And who knows, maybe I'll hit where I'm supposed to be one of these days.

How Ya Doin' Bernie?

2011-06-02T00:33:00.003-06:00

You guys. You guys!

I just went to a three hour informational business meeting. I'm so totally jazzed.

There we were, a smattering of people in nice dress, crammed into a living room with a white board set up. Not quite what I was expecting, but hey, intimate grassroots firms are all the rage, right? And then came the speaker. To be honest, his suit looked shabby and his tie seemed askew, but rest assured. This fellow was financially independent! He "retired" at thirty-five! Sure, he's still giving these meetings and making money off of them, but he's retired! Made/making six figures a year! That's the dream, and it could be ours!

At least that's what he told us. Talking straight for the first two and a half hours. Money, just ours for the taking. Finally, we can be living the high life. Finally, everything lacking in life will be corrected. We'll be successful. Confident. Able to rub our fancy falutin' lifestyle in the faces of every person who ever doubted us. I mean, I didn't ever think that there was anyone out there that doubted me or my ability to be happy, but at last I can take those people, my family and friends, and say HA HA! I am rich! Richity rich rich rich!

But wait, what exactly are we doing to make all that sweet, sweet cash (which is, after all, the only thing I want)?

The man assured us he'd get there, but first, think about what you could do with the opportunities being in The Business (that's how he said it, "The Business", an entity sacred and wholly unto itself). I mean, this economy is taking a toll on everyone, and we could be free from it. Involvement in The Business meant that you could finally take your gutter-fied, shameful excuse of a life and pick it up off the ground. It will magically turn around any and all addiction problems, save your marriage, and cure your cancer. If you already have money, this will give you some extra cash so that you can give back, helping battered women or something. That feels good, right? Charity? Yes?

And there went another half hour.

Finally, once everyone was slavering at the bit, once he'd gotten verbal confirmations from all the new meat about HOW EXCITED THEY WERE to be a part of this, finally, then he revealed how to make these millions. We would be the next Mark Zuckerberg. We'd be making more money than we could handle. And it's not sales, and it's not illegal. It's just capitalizing on a trend, making it big as a part of something that is oh-so-current and yet somehow existed in the early 80's when he got involved. Silly semantics.

Anyway, what I gleaned from those last five minutes, is that for just one investment of $150 I can buy into a plan to advertise other products. I just have to get people to buy from certain companies. And I'm practically guaranteed to make $68 dollars the first few months. Plus, if I get more people involved, I make more money. All I need is twelve people, and I could be making thousands of dollars a month! Hot diggety!

Wait a second. You don't think this is some kind of scheme, is it? Nah, it couldn't be.

Worshipping at the Culture Altar

2011-05-31T17:21:00.007-06:00

Last Monday I went to the EMP. That stands for the Experience Music Project, and is this fantastic museum-ish thing right in the shadow of the Space Needle, a gathering ground for music and science fiction and pop culture. Basically, it's a building that was created for me. It's a haven, housing my every interest and love and desire. I think I spent three hours there and was loathe to leave.

Right now they have two music exhibits. One traces the career of Jimi Hendrix, and made me weak in the knees. The other was entitled "Nirvana: Taking Punk to the Masses," and was a more incredible and intimate portrait of the Gods of Grunge than I could even imagine. That exhibit left me speechless, and has even invaded my subconscious. Then there was the Guitar Gallery, tracing the development of that sacred instrument from its inception and blues roots through the invention of the electric and amplified rock and fuzz, which made me stand silently, staring, with tears in my eyes.

The entrance to the EMP.

Classic white Fender Strat, used by Hendrix at Woodstock.

Set piece from Nirvana's In Utero tour.

One of Kurt Cobain's guitars.

But the single greatest thing about the EMP was their focus on the collection of oral histories. That aspect fascinated me. I feel really strongly about this, so I'm going to say it again, with emphasis. The oral histories fascinated me. The sheer spectrum of interviews they had collected was vast--they had an entire gallery called "Sound and Vision" that was filled with headphones and computers and mp3 players with files from musicians and actors and producers and authors, all sharing their experiences. These snippets of history were pure inspiration to my soul (especially the few moments where Ray Bradbury discussed the writing process. That alone was worth it). There is something different, something magical about hearing something from the source. This desire to hear stories is what first drew me to journalism in my youth, and continues to make me an enthralled observer of life. So having all those interviews at my fingertips was a rather gleeful experience.

Somewhat surprisingly, there was something I liked even more than interviews with the established and famous. In "Sound and Vision," they had a room where visitors could tape a short segment where they talked about basically anything: how you discovered a band you love, a book that changed how you think, a favorite movie, etc. Outside the room, there was a small screen set up where you could watch the interviews. This man-on-the-street collection even extended to the Nirvana exhibit, where they had a special room with an adjacent booth where fans could record their stories about how they connected with Nirvana.

I could have listened to those casual interviews for days. In fact, I am completely, 100% planning on going back and spending hours in those rooms alone. There's something about hearing other people's stories. You know, people that aren't famous or accomplished in any other way. They have more to prove, are more eager to please, and their desperation to leave their mark makes those snippets far more entertaining. In this world, everyone, and I include myself in this statement (I have a blog, don't I?) is looking to make their mark on the world. Looking for their claim to fame, as it were. And those brief interviews, where people were laying their passions and drives and obsessions on the line, left me completely transfixed. Yes, there was no reason I should listen to these people, but they were there. Telling stories. Sharing small pieces of their identity with an anonymous public.

They were me. I saw myself in them, identifying with their strange, almost compulsive need to share moments that, however trivial they seemed, were nonetheless important to the teller. I chuckled as they laughed, agreed when they credited music or movies with shaping their life. Stories. Connections. A method of bonding despite having no solid foundation, except what existed through mutual appreciation. That's what the EMP was doing--in some colossal scheme, they were creating peace through the collection of oral histories. And that is a cause I can completely support.

Settling In

2011-05-18T22:30:00.005-06:00

I have a home. It is pretty, with red brick walls and a white fence, hardwood floors and new, clean bathrooms. There is a shining lake just down the road, surrounded with shops and trails and a library. There are green trees and squares of grass. It's beautiful.

Yep, that's where I'm living. In the flesh. It's OK if you're jealous, I understand the feeling. As soon as I passed this little house, I was smitten. I vowed then and there that it would be mine. Oh yes, it would be mine. And now here I am, sitting in the perfect three-month lease, with the perfect little room, and a surprisingly comfortable air mattress. And I couldn't be happier to be in such a wonderful corner of the world.

But even if it was a rundown, ramshackle shack, I'd still be alright with it. That might be a bit of an overstatement (after all, I did pass on Jonny and his hotboxed house), but still. The feeling of having a room of my own, a space for me to inhabit and dwell and build upon is priceless. The past couple of weeks in Everson have been great, and wonderful, and illuminating in all the best ways, but my oh my am I ready to start this Seattle adventure.

So here I come, bus pass in hand. Goals in sight. Eager to start this part of 2011. I would not be anywhere else in the world but here tonight. Washington, I'm yours.

A Tribute

2011-05-08T16:00:00.005-06:00

Well here it is, Mother's Day. And here I am, resting in a small town just outside of Bellingham, WA, missing my mother in the most surprising and profound way. I'm not usually inclined towards homesickness, and especially not now, when I'm finally out of Utah and finally in a place where I can start to build something, where I can realize my full potential. But on a day set aside for honoring the noble women who sacrifice everything, I can't help but add my voice to the praise.

My mom is the single most important influence in my life. She raised me to value language, books, education. She set me on the path of knowledge that I follow today. She taught me about the gospel, the difference between right and wrong, and how to foster intelligence while maintaining high ideals. Her example was one of love, and service, and constant dedication to family. Even when I couldn't see my own potential my mom always did, and always had faith in me to be better and to do great things. I am so proud to be her daughter.

Whenever I try to put into words what my mom has done for me, or how grateful I am, it reminds me how woefully inadequate any statement is. Nothing can summarize the role of mothers. And then, after feeling helpless for a bit, I remember the poem "The Lanyard" by Billy Collins.

The Lanyard - Billy Collins

The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

I don't think anything can ever make us even, Mom. Thank you for everything. Know that I am thinking of you. You are amazing. You are so full of love and talent and warmth. I admire you and love you so much. Once again, I'm grateful that you are my mother.

The Breaking Point

2011-04-09T13:38:00.003-06:00

Me: Do you realize we have spent the past two days on the couch, in our pajamas, not doing anything? I mean, you're playing Solitaire and I'm watching Studio 60.

Annie: It's called roommate bonding. Now shut up. I'm winning.

New Goals

2011-03-31T21:15:00.004-06:00

To go from this:

Or this:

To this:

To remember the beauty of place:

And moments:

To slow down. To breathe. To focus on what and why and how. To keep the details of school and life and choices from crushing me. To recognize hope. To ponder. To pray. To trust.

Oh, and just because all of these pictures are from the recent trip to California, I have to add one more. To always, always respect and honor this:

Woosh

2011-03-30T20:39:00.004-06:00

I don't know what it is about the ocean that is so calming. The wind, the waves, the water. The sense of continuity, of eternity. The constant goings-in and goings-out. The feeling of endless possibilities that comes with gazing towards the open sea. The feeling of comfort and safety that comes with the routine of the tide. Contradictions within a comfortable setting. I want to be the ocean.

Sleepy

2011-03-29T22:19:00.002-06:00

Guess who's back. Back again.

It's me. I'm back from sunny California. It was an epic and interesting adventure. I'm pretty excited to return to my bed. It's a place of magic and wonder and sleepiness.

Imma gonna talk about my trip tomorrow. Be excited. Be very excited. Be so excited you will pee yourself. PS, Lauren is dictating right now. Continue Lauren. She started out as reading, but soon her brilliant ideas just made their way on to the page. More thoughts from Lauren should be on this blog. Considering Lauren doesn't post on her own blog. Dangit, spell my name right. So yeah, Lauren's awesome. And pretty much the best roommate I've ever had. Make me a sandwich and go to bed. OBEY MY COMMANDS.

Half done Lauren. Half done indeed. The going to bed part. HAHA, SUCKER.

Uh-oh. She knows where I sleep at night.

Sleep afraid. Sleep very afraid. And dream about how your spelling has deteriorated.

The End.

Check-in

2011-03-27T13:29:00.003-06:00

Well, there goes the blogging every day in March. It's a little difficult when you're staying at a place with no internet.

So here I am, in California, holed up in Starbucks with a raspberry hot chocolate and my computer.

I'm having a really, really good time.

Yesterday I saw a lot of Rodin, including the original Thinking Man. It pleased me greatly. I also pondered on the manner of going home, of visiting places without regressing to the person you used to be there.

It's interesting.

I like California so far.

I bet I'll like it even better tomorrow. MAGIC MOUNTAIN, Y'ALL.

Guess What?

2011-03-24T22:38:00.002-06:00

In seven hours, I'm leaving for sunny California.

Gear up the Zeppelin and the Mamas and the Papas*, cause here I come.

True, I might have killed myself working round the clock this week, getting stuff done days ahead of time so I could go. But worth it? You betcha.

I'm tired. But excited.

*"Going to California" and "California Dreamin'," respectively.

Procrastination

2011-03-23T21:10:00.012-06:00

I don't want to write my "Inquiry Paper" (socially acceptable way to say research paper. Ha! I am not so easily fooled).

I love my topic. I love it so much I am nigh unto obsessed with it. Using TV and movies in the classroom? Sign me up! The research process has rocked. If I could do nothing but sit and read articles about television, I would be the happiest girl in the whole wide world. All my findings have organized themselves neatly into a cohesive paper, with my outline practically writing itself and just waiting to burst from my typing fingers. And I'm oh-so-very eager and excited to share my findings and rub the glory of pop culture into snobby elitist faces.

The world of academia, actually, the world in general, never really progresses past playground fights, does it?

Anyway, this paper should be the easiest thing I've written in my college career. Yet here I sit, swigging from a two-liter of Cherry Coke and whining about how I don't wanna do it.

Oh, and procrastinating by salivating over things at outofprintclothing.com. I want them all!

Here are the best, with the selection based less on appearance (though that's a factor) and more on what books I've read. I don't believe in false advertising, and I will not wear a shirt of something I don't support.

This is my favorite, the one I dream about at night:

These are all equally delightful, and I want them:

Out of the those, I'd have to say my top three shirts are Fahrenheit 451, The Song of Solomon, and The Lord of the Flies (or To Kill a Mockingbird). Fitting, since those are a few of my favorite books.

I should really just write a hierarchy of my preference in literary shirts. Can I get a Nerd Alert?

The Loneliest Thing in the World...

2011-03-22T22:24:00.004-06:00

... is a single person riding a tandem bicycle. A.k.a. what I saw as I walked home. Poor guy. I felt so bad for him.

In happier news, I survived today! And you know why? Because of the Flaming Lips. That's right ladies and gentlemen, the Flaming Lips saved my life. Not only did they save my life, but they enriched it. I must have listened to "Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots Part 1" about six times in the past twelve hours. And I'm not ashamed to admit it. Come on! It's incredibly infectious music.

I think this comic from Questionable Content sums it up pretty well:

It's true! You just have to be happy when listening to the Flaming Lips.

To go on yet another small tangent, I had a throwback today. I had to complete a seventh grade writing assignment as if I were a seventh grader. In reality, I completed it like I was a fifth or sixth grader, but I think it evened out, as I was an incredibly advanced writer. Of course. Smarmy smarmy smarmy.

But honestly, it was fun to remember those days. Back then, I was destined to be an author. Writing was my passion, and I thought I was the bee's knees. But my stories were riddled with cliches and crutches. They all involved two girls as the main characters, and their names always started with 'K' and 'C', because my name started with 'C' and my best friend's name started with 'K'. One girl (me) was always a sassy tomboy, and the other would be nervous and shy. And I swear, every story alluded to the main character having a crush on a boy whose name started with 'M' and who played soccer.

Man I was subtle as a kid.

It was fun to relive those days. To turn off my brain and just write as over-the-top and exaggerated as I could. I had talent, I tell ya, pure talent! Or I just read way too much. Sigh. Those were the days.

Couch Monster

2011-03-21T21:53:00.005-06:00

Oh the joys of having an animation major as a roommate.

No, really. I love it.

It's always an adventure. Like today, for instance, where I spent an hour getting eaten by a couch for a short stop-motion photo project. Yep, you read that right. I got eaten by a couch.

And no lying, it was the highlight of my day. I think I might have a talent for making barely perceptible motions very slowly, resulting in some awesome flip-book-tastic photos. I wish Lauren had the movie ready already, so I could post it here, but it's not to be. Just believe me when I say that there are some pretty incredible flailing leg actions going on that I am quite proud of. I'm 100% positive that I completely captured the trauma and physical motions that would occur if a couch were to spontaneously eat the occupant.

Also, painstakingly propping up cushions with Xbox games and books was pretty enjoyable, as was manipulating orange ribbon to act as the couch's grabbing arms/tongue. Sometimes I wish I hadn't dedicated myself to being a teacher at such a young age (ten or eleven, to be exact). Who knows, maybe I could have had a lucrative career in film, either as an actor, or director, or props manager, or my secret ambition, a screenwriter.

That last one is actually serious. I still sometimes fantasize about moving to New York or LA and writing for some second-rate sitcom, all while harboring secret dreams and working on a screenplay that would be my magnum opus, something combining the dry wit and drama of the Coens with the indie sensibilities of Wes Anderson, but much more accessible and meaningful.

Honestly, I'm just shooting for Tina Fey here. That's kind of my only ambition in life.

Tired

2011-03-21T00:03:00.002-06:00

Not much more to say. I should probably rethink the late Sunday night Walking Dead viewings, but I just love me some zombies.

Imma gonna go pass out now. SLEEP.

I am a sleep zombie.

And so it comes full circle

ZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Woah-oh-oh it's MAGIC!

2011-03-19T20:27:00.003-06:00

I don't know how this happens, but I keep finding bags of chocolate chips on my food shelf. Not that I'm complaining. At all. I mean, this is the most magical thing I've ever experienced. A mystical food fairy that keeps hiding chocolate chips? I'll take it!

So, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to put those sweet things to good use.

Mm Mm Good.

Hip to be Square

2011-03-18T22:26:00.007-06:00

Tonight, I went here:

Drank some delicious hot chocolate, and then wandered over here:
Where I read this:

Which I decided I absolutely, definitely want to teach in my classroom someday. That probably won't fly in Utah (murmur murmur stinkin' censorship murmur), but I've already come up with a few ways that it would TOTALLY work to teach different concepts. Gordy's description of how to read books? The altercation with Mr. P that talks about living up to potential? The wonderful Vince Lombardi quote and the moments with the Coach--applicable not just to sports, but to life. The integration of comic and the interview with the cartoonist at the back? Golden, I say, golden!

This is all my way of saying I have had an absolutely perfect Friday.
I'm a very, very lucky person, when all things are considered.

My Man Harem?

2011-03-17T21:17:00.005-06:00

Once upon a time there was a girl. This girl had average looks, average social skills, and above-average intelligence and wit. She was coming off a junior year where she abandoned the identity she thought she wanted, left a group of friends, and was entering her senior year with few ties and great potential for loneliness.

Luckily, this girl happened to love journalism, and was returning to the school newspaper (despite being HORRIBLY slighted the editor-in-chief position) (not that she's bitter) (she's still a little bitter).

Pictured: Masthead of School Paper

That class opened up the girl's world, and was where she made friends that have actually lasted. The girl has been out of high school for four years, her and her friends have all gone separate ways, and contact has been sporadic at best (mostly because said girl is horribly lazy at long distance communication). But the few people she still cares about from high school mostly stem from that class. Jon, Ashley, Kelsey, Paige. These are people I ... I mean, this girl, treasures.

Enough story-telling.

Despite the connections I made, there is one group that holds a special soft spot in my heart, and that is my Junior Boys. The Junior Boys are exactly what they sound like--a group of guys a grade younger than me. But these boys were intelligent, passionate, and most importantly, fun to be around. They challenged my thinking and pushed me to expand my intelligence. They helped build both my knowledge of politics and my resume (thank you, JSA). They introduced me to Scrubs and sat with me through countless Office parties. They helped make my senior year unforgettable.

Tonight I hung out with Kyle and Andy, the two main guys from the Junior Boys. I'm lucky enough to see Andy fairly regularly, and really, he's one of my very best friends and in my top favorite people in the world. But I rarely see Kyle, since he got all pretentious and went to Yale. Hey, you don't want to get made fun of for that, don't get all East Coast. Anyway.

But tonight wasn't about any of that. It was the group, just chilling and talking and enjoying being around each other. I've heard people talk about old times, and kind of understood the phrase, but tonight really felt like that. It felt like old times, a reliving of glory days. And you know what? I don't even care that those glory days involve sitting around a computer, listening to music and mocking each other. The three of us, together again? Magical.

Pst...ahhh

2011-03-16T15:23:00.003-06:00

After a long day, the magical hours between two and four roll up. And when those hours hit, I roll on up to the Sonic drive-thru window.

Route 44 Diet Coke with Cranberry, easy ice.

One sip = euphoria.

Happiness.

Don't Stop Believin'

2011-03-15T11:50:00.007-06:00

Today, I'm wearing my Journey shirt.

This picture of Rashida Jones in Freaks and Geeks gives you a basic idea of what it looks like. The sleeves are a bit tighter, and I look quite a bit more awesome in it, but the basics are the same.

A Journey shirt day is a distinct and special sort of day. The Journey shirt is comfortable, but only worn sparingly. If I'm wearing the shirt, it's a symbol that I was not fully awake and did not feel like facing a brand new day.

Sometimes the shirt is a comfort, as I revel in it's ability to make me look deliciously hobo-esque, and I strut around all day like an aging rock star. Or like I actually am on Freaks and Geeks, just trying to survive another day with a devil-may-care attitude.

Other times the shirt is an ill omen, a harbinger of bad luck. On those days, I wallow in the shirt, letting it's baggy folds envelop me, hiding in the fabric until I disappear completely. On those days, the shirt serves as protection from the harshness of reality.

Today is the latter type of day. Sigh. I'm so ready to be done with school. Wake me up when it's over.

PS- Can I just say I am really annoyed at the show Glee? I feel like they've commandeered all usage of the song "Don't Stop Believin'" and now I can't use it for anything. I had a struggle naming this post that, but it worked so perfectly thematically I couldn't resist. And what can I say! Some people are just Journey fans! It doesn't mean we are subscribing to a certain over-hyped television sensation! Ugh. Glee needs to die.

And They Call Me...

2011-03-14T22:32:00.007-06:00

... the Jackal.

It's time for me to wax eloquent about The West Wing. However, due to the fact that I don't blog until late and I almost always would rather go to bed than do this, I will probably not do it the justice that it so richly deserves.

Let's boil it down to a few main talking points, upon which I might elaborate at a future date.

1. I love Aaron Sorkin. I think his writing is beyond brilliant. The way he creates the most complex, and truly human characters is admirable. Sorkin also manages to mold situations and plot in a way that never, ever ceases to be magical. I just finished the second season, and I am still getting chills from the writing. The fact that I often just stare at the screen, dumbstruck, only able to whisper "this is the most well-written production" should attest to his genius. Also, have I mentioned that the man has an Oscar? Because he does. Aaron Sorkin now has an Oscar. And I have never supported and fully endorsed any win as much as I have his. Aaron, I am genuinely full of joy for you.

2. It has the perfect cast. I never thought I would like Martin Sheen, let alone be so loyal to his fictional president. I would vote for President Bartlet in a second, because (according to his character) he is a good man, with an excellent and supportive staff. He is the kind of president I would be proud of. He has to make the tough calls, but at his core he is a bleeding heart who truly wants the best for every single American. And that's just my opinion of the president! I haven't even started talking the rest of the spectacular cast. Like CJ, the amazingly incredible press secretary, or Toby, whose speeches make me shiver and inspire me, or Sam's idealistic heart of gold, or Charlie's sheer dedication to the president, or Josh. Sigh. Josh. Josh and his fantastic cockiness, his magnificent air of surety and his brusque, yet caring manner. I'm a little bit (a whole lotta little bit) in love with that man.

Basically, awesome cast. I could wax on and on, but I should probably stop before the sheer fandom makes my computer explode.

But what's magical about The West Wing is how it makes you genuinely care about the world. It makes you realized the importance behind those people who work tirelessly at the White House. Are their jobs easy? Not at all. Do they always get what they want? Far from it. But it shows a staff with dedication, with heart and hope and a sense of humor. It inspires me. If they can make those tough decisions, and have their hearts broken time after time after time, and yet still carry on with a modicum of hope, with some deep-ingrained belief that they can make this world better, then so can I. I won't let life break me. I will remain full of passion and inspiration and a desire to do good.

The gospel of Aaron Sorkin. One convert at a time. Join me, brethren.

Scotsman

2011-03-13T19:40:00.003-06:00

I literally have nothing to blog about. Also, I have very little desire to blog today. I'm just want to complete this challenge to bog every day in March. It's become a pride issue now. And if there's one thing I am, it's a stubborn son of a gun.

So bring it blog. Considered yourself conquered for one day more. You make take our will, but you will never take our FREEDOM!!!!!!!!!!!!

Also:

Zombies tonight. Be excited.

All The Way!!!!

2011-03-12T18:31:00.003-07:00

Today, something truly magical happened. Something fantastic. Something you only hear about in fairy tales and YouTube videos.

I SAW A DOUBLE RAINBOW.

Please ignore the poor photo quality, my phone was not intended for serious pictures. Also, I know you can't really see the second one (it's to the left), but it was there! I promise! And it was incredible.

Life is complete.

Hello, Human Larvae

2011-03-11T22:44:00.005-07:00

I'm quite a bit sleepy. It's been a crazy week, one that depended far too much on Diet Coke. But today has been a nice chance to slow down and try to recharge. I love that I finish at eleven in the morning on Fridays- it gives me a chance to glory in weekend earlier than most.

Quick shout out to Mary and her fantastic presentation today. I've never been so interested in the Riot Grrrl movement in my life. Punk! Anarchy! Legitimate art form in zines! I loved it.

You know what else I love? INVADER ZIM. Why has no one shown me this glorious, glorious cartoon before now? It just makes sense that it should be in my life. We complete each other. I haven't laughed so hard in a while. Victory for Zim!

I also stole (ish) a Trogdor sweatshirt today. Life is good.

You can be my philosopher, if I can ride your dinosaur

2011-03-10T22:40:00.005-07:00

Today was a complete high school/freshman year flashback. It was glorious.

I've been a little out of it all day. This morning was the worst-- I couldn't keep my eyes open. I sat in my three-hour practicum class, hating life, being completely apathetic to all subject matter, and desperately wishing I could be home in bed. You know when your eyelids really ARE heavy, and even the physical act of keeping them open aches? That's how I felt. Which would have been fine, if I was able to go home and sleep after class. But no, I had to drive to Alta High afterward to drop off some graded essays.

I don't think I've ever been so afraid of a drive. I was so completely exhausted that I was sure I would fall asleep, or turn incorrectly, or make some other ridiculous mistake and end up in a horrific car crash. In an attempt to stave off sleep, I knew I would have to play some crazy upbeat music.

Enter Seve vs Evan.

Oh Seve. How you perfectly embody 2006-2008. Listening to them brought back the oddest of memories. People I used to see all the time, and yet hadn't thought of for years. Things I used to do. Dances I used to dance. The shallowest of feelings and emotions, yet knowing that at the time they were so important. Man I was deep back then. Or something.

But mostly, all I could think about was how INCREDIBLY FUN Seve vs Evan concerts were. I don't think I've danced like that since. Is it good music? That's arguable. But is it dance-your-pants-off amazing? Most definitely. The entire car ride to Alta, I danced that car dance, wiggling in my seat and throwing out air punches. The second I got home, I blasted "Destination Tokyo" and "Once Upon a Sailor" and started skanking with my roommate in the kitchen. Burning carbs! Smiling like a villain! Completely and utterly enjoying life!

It was delightful. I should have throwbacks like that more often.

Gold Against Blue

2011-03-09T17:47:00.007-07:00

I like caffeine and coca-cola and cranberries and cravats.

The part about cravats is not at all true. They make me think of Jane Austen, and if there's one thing that IS true, it's my undying, burning dislike of Jane Austen and her works. But I do like alliteration.

I also like TV, eclairs, and the odd mix of coke bottles, salsa, floss and paint thinner that is currently adorning my kitchen table. I have some great people in my life.

Today has been pretty uneventful. It's the kind of day that just rolls on by, big and bright and comfortable. No real moments of revelation. Just pure, unadulterated existence.

This picture is one of the many on my bedroom wall:

Paris Street; Rainy Day, by Gustave Caillebotte. I don't know what it is about this painting, but it calms me. That's what I want my life to be like. Muted colors and shining cobblestones. Sharp company and a blurred world. Seeing life through rain-flecked glasses, head turned outwards while everyone else looks down.

I don't know. It's appealing.

Just like today. Sometimes, you need the gloriously mundane. Then again, there's still several hours left in the day for everything to get shot to Hell. Hopefully I didn't jinx myself.

But it doesn't feel like that will happen. Even if it does, I think I'd just shut my eyes and let today roll on, smooth and unhurried.

Sorrow

2011-03-08T17:40:00.007-07:00

I started out today to write a humorous post about my various similarities to my namesake, based mostly on the fact that I, much like cats, enjoy taking naps in the sun.

But right as I logged in to write it, I got a call from my brother John. I love hearing from John, as he is my closest sibling age-wise and I feel like I'm very close to him and his wife. After a few minutes of lighthearted conversation, we started to talk about his brand new, incredibly beautiful baby girl. The baby girl that he and his wife just found out has moderate permanent hearing loss.

It's hard for me to handle hearing the sharp edge of hidden pain in a person's voice. The hint at a sadness that I can do nothing to alleviate. To hear about this beautiful child, who though perfect, still has a problem that has completely altered the world of my brother and his family.

This was heaped upon a pretty odd few days, where I've seen and heard of more people who are secretly suffering, bearing through pain in silence. And it's difficult to want to help, to want to take action, but to be unable to do anything but sit back and pray with all your soul.

So that's what I'm going to do. And just know, everyone out there who is going through trials and hardships, you are not alone. There are people who care about you more than you know. And they will always, always be there for you.

War Games

2011-03-07T23:01:00.006-07:00

If there is one thing I detest in this world, it's Mustache March. Yes. Really. I truly do.

Don't get me wrong, I am a huge fan of facial hair on the opposite sex. If there's one sure way to make me swoon, it's having a beard. I love them. I think they are the epitome of manliness and awesomeness and happiness.

List of cool people who have beards:
-Sam Beam (of Iron & Wine)
-Sean Connery
-Cary Brothers
-Indiana Jones
-Clint Eastwood
-Ray LaMontagne
-Jack Black
-Bonnie "Prince" Billy (bonus points for ginger beard!)
-Bill Murray
-Zach Galifianakis
-Gerard Butler in 300
-All of my brothers
-All of the Beatles (at some point or another. I think Paul's was the best)
-Various others

Basically, I love, nay, I respect a good beard.

What don't I respect? Mustaches. They are the red-headed stepchild of facial hair. They're that annoying cousin that no one likes but can't seem to get rid of. It's like a caterpillar died on someone's upper lip, and not the cute cuddly kind of caterpillar. No, the evil poisonous kind that lives in South America and eats babies for lunch. That's what a mustache is. A pure, baby-killing fiend.

Note: There are two exceptions to the evil mustache rule. 1) The incomparable Tom Selleck, and 2) Robert Redford as the Sundance Kid. Because he just plain rocks that.

But overall, mustaches are super, SUPER creepy. Which is why they should not be tolerated. Which is why I was livid when my boyfriend got suckered into participating in Mustache March last night, and showed up today with that thing on his upper lip. I hate it when people have integrity, and won't back out of a promise they've made. Not really, integrity is great and all, but I dislike when it works against my favor.

The past 24 hours have been spent in an epic battle for the downfall of the mustache, and I am proud to say that I emerged the victor. True, it came at the cost of said boyfriend's awesome beard, but it was a sacrifice I had to make. Besides, the beard had already been sacrificed to the evils deities of Mustache March. And you know, sometimes in life you just have to make the tough calls. I'm proud to say that I made them (sort of). I would probably be a great general, if it wasn't for the fact that I have zero strategic ability.

I guess that's one job option I'll put on the back burner for now.

Cuss

2011-03-07T08:28:00.002-07:00

My internet went all kinds of crazy last night. And by "all kinds of crazy," I mean "my computer just wouldn't connect to the wireless modem." Oh technology. How I hate you, but can't live without you.

Anyway, I'm just going to post twice today, and one will count as last night, and everything will be right in the world. You hear? Everything. Hunger and genocide and all that jazz.

Moving on.

Last night, I made plans for the future. They are big, and they are scary. But I've also never been more excited in my life. This is going to be a great year. Even if my plans don't pan out, 2011 is my year. And to that, I say Lachaim! Here's to life.

Beaches

2011-03-06T00:45:00.005-07:00

I walked those sands and traversed those poppy-filled cliffs. The concrete structures were overgrown, more like intriguing boxes beckoning for exploration, and not the life-saving barracks they served as. It was beautiful. It was peaceful. I breathed in fresh salted air and walked through fields pocked with grassy craters.

The abundance of markers and plaques engraved with names and paper flowers made me remember the gravity of this place, but I didn't grasp the magnitude. I encountered it with the proper solemn demeanor, and yet there was no way I could have appreciated what happened. It had a fascination, but the meaning eluded me.

I think I'll never be able to completely understand what happened in Normandy, but my respect can continually grow. And tonight, I'll admit it, after watching Saving Private Ryan and recognizing landmarks, seeing the gore and grit in places that were so familiar, it hit closer to home.

I am a pacifist to the core. An idealized world is utterly appealing to me, but don't fret. I'm still a realist, and I acknowledge that war is often necessary. The beaches of Normandy were needed. The sacrifices made there were meaningful. And I will constantly feel pride and appreciation for a country and a people who could make those difficult choices, who could face fear and death for a cause that is bigger than themselves.

Contented

2011-03-05T01:52:00.003-07:00

Watching Foo Fighters.
Dave Grohl's voice; pure happiness.
Perfect Friday night.

Just the Way I Roll

2011-03-03T20:00:00.005-07:00

Sitting in the dark, flipping through the vast array of information that is the interwebs. Overworked from school, tired from work, and appreciating home for the brief respite it is. Welcome to the average roommate bonding time that occurs at Casa de Cat.

But I treasure these moments. The cathartic release that comes from going and going and giving and giving all day. The spontaneous dance parties and random pancake days and occasional bickering and constant appreciation of JEFF BRIDGES. Seriously. He is The Dude, after all.

Still, it's usually just quiet. Music wavering in the background (tonight it's Andrew Bird. Obviously, I got to the speakers first). Separate couches. Too lazy to turn on all the lights, so semi-darkness enfolds us as we sit, lone spots in the haze as computers screens fill our faces with a phosphorescent glow.

It's peaceful. That communal, comfortable feeling of resting, but not being alone.

That, and sharing the occasional gem. I'll play a music video or read some snarky commentary on pop culture, and Lauren will share some Threadless gems. Like this little beauty:

If you don't want that on a shirt, you have no soul.

Dingleberries

2011-03-02T14:39:00.007-07:00

"That's how I remember things, anyway. I remember stories. I connect the dots and then out of that comes a story. And dots that don't fit into the story just slide away, maybe. Like when you spot a constellation. You look up and you don't see all the stars. All the stars just look like the big fugging random mess that they are. But you want to see shapes; you want to see stories, so you pick them out of the sky"

-Lindsey, from An Abundance of Katherines by John Green.

I have this habit when I'm with people and get bored or restless. I'll turn to the nearest person, and say "tell me a story."

The success rate of this tactic is less than 0%.

People can't just come up with stories on the spot. They inevitably stare, stutter and ask what the story should be about. How should I know? If I knew what story I wanted, I wouldn't be asking you. I'd be thinking of my own story. But I know all my stories, and just want you to entertain me. Dance, monkey, dance!

See, that's my problem. I can't force people to tell me stories. I can't force something with a plot, with exposition and rising action and climax and a fitting resolution, to just flow forth from people. I mean, I can barely make those connections in my own mind, so what right do I have to expect them from others? Note to Self: the world does not exist merely for my own amusement. Take note. Adjust outlook accordingly.

I've recently decided that the ability to make connections is a sign of real intelligence. Truly and honestly. Taking principles from one area and transferring them to another is what geniuses do. They merely look at the world as a series of interconnected thoughts, and don't let things like subject area or other labels tie them down. Perhaps I made a mistake pigeon-holing myself into English. I totally should have been a mathematician.

Yeah, that would have worked awesomely. Math and I are two separate entities, and never the twain shall meet.

Back to the point. As the opening quote says (basically):
Making connections= Stories= A fulfillment of a basic human desire.

Making connections means that the world makes sense. For a brief, shining moment, everything is clear. Or if not, at least it's more interesting, with brand new possibilities and avenues of thought available. And interesting is really all I ask for.

Tell me a story?

I'm Sorry Your Mom Blew Up

2011-03-01T22:45:00.003-07:00

I didn't write a dang thing in February. Not a dang thing.

I am completely OK with that. It's four weeks, they flew by, and I'd rather relish in the glorious life that is happening than be tied down with blog writing.

That being said, I am participating in the Slice of Life Stories thing on that one blog. Like the specifics? Basically, it's a challenge to write every day in March.

To be honest, I don't think I'll go too crazy in the participation. I probably won't link to them, or paste that sticker. I'm doing this more for myself. More to keep me writing, to keep me sane. To see if I still have any creativity left in this withered, school-ravaged shell.

School. schoolschoolschoolschoolschool.

I ask you this-- when will death come? When will I finally be gifted the blessed respite from mounds of homework, work work, busy work, filler work? When will I breath the sweet air of freedom? The answer my friends, is blowin' in the wind. I think it might be following the faint wisps of my future. Silly future, blowing around and gallivanting in such a manner. Who gave you permission to be so flighty?

I think this SoLS is off to an auspicious start, don't you? Well. I guess we'll see if I have anything worth writing about day after blessed day. Here's to a March full of me clogging up your Google Reader. Enjoy, my gentle souls.

Also, who doesn't love John Cusack? He's so delightful! Today's Slice of Life Advice (copyright pending): go watch Better Off Dead. Best chuckles this side of yesterday.

Ecstasy of Gold

2011-01-31T16:49:00.004-07:00

After watching The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, I've decided that A. Westerns are officially awesome, an opinion that has been coming on strong for several months now, and B. that it is one incredible movie. The scenery, the camera shots, the craft, everything was top notch. But here's the thing--it had the potential to be just an average movie. I mean, it would still be interesting, but there are two reasons and two reasons alone that The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly has risen to the status of iconic film: Clint Eastwood and Ennio Morricone.

As the Man With No Name, Clint Eastwood becomes the stuff of legend. Also WOW. Excuse me while I exhibit that I am, indeed, a girl, and say check him out.

He's perfection. Tall, lanky, with a dreamy squint in his eye, a scruffy face that's tested by time, and an oh-so-mysterious demeanor? Yes please. But on a more serious note, Clint completely embodies the Man With No Name. He plays pitch perfect, allowing expression and silence to create a character more compelling than any monologue-spouting Shakespearean. And know I say that as a card carrying Shakespeare lover. That's how serious I am about him. Without Clint's strong presence and mellowly golden voice (I just had to add that), this movie would be far less compelling. But once again, that's just my opinion.

What can't be disputed is Ennio Morricone's brilliant, and it's so true I'll state it again, brilliant score. Fun fact: the first ten minutes of the movie contain absolutely no dialogue. Also, no Clint Eastwood. It relies solely on Morricone's music to create an atmosphere, and create one it does. From the classic hyena mimicking theme to the rush of the finale, every song contributes to a desolate landscape, a world filled with morally gray characters we can't help but identify with and love. Morricone makes this more than a movie. He makes it an epic.

You know, I think that Clint describes it best. When describing why the Western genre is appealing, he states: "Westerns. A period gone by, the pioneer, the loner operating by himself, without benefit of society. It usually has something to do with some sort of vengeance; he takes care of the vengeance himself, doesn't call the police. Like Robin Hood. It's the last masculine frontier. Romantic myth. I guess, though it's hard to think about anything romantic today. In a Western you can think, Jesus, there was a time when man was alone, on horseback, out there where man hasn't spoiled the land yet."

So watch Westerns. Remember when life was technically simpler, but more full of potential. Identify with pure humanity, as you watch a race of creatures that struggled, that worked, and that succeeded. Try to find those values worth fighting for in your own life.

Or, if not that, at least enjoy some great scenery and crazy cool shoot-outs. Mexican stand-offs, here I come.

This is for a class. Please don't read, it's very boring.

2011-01-28T16:25:00.004-07:00

Casual Friday

Yep, it's a Friday again. How can you tell? By the simple fact that I have obviously been completely worn down from the week, mountains of papers and reading and the Italian class of death grinding me down into a sad little used eraser nub.

Because of that, today's outfit is all about one thing COMFORT.

Jeans: Anchor Blue, $25
Shirt: F21, $7
Sweater: ??
Belt: DI, $4
Shoes: Board of Provo, $35
Bracelet: Grandma's

Please ignore my face, I have no idea what is going on right there. Same goes for the hair. Also, I just noticed that the color of my T-shirt fits with that whole eraser imagery I had going on in the beginning. That's pretty nifty.

Quick rant on the shirt: I usually am not a fan of words or images on shirts, unless they are connected with a band I am devoted to. Which actually sums up a good fourth of my wardrobe. I would like to state here that I have no strong feelings of either love or hate for Harvard. However, I do have to say that this particular shirt is made out of some crazy magically soft material that feels like little baby rabbits on my skin. That was a disturbing image, but all that is to say: this shirt feels soft. And I like that.

Just found out what the shirts is-- a cotton-poly blend. That's fairly interesting.

Word Rant, Pt. 1

2011-01-14T16:35:00.006-07:00

I have a feeling this is going to be an ongoing series, so welcome to the very first installment of Word Rant (copyright pending/nonexistent). Basically, it's exactly what it sounds like--a segment where I quickly vent about words that are driving me crazy. Today's offender?

Thrifted

Attention all: This is not a word. Not even a little bit. This is a sad and annoying attempt to make an adorable activity out of the reality that you need cheap clothes and are spending hours sifting through layers of dust and rags. Either that, or a method of asserting your authority and irksome hipness, since you are cool enough to possess whatever strange "talent" or "gift" comes with driving to your local DI or Savers.

That sounded bitter. I didn't mean that. In all honesty, I do admire people who can find cute and wearable clothing at thrift stores. I've experienced that once or twice, and it does feel good. To those of you who have the vision to do that often and consistently, Mazel Tov. I salute you. But for sweet Pete's sake, when someone asks where you got that stylish belt, don't square your shoulders, stick up your nose, and say "it's thrifted." Say "I got it at [fill in the blank]." It's simpler, and makes me want to punch you in the face WAY less.

But back to the initial issue. "Thrifted" is not a word. "Thrift" in itself is not a verb. It's a noun, as it represents a quality, the quality to be prudent with money. In that wise, it is possible for a person to be "thrifty" or to "have thrift." But one cannot "thrift" something. It's not an action. I repeat, thrift is not a verb. Please adjust your vocabulary accordingly.

On a different, non-rant related note, I finally had a breakthrough on the guitar. I figured out 96% of the chords in Jenny and Johnny's cover of "Love Hurts."

Fun Fact: I was at that concert. Actually, whoever shot that must have been standing pretty dang close to me, because I was right up at the front. What do you expect? My desire to marry Jenny Lewis is well advertised. I love her. And this concert was incredible.

Anyway, I finally feel like I've earned the right to say that I play a pretty mean, mediocre guitar. Which completely beats what I used to say: that I was constantly trying and failing at playing the guitar. Good times. This experience came with another bonus--it allowed me to listen to "Love Hurts" ad nauseum without anyone having to ask if I was depressed or in deep mourning. Win for me!

Also, I say that I learned 96% because I still don't have the chords for the first two lines of the bridge. Once it gets to A I'm all good, but before that it's all guesswork. Point? If any skilled musicians read my blog, now is the time to show yourself.

In closing, I got new shoes. What a great day.

PS: The winner of the bromance poll has been determined. The overwhelming victors? Turk and JD, with Shawn and Gus as a close second. What a tight race! Thanks to everyone who participated.

Growing Up

2011-01-02T17:40:00.010-07:00

So, what I've learned in 2010.... oh what's that? You thought you were going to be spared the New Year's retrospective because this thing wasn't titled "My 2010: A Year in Review"? Well too bad suckas! Here it is.

2010 was the best year of my life.

2010 was the worst year of my life.

Both of these statements are true.

This year brought a lot of new revelations for me. I had to work through things, figure stuff out, and face a whole slew of decisions I thought I had a much longer time to make. This was the year that forced me to accept reality, to deal with the future—with what I want and who I want to be. Those are some pretty big judgment calls, and to have to confront them all was daunting.

In short, too much of this year was spent in struggle. I struggled for four months with the roommate from Hell, learning what it was like to actually hate another person (which, by the way, proved that Star Wars is right—hate is the absolute worst emotion, and dealing with it is impossibly hard. It's difficult to feel happiness or hope when hate is trying to pervade every aspect of life). I struggled with my schooling, starting a downward slide this summer that culminated in the past four months, where my faith in education and love for learning has been shaken. I suffered the ever pervasive relationship issues, not just with romantic partners, but with building friendships and even interacting with my family. I struggled with facing my parent's mortality, manifest when my dad had a stroke not too long ago. I struggled with having to leave a job I had worked at for two years, a job where I was comfortable, safe and secure.

All this was heaped on top of the multiple identity crises I was having with more and more frequency throughout the year. In this sense, 2010 was the Year of Self-Doubt. But then, we continue to look at my title. I had to grow up this year. I had to accept that adulthood was fast approaching, and I must either deal with it or perish. So I sucked it up, came to terms with my fading youth, and moved forward.

It's odd to be so young, yet so old. Live in Provo and you'll know what I'm talking about. What a magical land Provo is, where a unmarried 22 year old with her Bachelor's degree is an anomaly.

But at this crucial time, I take solace in the mighty words of Oasis. "Don't Look Back in Anger." I won't, Noah and Liam. I promise.

Because you know what? 2010 was incredible. Last year I:

-Watched the X-Files.
-Finally embraced the phenomenons that are Jones soda and Cafe Rio.
-Caught a catfish, using shrimp and WD-40.
-Took some lovely walks in the rain.
-Had the best time at Lagoon ever.
-Found an awesome tree behind some office buildings in Provo.
-Longboarded down Provo Canyon.
-Bid a fond farewell to Lost. I may have cried, but only a little.
-Read The English Patient, and fell in love with beautiful writing.
-Passed my last general (Physical Science), and only went to class twice. Subsequently, I was able to enjoy my summer.
-Finally admitted that Ben Gibbard is a talented man.
-Went on a fantastic road trip to San Diego, where I attended Comic-Con. It was one of the best experiences of my life.
-Taught multicultural high school students a class on how to pass the ACT reading test.
-Ate hot dogs roasted over a fire.
-Watched nineties comfort movies projected on the back of a house.
-Sat in a hammock.
-Went camping by Utah Lake.
-Moved into an apartment with delightful roommates, all of whom are attractive.
-Bought the first season of Community.
-Read Chuck Klosterman. Gained a new hero.
-Played Werewolf.
-Debated the best Hostess treat.
-Saw some amazing movies. My favorites? Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, True Grit, the Social Network, Easy A, and Inception.
-Danced.
-And finally, saw SO MANY CONCERTS. It was the best year ever, concert wise. This was my favorite activity this year. I got a full range of musical styles, venues, and experiences. God bless music, because it saved my sanity. And God bless Sir Paul McCartney. Here's the list (as far as I can remember), with my very favorites bolded. All of these were good (with the exception of MGMT), but some just rocked my world.

Cat's Concert Countdown, 2010
-The Vibrant Sound (2) -Can't Stop Won't Stop
-Vampire Weekend
-Muse
-Mudbison
-Isaac Russell (2)
-MGMT
-The Black Keys
-Imogen Heap
-Portugal. the Man.
-Modest Mouse
-Everson
-SIR PAUL McCARTNEY
-Rooney
-Big Boi
-Chromeo
-Matisyahu
-The Indecision (2)
-Temper Trap
-Ben Folds
-Ghost in a Jar (3?)
-The Utah Symphony presents the music of Led Zeppelin
-Colin Hay
-She & Him
-Mates of State
-Jenny and Johnny
-Seve vs Evan
-Imagine Dragons
-Fictionist (2)
-Joshua James (2)
-Sufjan Stevens
-Low

So there you have it. Cat's year in a nutshell. It was awesome and terrible, which is really all you can say about life in general. It's all about having a positive outlook that will balance those two traits. Incidentally, that's my goal this year. I want to look at life with optimism and hope, to find things to love about it. I've cherished a cynical persona, but I'm an idealist at heart and it's alright for me to let that show. Contrary to popular opinion, intellect does not equal cynicism. In fact, when it comes to people I truly admire, they are usually the ones who have risen above the world with unfailing love. I want to emulate that.

I think Conan O'Brien said it best: "All I ask of you is one thing: please don’t be cynical. I hate cynicism — it’s my least favorite quality and it doesn’t lead anywhere. Nobody in life gets exactly what they thought they were going to get. But if you work really hard, and you’re kind, amazing things will happen."

Let's allow this New Year to be full of love. Life is good. This world is beautiful. And this year will be amazing.

Face Off

2010-12-30T10:26:00.005-07:00

Alright, kicking off what I hope will be an inordinate amount of posts in the next two days (you know, so I can fool myself into feeling like a good blogger in 2010), Imma starting with something simple. A little opinion piece, if you will. Except the opinions I'm searching for are YOURS.

Like every Christmas break, I've been watching a ridiculous amount of TV. Yes, I'll admit it. I have no shame. Most of this has been spent catching up on the last two seasons of Psych, which led me to ponder on bromance.

Bromance, usually defined as an intense bond betwixt two straight males, is a typical trope seen on the televisions. Is it real, or only a ploy used for women to relate emotionally to male characters? The world may never know.

But regardless, on TV, it exists. So I'm asking you*, who has the best bromance?

Abed and Troy, Community. A friendship that others "just don't understand."
Phil and Lem, Better Off Ted. Two scientists who rely on each other to get the job done. Whatever that implies.
JD and Turk, Scrubs. Living together, working together, spending every moment together. Pure guy love.
Shawn and Gus, Psych. Their give-and-take relationship is always a pleasure, and is hilarity to watch.
Bret and Jemaine, Flight of the Conchords. These Kiwis and their bromance make sweet, sweet music.
Other, but you must specify what and why in the comments.

Good luck choosing. I know I sure can't.

*Poll in the sidebar, to the right.

Ugh

2010-12-15T09:01:00.004-07:00

Have worst night of sleep ever? Check.

Go to take a final at seven in the morning, walking through snow in the dark? Check.

Put absolutely no effort into final essay? Check.

Get back final paper from class, only to discover I completely failed? Check-a roonie.

Walk back home, getting splashed with slush from several passing cars, until utterly drenched and soggy? Check.

Go home and cry tears of pity and self-loathing in the shower, ala Tobias Funke? Check.

Attempt to make self feel better by listening to all the nine versions of the song "Hallelujah" I own, including the completely ridiculous Leonard Cohen original? Double check.

Feel surprised that such a tactic worked? Check.

Mm Mm GOOD

2010-12-07T21:59:00.007-07:00

This weekend I found home in a sandwich.

For those of you who might be doubting or mocking, cease and desist. It is perfectly possible for a home to be a sandwich, and I am telling you. I experienced that this weekend.

This Saturday I ended up in Davis County, a little tired from a baby shower for my sister-in-law and a little worried from a hospital visit. And I was also STARVING. Before heading back to Provo, I decided to drop by an old favorite, a place of food and comfort I haven't been to in a while.

Can I quickly laud my great decision making? Because sometimes, it's so amazing I surprise myself. Stopping at Spanky's might have made my week. Seriously, everything seems so hopeful, so achievable, and I think it is because I kicked it off with a glorious sandwich.

Why is a Spanky's turkey sandwich, on white, with provolone cheese, lettuce, tomato, pickle, salt and pepper oil and vinegar one of my homes? Well, we go way back, me and this sammich. In fact, I think it might of been the first sandwich I ever had, and by far the most delicious. It's tradition. It's soft bread and warm smell and white chocolate macadamia cookies. It's ritual-- the ritual of putting potato chips on top and sticking the toothpick in the lid of my Fresca-filled cup. It's a sign of love and a job well done. It's something I can only get at home, and only with family. The sandwich IS family.

I can't express it. Home is many things, and for me, for this moment, it's a sandwich. This weekend, I was home. And oh boy, did it taste good.

Step Onto My Soapbox

2010-11-16T14:45:00.011-07:00

Today, I was walking to school, dragging my feet as usual, when I suddenly looked up. The wind had started, and red orange leaves were rustling across the street in waves, spiraling, their colors glistening like scales. Time, cars, people, everything stopped as the road became covered in fall foliage. I stopped, my view obstructed by my own wind-whipped hair and the orange symphony around me, and I felt joyful. I felt completely, inexplicably happy, and I couldn't stop a giant and genuine grin from covering my face.

And this was miraculous. Because lately, I haven't felt anything. This semester has been challenging, not just because classes are hard, work is constant, and it feels impossible to be caught up, but more because I couldn't muster even an ounce of motivation for anything. I just didn't care. And the sad part is, I still don't. But at least it isn't affecting every part of my life. Before, there was no light and no end of the tunnel. There was no goal I was working toward, and life was just a long slog of endless work and apathy until I died, most likely at a young age from fluorescent light poisoning, or something equally mundane.

Luckily, this first started to change when I went to see Waiting for Superman. Aside: everyone, SEE THIS FILM NOW. Carrying on. While seeing this, I finally felt some stirring of emotion. I remembered what I was working for. I wasn't working because I had no other options, and it wasn't just because there's nothing else you can do with an English major. I'm becoming a teacher because I care about the youth of America. I care about the education system. I'm becoming a teacher because I honestly want to help students realize that they have potential, that knowledge is important, and that they are worth something. I want my students to see that laziness is not an option, and that all they need to succeed is an ounce of imagination in this creatively bankrupt world. I want them to trust themselves, to learn self-reliance, and most importantly, to have confidence. I want them to be better. I want them to do things my generation can only dream of, and to do them with grace and assurance. I am becoming a teacher because I want them to know that someone cares about their future. I won't be nice. I won't be an easy grade. But I will push my class to notice the world around them, and to want to change it.

Sorry. That got off track and rather preachy. But this is important to me. Right now I am incredibly disillusioned with the education system, not just the public school system (even though that is a main one), but also with any and all institutions. Ray Bradbury said "I don't believe in colleges and universities. I believe in libraries." Right now, I agree with him wholeheartedly.

At this point, I have one more real semester of school left. In looking back over my college career, I have had good experiences, classes I am thankful for, but I also sometimes want to cry. I feel like I was a more intelligent person when I graduated high school. Sure, my knowledge is much more specialized and in-depth on certain topics, but overall I feel like I've lost something. And even in those specialized fields, I don't care anymore. I don't know if this is my three and a half years of non-stop schooling talking, but I am tired of school. It holds no excitement, no passion, and absolutely no interest for me. If I had a choice at this point, I would drop out for a while, but with one semester left, that seems like a poor decision. But classes? Hour long increments where I feel my life force being sucked out. That's right, in this scenario, school= DEMENTORS.

I honestly feel like I would be a happier, more beneficial, and more educated person if I added up those hours and hours I am spending writing worthless papers and listening to the opinions of worthless classmates and just spent them in a library, devouring books and journals as I saw fit. Maybe after a few months of that, I would feel ready to join the ranks of academia again. After months of that, I could return to writing papers, because this time they would be fueled by passion and interest rather than deadlines and lifeless, forced theses.

For now, there's nothing left to do but stick it out for five more months. After that, I'll be fine. I'll spend four months recharging, and I'll face a classroom with vigor and enthusiasm. And I WILL endure these next few months. You know why? Because I am a good teacher. I need to be out there, practicing my craft. I need to have a purpose in life, something that the endless monotony of college has stolen from me. And I will hang on, because I can't stall. I'm going to move forward. I am going to embrace my life, and the meaning it has.

All these thoughts came at once, while I watched the leaves, then continued towards class. But now it was with renewed vigor. I focused on how awesome the Scott Pilgrim soundtrack is, especially through headphones set at full volume. I remembered that my jacket always makes me feel a little like Bob Dylan, and adds a sixties-rebellious swagger to my step. I felt the wind toss my hair, and was alive. If I can keep these things in mind, I will be OK. I can make it.

For those of you who suffered through that long, slightly ridiculous blog post, here's a treat for you, in the form of a quote.

"Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not sure about the universe."
- Albert Einstein

Werewolf Bar Mitzvah! Spooky, Scary!

2010-10-29T14:10:00.004-06:00

OCTOBER!

It's time for me to join the hipper masses and proclaim my love of Halloween. I just wish that school would sit down, take a break, and revel in the glory that is the autumn spirit (PUN!). Instead, they overload life so that I feel this month has flown by. Ah, well. Such is life.

I love Halloween--the spooky, the scary, the macabre. It all delights my naturally wuss-ish soul. I love dressing up and watching somewhat scary movies. But at my core, I am an English nerd, and so the best way for me to connect with the true mood of Halloween is to read. Surprise, surprise, right?

For the past five years or so, I've dedicated myself to reading spine-chilling works of fiction to get me in the mindset for All Hallows Eve. Last year it was World War Z, a truly addicting write-up of the zombie apocalypse. The year before that it was the works of Edgar Allen Poe, then Jekyll and Hyde, Dracula, etc.

This year, I was tempted to cheat and just re-read the first installment in The Walking Dead series (an awesome, never-ending graphic novel series that is premiering in TV format on AMC this Sunday), but in the end I decided to have integrity. And even though I won't be finished by my goal of Halloween, I am still dedicated to my choice.

I chose Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury as my autumn novel. Now please excuse me while I have a short geekfest about him.

Ray Bradbury is a genius! I always appreciated his talents in jr. high and high school, when I read The Martian Chronicles and the inevitable Fahrenheit 451. But it took a recent reading of his short story "August 2026: There Will Come Soft Rains" (found here) for me to become obsessed with his writing. The story was so well-written, so painfully beautiful it left me with chills at the end. I don't know how he was able to make me emotionally invested in a few short pages, pages that lacked an immediate human element, but he did. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why he deserves all the awards heaped upon him.

Also, I think his stance on technology has been one of my most-quoted bit o' news in the past couple of months. Long live Bradbury. And bless you, dear man.

Anyway, have an enjoyable weekend my dear friends. Find some way to celebrate that resonates. Commune with the dead, revel in childhood, and have fun. Because let's face it. We deserve it.

Jimmy Page is a Golden God

2010-10-12T14:27:00.003-06:00

But seriously. He is. And I just thought everyone should know that.

Every time I watch this clip from It Might Get Loud, I get chills.

What a genius! Sigh.

In other music news, I finally buckled down and bought the new Miniature Tigers album, Fortress. I've loved Mini Tigers since I first saw them opening for (and completely upstaging) Bishop Allen. I found Charlie Brand and his teddy bear sweater incredibly endearing, and their album Tell it to the Volcano quickly became one of my all time favorites. ALL. TIME.

Strange music video, but I can't help but love it. And what a song! Infectious beats! Sick guitar! They are so simple but soooo good.

So far the new album is pretty ok. It's definitely different, and I'll see how I feel about that. Tell it to the Volcano had a strong central theme of getting over unrequited love, and a super Pinkerton feel that I dug. It sounds like Fortress steps away from the total stripped down Weezer-ish chords and goes for a more trippy, Sgt. Pepper feel with heavier synths and effects (not surprising, seeing how Brand cites Weezer and the Beatles as two of his influences).

Sorry for that last paragraph. It was boring, but necessary. For the .5 of you who might be interested.

The addictive sound is still there though. And as long as Brand keeps writing (and loving Lost... I already miss that show so much), I'll keep coming back.

In related Miniature Tigers news, the movie Easy A uses their song "The Wolf" in one scene. I may or may not have had a minor freak out, done a victory dance, and desperately whispered to my movie-going companions how cool it was that a band I loved had a song in the show. They did not care. In unrelated news, Easy A was a great movie. Same with The Social Network... hoo boy, was that a good flick. Well, now I'm completely off topic. If I even had one to begin with. And...

fin

The List

2010-09-17T15:50:00.003-06:00

A few months ago, I wrote a lovely and enlightening post about my girl crushes. Well now, prompted by a viewing of Penelope and an undying belief that there should be balance in all things, I've decided to do a rundown of my favorite guys. You know, a la "The List" from Friends. Here's my list of men that make me swoon. While there are many I admire and love at various times for various reasons, these are the ones that reign supreme. Yes, I'll love them, always and forever.

-Andrew Bird

Oh boy. This man is a genius. He's an incredible musician, playing several instruments at a time, looping riffs and melodies to create a comforting blanket of sound I just want to curl up in. The fact that he's so appealing tall, nerdy, and pull off vests and scarfs with aplomb? Now that's just a bonus.

But it's hard to discuss Andrew's appeal without showing him live, as music is truly his element and where he shines.

Sigh. Also, for more proof of his talents, check out the blog he did for the New York Times. Is there anything Andrew Bird can't do? I think not.

-James McAvoy

Another man who is supremely talented in his field. What can I say, girls only like guys that have good skills. And while I thought he was cute as Mr. Tumnus (I'm not too proud to admit it), it took one viewing of his Macbeth for me to be completely, utterly, over-the-moon in love with him. Seriously, I have never seen Shakespeare done better. Yeah that's right, EAT IT BRANAGH.

But I digress. Great actor, Scottish, can perform pretty much any kind of role possible (Shakespeare, action, fantasy, romantic comedy, intense war drama). How can I resist?

And just because I think I'm legally obliged to mention this whenever I talk about James McAvoy, remember that time I saw him in three days of rain? And I met him after? And had a conversation? That might have been the single greatest moment of my life.

-Lee Pace

Two words: Pie Maker.

That role alone, plus seeing him in The Fall and his original Bryan Fuller show Wonderfalls, have made me a mega-fan. Beware of watching Pushing Daises with me, because there is a high probability of fangirl-ishness going on. He's just adorable. A tall, Converse wearing, delightfully bashful fellow who makes me pie? Looks and cooks? Let's just say, I love food, I love Lee, and that's all you need to know.

ZAPTACULAR!

2010-09-14T19:48:00.001-06:00

Oh my ... oh MY ... there are no words.

"Drink of the Miracle Sauce. Rehealthify yourself."

You'll thank me later, I guarantee it.

MILKQUARIOUS from +JOE HURSLEY+ on Vimeo.

Why, merciful heavens, WHY?

2010-09-04T23:54:00.003-06:00

So tonight, I saw The Last Airbender.

There are no words to describe the pain and devastation the entire movie experience caused. I was reduced to a facepalming seatwarmer, waiting for death to come with it's sweet, sweet deliverance.

It was BY FAR the worst movie I've ever seen. Wolverine? Better. Avatar? Better. Benchwarmers? Far better. Yes, I just said that a Rob Schneider movie was superior to this drivel. That's how serious I am.

Why is M. Night allowed to write/produce/direct movies? I propose that this is the breaking point. From this moment on, let us unite together in a sacred pact: don't support, don't encourage, and for heavens sake DON'T BELIEVE in Shyamalan. He is dead to me now. Always and forever.

Oh, I see you are gangster...

2010-08-20T10:28:00.006-06:00

I'm pretty gangster myself.

Or at least that's how I felt after jammin' to Big Boi in "Crunk Lake City," as he so affectionately called it.

Oh Big Boi. You are such a card.

Who knew I was so thuggish? That I could get so down with my bad self? You know, just me and thousands of other white folks chilling with the homies.

And at least I fit in with my wifebeater. It would have looked so much more legit with Luke's Rocawear hat, but apparently he didn't want it to get dirty and/or destroyed. Both of which are the inevitable results of the Pioneer Park concert experience. Ah well, at least I could shake what my mama gave me. Even if I did envy those with ghetto booties.

Is this post racist enough? Probably not. It's just the perfect amount. Regardless, I thoroughly enjoyed the world of rap. Smooth rhymes and illin' beats. Is the phrase "ill" still in use? Or is that so Beastie Boys? I don't even know.

So, if you somehow missed it, I am very, very white.

A Planet of Regret

2010-08-18T11:36:00.005-06:00

Subtitled- Musings on Culture and Generation After a Viewing of Reality Bites.

Who knew Winona Ryder could be so inspirational? After all these years of being mildly annoyed at her early Tim Burton muse status, her need to constantly keep up her brunette locks (natural blonde does her no favors), and her no-good-dirty-shoplifting, I have found solace and philosophy in the most unlikely of sources. Namely, a relationship between two initially hateful actors- Ryder and a greasy Ethan Hawke- that I can not only identify with, but that poses the universal question: who am I, where do I fit, and what are my values?

A few months ago I read Chuck Klosterman's Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs, a must read for any and all pop culture junkies who fancy themselves part of the untapped intelligentsia. In the chapter "Sulking with Lisa Loeb on the Ice Planet Hoth," Klosterman uses The Empire Strikes Back and Reality Bites to define Generation X. And if that alone doesn't make you immediately want to read this book, I don't know what will.

Klosterman describes Gen-Xer's as a people who reject society because they recognize it's flaws, but are ultimately too lazy to change their world. They are the genius with wasted potential, but are imbued with a sort of enviable pride. Using that definition, Winona Ryder's tumultuous relationship with Ethan Hawke stops being the ideal of friends morphing into perfect lovers. It becomes a desperate declaration of her refusal to compromise.

For young twennysomthin's, that's what the 90's were all about. It wasn't just "stickin' it to the man," but it was firmly saying that the man should not, and does not exist. They lived their lives secure in their knowledge and smug sense of superiority. And I can't help but admire that, that utter assurance of self.

And what do we, the waifs of the 21st century, what do we contribute to the scale? Do we have moral codes? I wonder if, when faced with a choice, the average contemporary would exhibit a stubborn refusal to sell out, or would take comfort in safety and success regardless of the cost. Are we schmoozers with a dollar sign on the bottom line, or are we the brilliant bums on basement couches? Perhaps it's an impossible question, as there are no absolutes but mere situations. But history books prove that this is untrue, and how will they portray the present?

Like the most intriguing questions, I suppose this will take time and patience to discover. My two least favorite attributes. Ah well. That's it for now, folks. I'm Audi 5000.

DTR

2010-07-21T14:15:00.007-06:00

Oh Ben. It's time to talk. You know, about our relationship.

Yeah, the one we don't really have yet, but that I just know is coming along quite nicely. I mean, look at the progress we've made! Finally, after two and a half years of regret, I managed to see you live. Live in concert. As in, playing the piano and singing in my immediate vicinity. And oh man was it joyous.

True, it wasn't quite your usual scene. I couldn't help but laugh as I saw you struggling to rein in your ribald persona, trying to keep it somewhat clean due to the presence of the Utah Symphony behind you. But even they couldn't completely contain you, and I had to chuckle/swoon as you rock star mugged at the camera during "Not the Same", shoving your face near the screen, hands outstretched and lights swirling behind you.

As for me, I just stretched out and enjoyed, nibbling on chocolate cake and letting your deliciously whiny white-boy voice surround me as dark light from condos and trees kept good company.

Basically, our love is strong, dear Benjamin. And hey, if you ever find yourself in the market for a fifth wife, I'll be here.

Beauty in the Breakdown

2010-06-22T15:23:00.004-06:00

I'm broke.

That's only partially true. But this summer is slowly taking all my money, seducing me with the glory of concerts. Yes, concerts. I'm hemorrhaging my hard-earned mula in increments of twelve to forty bucks at a time, all in the name of a supreme musical experience.

I think it's worth it.

Mostly, at least. The Summer Concert Season (patent pending?) officially kicked off two and a half weeks ago. Here's the rundown of the biggest names so far.

The Black Keys: Great!
MGMT: Worst ever.
Imogen Heap: WIN WIN WIN VICTORY AMAZING SO GOOD FANTASTIC.

I love the Black Keys, and their show last year is easily in my top three concert experiences. This year, while not quite as epic, was still mind-blowing. It was my first time at The Depot, the white whale of my musical past, plus I got Dan's set list at the end, so score for me. And let's just say, both Patrick's and Dan's swoon factor has increased by about 10,000% since last year. Sigh.

MGMT made me very angry. So angry I'm not sullying my blog with their image. So very, very angry. Let's leave it at that.

But on to the glorious Imogen!

Remember my musings about girl crushes? Imogen Heap is now a part of that elite group. She might even be taking over the list. She is ... the words truly incredible don't seem to capture all her beauty. I've never seen someone so professional, so likable, and so dedicated to really putting on a great show, purely for the sake of her fans.

Photo courtesy of Joseph Slinker

She was the first one on stage, introducing her openers personally. She was a constant presence. She created this wonderful community of musicians, through her opening acts/back-up band. And then, she played a SOLID two hour set, a set that was full of favorites. Musicians all over, take a hint from Imogen. Honestly, this concert has sky-rocketed towards being one of my favorite things ever.

Next up? Portugal. The Man tomorrow, then Rooney, Modest Mouse, Girl Talk and freakin' PAUL McCARTNEY!

The only way to describe this summer, and I say this knowing the word is overused but really applicable in this case? EPIC.

“Why Being Really Lonely is Sometimes Super Awesome”

2010-05-22T23:29:00.002-06:00

Ah, Scrubs. Will you ever cease speaking to my innermost soul? Correct answer: NO, never. Well, maybe. But at the very least, you've given me several new mantras. Who could forget "EEEEAAGLE!!!" and "Chocolate Bear"? All I gots to do is get a token black friend, and that last one will be in use all the time. Just you wait and see.

It's funny (as in, interesting) that when life takes a turn for the tumultuous you have two options: wallow, or learn. The other day I was walking around UVU's campus (which is, admittedly, pretty. Whatever. No big deal), and I had an epiphany. Suddenly, Wolfmother's "Vagabond" started running through my head, and I felt at peace. Maybe I'm subconsciously influenced by how it's used in 500 Days of Summer, but I felt... I don't know, hopeful? Empowered? Able to finally regain my true self? Whatever it was, it was a feeling I haven't had for the past while, and it was wonderful. "Cause I'll tell you everything about living free." Sing it, Andrew my man. Tell me about that free-time living.

I've noticed my bloggering has been kind of different lately. Short. Pithy. Filled with an awkward amount of life summary. Because I am all about audience participation, here are some topics I've been thinking about for this little page o' mine. Think of it as a choose-your-own-adventure book. Except without options that take you to different pages. And also I'm telling you upfront that there is only about a 73% chance I'll write what you choose.

A quick look at the many generational stages of Chris Cooper as an evil character in movies.
My top "relationship"-y albums.
An introspective autobiographical piece comparing mailboxes to my lost childhood.
Describing the magnanimously fantastic and non-productive day that was Wednesday, May 19.
A declaration of my undying love for pie and/or the TV show Community.

Shameless Self Promotion

2010-05-13T14:24:00.005-06:00

Howdy folks!

Not many people know this, but it's been a lifelong (well... month-long. Maybe weeks-long) dream of mine to be a featured guest blogger. And now, thanks to the talented and loveable Lucas over at Juxtapose, my dream has finally come true! He let me handle a way-too-technical and beautiful camera for a week, and now is presenting some of the photographic gems, complete with a short and pithy explanation of what the experience helped me realize. Overall, I'd say it's a pretty neat project.

You can find his blog on my sidebar, or for the more lazy of you who want instant gratification, click here to go right to it. After you've checked out my super cool pictures, spend some time and look around. I guarantee you'll come out satisfied-- Luke's got a way with the camera. I bet you like it.

Enjoy, my friends! Cat OUT.

No Words

2010-05-12T11:03:00.002-06:00

"I would say that music is the easiest means in which to express, but since words are my talent, I must try to express clumsily in words what the pure music would have done better."

-William Faulkner

Bursting Peals of Laughter

2010-05-04T16:19:00.004-06:00

So... the pros and cons of having to bring your laptop to class.

Pro: You can stay easily occupied. If you start drifting off, there is always the trusty interweb to keep you occupied.

Con: When you choose a humorous website to fill your empty time, and you randomly bust out a giant snort of laughter, right at the moment when the class is all quiet and supposed to be thinking of some very important, serious concept.

Just saying, hypothetically these could be some dangers of laptops. Not that they happened to me. Just barely. And repeatedly. Yeah. Not that.

Girl Crush

2010-04-30T13:05:00.015-06:00

So. Here it is. The final day of April. I can't end my month with that last post, so for your textual delight, I offer a random topic. Will it make sense? Who knows. Let's find out, hmmmm?

Have you heard of the man crush? The phenomenon where one man has a slavish adoration for another, but not in that way? It's more like an idolization of someone. A hero worship. No homo, I swear. The elevation of a person to man crush status is the highest honor a man can give. It implies ultimate respect.

So... it's fine for women to have girl crushes, right? It just makes sense. So here are my top three. These women are awesome. Or at least I think so, and lets face it. That's all that matters, right?

#3. Emma Thompson

Dude. Seriously? Seriously. Emma is amazing. She has a poise and grace that is so admirable. With the ability to carry off numerous Shakespearean roles, a crazy author, ugly nannies, and Hugh Grant's sister, along with countless other parts, Emma owns whatever she does. Besides, her voice is so proper and soothing. All at the same time. It's astounding! She is also in my top three people I want to narrate my life. Anyone and everyone should respect this woman.

#2 (TIE). Jenny Lewis and Zooey Deschanel

I put these two together because they fill a similar place in my esteem. Primarily, I love them because they are both in amazing bands-- Jenny has been the lead singer in Rilo Kiley and vox in the Postal Service, along with putting out some fantastic solo stuff, while Zooey works with M. Ward in She & Him. But they have more. Both have crazy cool retro style. Both rock, both roll. Both have a wide-eyed stare underneath tough-but-awesome bangs. Both have long wild hippie hair. Both are very, very cool.

#1. Tina FeyDo I even have to explain here? No, but I will anyway. Tina, Tina, Tina. What an incredible person. She is possibly the funniest writer ever, managing to make a TV show and characters that click so quickly and are truly laugh out loud hilarious. Honestly, how often does that happen? She has also managed to hold onto an actual personality-- nothing has changed her. Fame, acceptance, she's faced trials and truly overcome with a sense of dignity and sandwiches. I can't describe how much I like her. To Tina. Forever.

Pansy

2010-04-18T22:01:00.005-06:00

I am a giant wussface.

A coward. A tiny baby girl. Anything that denotes the fact that I completely, utterly have no backbone.

This is one of the facets of my personality I really have a problem with. Everyday I tell myself to be brave. I try to face the world with confidence, with the strength I wish I had. And everyday my fears hit me in the face, and all I want to do is run and curl up under the covers, pretending the world doesn't exist. Or go high in the mountains, where it is just me and the Lord and no one else, so I can finally be at peace.

My list of regrets is growing longer.

I wish I could confront people without being emotionally invested. I wish I wasn't afraid of failure. I wish I was more spontaneous, that I could be alright dropping obligations and running away. I wish I was more capable. I wish I could be that person that is always supportive, that can listen and empathize and be there. I wish I relied on people. I wish I was more trusting. I wish I could be that person who does what they want when they want. I wish I didn't overthink things.

But what's the point of wishing? Things are past or out of my reach. Or are they? Is there still that hope that I can turn my insecurities around and someday live with no remorse?

I think that's all we want. To be satisfied with life. To eliminate the many, various obstacles we create. To face this world entirely unafraid.

Eat My Shorts!

2010-04-13T16:11:00.008-06:00

I would just like to announce that I completely and utterly OWNED my final tour for my docent class.

Yeah, that's right! TAKE THAT MOA!
And now I am done. No more putting up with overly pretentious art history majors. No more enduring the soporific tones of their tour voices, putting up with the desperate pleas at intellectualism and artistic insights, or trying to fight sleep and discomfort as they prattle on about how that slash of a line symbolizes rising hope and plummeting fortunes (confession: I have done that last one).

No more! After whining to friends and ditching class, I finished on the best note ever. My tour left them speechless. I took them through Mirror Mirror and turned them on their heads with my piercing analysis.

And now I'm done with that class! Did I mention that?

So just a few words, dear MOA.

HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW?!?!
bam.

Dichotomy

2010-04-11T23:14:00.005-06:00

"People are never really emblematic of anything. Alive or dead, they constantly contradict themselves and turn out to contain unexpected elements."

Jonathan Rosen, The Talmud and the Internet

I've recently developed the skill of observance. It's quite new to me-- I was always self-involved, with a belief in personal privacy. But now I find people fascinating. Their actions, their words. The question of what drives behavior constantly haunts me.

And so I lust after stories, seeking childhood memories and inner reflections. Adversely, I find myself constantly waiting to share, an inner typhoon of reminiscences longing to be set free. Images of sneaking through fences and climbing on roofs, summers on the trampoline and autumn walks through the cemetery fill my lungs and struggle up the esophagus, yearning to slip past the lips but halted by self-consciousness.

Instead of discussing myself, I press others. What was elementary like? Who was your favorite teacher? What is the worst trouble you have ever gotten in? Where are you in your family? Do you think that has effected your outlook in life?

I am still painfully awkward at questioning people. Years of stifling my innate curiosity has left me blunt and unskilled. But the only way to get better is through practice, and I am filled with this need to know. Why do we act the way we do? What shapes us, what makes personalities? These are the answers I seek.

Despite the roughness of my approach, I feel I've gotten slightly better at reading the unspoken cues, understanding the subtle hints in language and demeanor. And I've been able to glean more out of casual conversation, learning more about others than they would probably like.

There are still many miles to go in my quest, but even in the short time I've become interested in discovering people, I've unearthed some useful facts. Namely, everyone is searching for definition, but their journey is in vain.

The world cannot be placed in a nice tight philosophy, and neither can a person. Situations change, opinions change, and there are no set rules, no matter how appreciated such things may be. The surest way to solidify an event is to firmly decide the opposite is true. So it is with people. We can think that we are THIS, but even as we settle on it, our cozy thought pattern begins to disintegrate, taking our firmly decided THAT with it. So we must embrace flexibility, accept the belief that nothing is concrete.

This isn't to say there aren't Universal Truths. There most certainly are, and they are the only anchor in the chaos that is existence. But to try and add other anchors, spread across distances among the sea of life, that is to invite frustration and hypocrisy. The only way to survive is to move with the current and stop trying to pin things down in a neat explanation. Some things don't work, and the factors are so unique that to try to apply similar reactions to different situations is a recipe for failure.

Basic rundown: people are unpredictable, but are a constant source of inspiration. Looking at others and acknowledging the lessons they offer is an important gift in life, but don't become too obsessed with trying to relate it to yourself. We are unique. This is the most wonderful thing about humanity. Observe others merely as a scholarly and artistic pursuit, but any answers about the self will be found as the years pass, and will unfold in their own manner. Once we stop trying to figure it out, it will all be much easier and vastly more enjoyable.

Smoothbeautifully Folded

2010-03-28T20:29:00.006-06:00

I still can't write. My mind is muddled mixing, mashed mirth and mourning, a mire of muffled musings.

I feel dried up. But I'd like to believe there is still beauty in this world. In honor of beauty, I give you this.

Pied Beauty

GLORY be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

-Gerard Manley Hopkins

Eye See

2010-03-24T13:29:00.005-06:00

Punny, isn't it? No, seriously, I could go off on a small apologetic rant about how I've been unable to write anything lately (why my grades are probably suffering) to try and make up for that title. But instead I will try to conquer my mental block by forcing myself to write, and focus on the story at hand.

Last Saturday I helped out my friend Andrea with a photo shoot. It was my first time officially being shot, and it's a little bit intimidating. You'd think someone as vain as I am would enjoy flaunting my stuff for the camera, but instead of improving my vanity it made me feel very self-conscious. Mostly because she decided to shoot me from the nose down. It had something to do with conveying a sense of anonymity or something really cool and artistic. But for me, something felt a little strange in how I was being portrayed.

I didn't realize until that exact moment how much I rely on my eyes.

It's no secret that I consider them my best feature (a belief built up over the years by multiple compliments).

Here's just a few of my favorite descriptions:
"She had the eyes of a Thundercats character."
"You have Gooch eyes, but not crazy."
"You're eyes are like Milky Ways."

Yeah. I'm kind of a fan. Needless to say.

So during the photo shoot, as I stood there trying to manipulate my mouth into interesting poses, it hit me how much I missed using my eyes. They're how I communicate, how I share emotions. And without them I feel useless, a dumb creature unable to get my point across. And it's infinitely frustrating. It bothers me when I can't get my point across, or when people refuse to understand what I'm saying. Being stripped of my expressions completely robbed me of the ability to connect, left me alone in the universe.

That's a little dramatic. I apologize.

I think the photos turned out pretty sweet though.

"I couldn't even begin to think about knowing how to answer that question"

2010-03-08T14:46:00.003-07:00

Why do I like Wes Anderson?

Is it because he uses Bill Murray, Jason Schwartzman and the Wilson brothers as regulars? And they are all favorites, especially Murray? Is it because I secretly love the uber-hip playlists that expose a new generation to John Lennon and the Velvet Underground? Or is it the enduring color scheme of yellows, oranges and green that permeate his films? And that all of these elements give his movies a distinct style that is simultaneously comforting AND oh-so-easy to mockingly imitate (a respectful homage, of course)?

I guess it's a mystery.

Style Maven

2010-02-22T15:28:00.004-07:00

I couldn't really think of a creative title, and I think the word "maven" is cool, so there you go.

So I shouldn't be writing right now, because I'm trying this new thing called "being efficient and finishing schoolwork earlier than three hours before class". Right now I'm attempting to trick myself into believing a paper is due tomorrow, instead of Thursday. Sadly, I'm not buying it. Why can't I be more gullible?

That was a very long-winded way of saying that while I was slacking off (typical paper-writing process), I found something most excellent.

Tavi is thirteen and blogs about fashion. I know what you are thinking. Why would Cat be interested in fashion? This girl who wears nothing but Converse, jeans, t-shirts and cardigans?

Don't fret, I am still as fashion oblivious as the next person. More so, probably. But Tavi is blowing my mind! At points I can't believe she is that young, because she's so hip and intelligent. Forget fashion, her blog is delightful to read. It's witty, colorful, and peppered with references to some of my favorite things (30 Rock and Freaks and Geeks! Let's be friends). I also like the beautiful images she posts. And the way she dresses is truly outrageous. I LOVE it. It's how I would dress if I had A) guts, and B) siblings that didn't make fun of me when I wear their super cool over-sized flannel shirts, John.

I'm probably breaking some law by posting that picture and linking to her blog, but until I get caught I ain't gonna stop.

Sidenote: I would probably be a successful rapper. Right? Right?

A Cautionary Tale

2010-02-18T21:38:00.006-07:00

Seriously, that is all this story is.

But somehow, people just focus on the supposed "romance" of the plot and completely forget the "cautionary" part of the tale! For shame, general public.

I could rag on Romeo & Juliet for countless hours, for a limitless amount of time, but that would be far too much effort to spend right now. Instead, I will simply state that it is among the worst of Shakespeare's plays, that the characters and situations are (for the most part) forced and stilted, and that any ideals of love or destiny are so incredibly false that they should be stoned for preaching idolatrous truths.

That being said, I kind of love Baz Luhrmann's version. Yes, the one with Leonardo DiCaprio. I admit it! I am very entertained by this movie.

I love the frenetic pacing. I love how it begins with almost over-stimulating visuals punctuated by quick cuts. I love how the lines are delivered so earnestly it border on cheesiness. I absolutely love all the lush details-- Tybalt's cat boots, the 9mm "swords", the huge statue of Christ and the achingly beautiful deserted Sycamore Grove stage. Which brings us to the soundtrack. Like him or leave him, the first shot of Leo brooding on the beach with "Talk Show Host" in the background is perfect. Anything that uses Radiohead is tops in my book.

But the main reason to watch? Mercutio! Talk about your fictional crushes. Mercutio is the lone grace in Romeo & Juliet. It doesn't matter what version you are watching, he steals the show every stinkin' time. And I love how Luhrmann goes for a character that is seriously unhinged. One that is capable of switching emotions as quickly as a wave crashing on the shore. This guy experiences the highest highs and the most biting anger within seconds. Now that's just fun to watch!

Besides, I can't help but picture how awesome Michael on Lost would have been if he'd busted out his Mercutio cross-dressing moves. So much better than always screaming WWWWWWWAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLTTTTTTTT!

Dreamin' the Night Away

2010-02-09T16:38:00.004-07:00

There are so many theories on what dreams really are. A random firing of synapses? Or a deeper portal into subconscious desires? Like the eternally frustrating question of just how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop, it's one of those things the world may never know.

But regardless of how you interpret dreams, you can't deny that they effect us. A dream can set the mood for an entire day. It can make you wake up feeling unsettled, or laughing at how ridiculous it was. They enable you to conquer fears, experience new worlds, and create impossible landscapes. So yes, I'd say they are pretty necessary.

The past two nights, I have had crazy, CRAZY dreams. They've been vivid, intricately detailed, and completely ludicrous. Here's a list of some of the dream topics, to whet your curiosity.

Dream #1:
-Avatar
-James Cameron
-A punch in the face (see: a very deserving James Cameron)
-Robots
-Washington D.C.
-Booth and Brennan from the TV show Bones
-Disguises
-Jon Hamm

Dream #2:
-Bicycles
-Ashley
-Feasting
-Roast turkey and stuffing
-Lobster
-Lobster flavored apples
-My old house in Farmington

One of my co-workers was kind enough to show me dreammoods.com, a website that claims to decipher dreams. She said it was eerily accurate. Eerily vague is more like it, but it still kills an hour or so. I was pretty surprised that there was an entire category for Lobsters.

Lobster: To see a lobster in your dream represents strength and persistence. You will hold your own ground and overcome minor difficulties and problems. To dream that you are eating lobster indicates that you will regain your confidence.

See? Infinitely useful. I had no idea I had lost confidence, but now I know I will regain it! There's hope for me yet!

No, I kid. But seriously, there is something comforting in thinking that I will have the ability to overcome difficulties. Sure, I'm not buying the whole that's-what-the-lobster-signifies angle, but I will take some measure of solace in my dreams. Even if it's just that they make me believe my imagination isn't dead yet, and I have some spark of creativity in me. At least subconsciously.

The Dude Abides

2010-01-31T22:45:00.006-07:00

In the movie Garden State, Natalie Portman's character, Sam, says that when she feels completely unoriginal she has to do something completely "her". Like doing a crazy dance that hasn't ever been done in that exact spot. I don't know exactly how this ties in, but it somehow reminds me of my sweater of happiness. Maybe because when I am feeling weary or down, I turn to a certain sweater I own. A sweater that is full of magic and wonder. A sweater that can take any mood or method, and make it awesome.

You see, I own a sweater that is almost identical to the one worn by Jeff "the Dude" Bridges, when he portrayed Jeff "the Dude" Lebowski in the classic Cohen Film The Big Lebowski.

Observe. Here is the Dude, showing off his sweatered goodness:

And here am I. As you might be able to guess, this particular modeling of the sweater is from Halloween:

All I have to do is don this knitted wonder, and immediately any funk is gone. I'm telling you, it's a modern marvel!

OK, here is the random question to end this random post. I want you, yes you, my darling followers, to answer the classic question posed by When Harry Met Sally. Is it possible for a man and a woman to be friends? More specifically, do you think that two people who have had a romantic history can put that behind them and still be incredibly tight? Please tally your opinions in the comments section, and thank you for participating.

"Who wants flowers when you're dead?"

2010-01-28T15:00:00.006-07:00

J.D. Salinger died today. He was 91 years old. He wrote stories. He was notorious for being a hermit, hiding away from the world after he almost single-handedly revamped the written word. Some credit him with the invention of the young adult genre. Some call him a menace. Some blame his magnum opus, The Catcher in the Rye, for the degradation of society. Most don't even know who he is.

In the movie Finding Forrester, Sean Connery's character is loosely based on Salinger.

Actress Zooey Deschanel is named after Franny & Zooey, one of Salinger's collections of short stories.

It took me until college before I finally read The Catcher in the Rye. One day I was walking to the store, passed a yard sale, and picked it up for the low, low price of fifty cents. I read it on a plane, an overnight flight, and it was stunning. It floored me in every way. I couldn't believe it had taken me so long to embrace this work of fiction.

After my first time reading it, I wrote this about it:

A great tale of crisis, the insanity that plagues us all, and how cynicism effects the world, as seen through an adolescents eyes. Holden is mesmerizing. I love how you can identify with him so easily, but some of his musings can be unnerving, leaving you to wonder about your own sanity in this mad world.

My opinion is pretty much the same. I do love Holden. He completely captured me when I was reading. Yes, sometimes his thoughts seemed to contradict each other, but how often does that happen in real life? Aren't we all tormented to some degree, driven mad with trying to figure out what this world, this life, this entire existence is about? All of us are merely passing through, observing humanity and trying to cling to some basic truths. And sometimes it's hard. And sometimes you don't understand. And sometimes you think you have everything figured out, only to have that change moments later.

See the whole sanity issue? I'm guessing you do.

At work I was in mourning, and told my co-workers about Salinger's death. They asked who that was. I told them it was the guy who wrote The Catcher in the Rye. They had never read it, and had no idea what it was about. When I gave a brief plot summary, one girl raised her eyebrows. "So, you enjoy reading a book that's just the inner ramblings of a teenage boy?"

Yes. Yes I do. Most books about teenagers at this time were horrible, one-note, craptastic moralistic serials about boys and cars, or a girl detective, or about how Timmy played football and loved it and won the big game. Salinger gave his characters emotions. He let them be confused. He said it was OK to think about deeper issues, to come up with theories and figure out who you really were and what you believed in.

"Among other things, you'll find that you're not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You're by no means alone on that score, you'll be excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You'll learn from them - if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It's a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn't education. It's history. It's poetry."

Thank you, J.D. Salinger. Thank you for contributing to the records. Thank you for your creations. Thank you for your poetry.

Pick-Me-Up

2010-01-16T20:46:00.005-07:00

I will never understand girls.

For instance, why do we perpetuate the creation of "chick flicks"? I don't know why girls turn to these cinematic atrocities whenever they are feelings down. Especially when they are upset about a guy. Wouldn't those movies make things worse? Wouldn't it hurt worse to see someone else who acts like a ridiculous, petulant child (as chick flick heroines are wont to do), act horrible, meet someone, and within three days fall madly and "truly" in love? Seriously folks. I don't get it. If you can explain why this is the generally accepted form of therapy, please do.

As for myself, I turn to a different genre for relief. OK, honestly, there is no one set genre I turn to, I just avoid those gag-inducing romcoms.

Which is why I didn't spend tonight with a Meg Ryan or Julia Roberts movie. No, I curled up to enjoy this:

I think my choice is vastly superior.

Something with depth, zombies, spewing gore, themes capitalizing on humanities fear of viral outbreak, a haunting soundtrack, and some beautiful imagery. Who wouldn't feel better after watching this?

Other recommending viewings for when life has pushed you down the stairs and is now kicking you repeatedly: Hotel Rwanda, the BBC's Macbeth, and Empire of the Sun. Also: Young Frankenstein.

I didn't ever say the list would make sense, I just said that it would contain satisfying viewing experiences. And it does. So win for me.

Old Soul

2010-01-07T15:09:00.008-07:00

I just got a sudden craving to be someplace ancient.

I have no idea where this came from. I was just sitting at work, trying to fill my empty time, and there it was. This overwhelming desire to sit among ruined stones. In my mind I'm outdoors, with gray skies and a vigorous wind teasing through monoliths and brushing against my cheeks. Or maybe I want to be within a shadowy hut, with a burnt grave of extinguished fire in the center. Or maybe I'm ready to face cathedrals again, to feel ancient beliefs rather than actual buildings.

My new favorite class is postmodern lit, and my professor is this tiny, opinionated New Zealander. She's basically fantastic. We've been examining the process of reading, trying to find the actual origins of the act, and she loves comparing books to artifacts. Each of us is an archaeologist, digging through books to find truths, to find parts of humanity, to find evidence for our beliefs and to learn new concepts. It's uncovering layers of civilization, unearthing what has created our essence.

I can't listen to all this talk of history without wanting to experience it first hand. I've read for years. I've felt the sense of intimacy that comes with the written word. But there's something about going to the roots, sitting in silence, and letting that presence wash over you. Allowing the weight of humanity to rest on your shoulders. It's a kind of immersion that can't be replicated.

So take me to the birthplaces of humanity. Find where the first word was uttered, where the first stone placed on another. Lead me to caves where philosophy was born, smeared in symbols against the walls. Take me to my origins, so I can finally visualize my role in the grand scheme. So I can feel insignificant in the abyss of time, yet important with the vastness of future potential.

lost

2009-12-15T14:25:00.009-07:00

Currently looking for: motivation.

Seriously. I don't have any right now. It's the midst of finals, and none of mine are especially difficult or stressful. All I have to do is quickly write a review, study some adolescent development (yeah, it's as not exciting as it sounds), and I'm free. But what do I care?

I can't bring myself to work on anything. All I want to do is listen to Jimmy Cliff* and the Raconteurs, sleep, make donuts, sleep some more, and read books that aren't required for class.

Oh. And burn my copy of Jane Austen's Persuasion. But I've complained enough about that.

On a completely unrelated note, has anyone checked out the list of Golden Globe nominees? Wow, this awards season looks horrible. And I thought last year was bad. Avatar? Are you joking me? Remind me to completely over-hype all my projects from now on. Apparently that's the recipe for success. "But Professor, you don't understand. This paper has the greatest usage of semi-colons you've ever seen! These semi-colons will BLOW YOUR MIND. Just wait! We are talking about some seriously almost realistic semi-colons here!"

I blame winter for all of this. Take that how you will.

*Shout out to The Professor at Wounded Mosquito for this one.

RIP Weezer

2009-11-10T13:55:00.007-07:00

OK, it's time for me to weigh in on the new Weezer album. This is going to be tough, because I have something important to say.

I did not buy the new Weezer album.

It's just... I just... it was too soon after Red Album for me to really even think about Weezer, and then suddenly they have this new single out, and I couldn't ever listen to it all the way through, because it just made me sad that Weezer wasn't as awesome as they once were, and I know that makes me sound like one of those snobbish fans who think Pinkerton is the only good album, but you know what? People say that for a reason. Pinkerton and the Blue Album are legendary. There is not a bad track on them. And I'm not a purist. I'll listen to stuff from the others. I love songs from the others (especially "Keep Fishin'", "Burndt Jamb", and yes, "Hash Pipe").

But this album is different. It doesn't have the incredible Weezer aura surrounding it. It's too soon. It's too hip... or not hip enough. It's just trying so hard. And I can't get behind that.

Today, I was putting off writing a paper and decided to give Raditude a second look. As I gazed through song titles, I saw one I recognized. "Can't Stop Partying" was one of the best demos on Rivers Alone II, with this heart-breaking desperation that reminded me of why I love Rivers Cuomo. So I decided to give the official album version a try. And it destroyed my spirit. It jumped on my heart with German hiking cleats. How could they take a song that was so perfect in it's faults, notable because it was those typical rap lyrics but with a film of melancholy, and make it into such RUBBISH. A rap interlude by Lil Wayne? What is this?

I am not completely abandoning Weezer. They are part of my soul. I will always listen to them, and I will always love them. But as far as new material comes, I have left the building. No longer will I hope for a perfect return to form, no longer will I overlook the missteps on albums.

Our affair is everlasting Weerez, but now it's history, a past I will always look back on with fondness.

Vampire Week-ed Out

2009-11-02T22:36:00.009-07:00

Whew. That was quite a Halloween season, wasn't it?

Let's just all nod our heads in agreement here. Deal? Deal.

Anyways, I can firmly say that I had one of the most SPOOK-TACULAR Octobers ever. I enjoyed pumpkin flavored oddities, fall foliage, and a wide array of scary movies. Oh, the scary movies.

That last week of October was spent glorifying in so many Vampire Movies (or Vampyre, whatever your leanings are) that I am thoroughly vampired out. Sucked dry, if you will. Yes, I went there. I was so busy observing bloodsucking fiends that I didn't have time to watch 28 Days Later, and if you've seen that movie you know what a travesty that is. It's a true one. A true travesty. Why can't the undead get along? Necks, brains, it's all part of the same human prey. Amiright?

Here's a quick rundown of all the movies I've seen in the past week. I think. It's all a blur... where am I?

*Nosferatu, a Symphony of Horror, 1922
Silent, classic, golden, with an incredibly creepy ratface that moves slowly and makes shadows menacing. What's not to love? Unless the silent aesthetic gets to you. You uncultured philistine. All I'm saying.

*The Vampyr, 1932
Another one that's not silent, but definitely has the same feel. German, expressionistic, and containing some freakishly cool images in the form of child shadows that move on their own and an out-of-body experience that's chilling. The only downside: it's a little over my head. As in, I had to Wikipedia it after to see what the plot was.

*Let the Right One In, 2008
I think this was the best one I saw. Maybe because it wasn't the typical Dracula plot, but also because it was amazing. It did things with vampires I'd never even thought of. A Swedish film that features lonely 12 year olds and focuses on the difficulty of making and forming relationships, with some gory mayhem thrown in. I jumped, I cringed, I laughed, I covered my eyes, I sat there stunned, and I decided to never ever go to Sweden. Ever.

*Shadow of the Vampire, 2000
Very very interesting. It goes behind the filming of the orginal Nosferatu, but with the theory that Max Schreck is a real vampire that Murnau hired in exchange for sacrificing the lead actress. The cast is stellar, and the parts where they recreate scenes from the original are fascinating. I just couldn't get behind this as much as I wanted. A solid meh. If that.

*Dracula, 2006
A random DVD from my roommate, featuring a Dracula musical in French with no subtitles. So needless to say, I didn't understand any of it. BUT. I knew the story. And the set was crazy cool. And the music was actually decent, with more rock opera than your typical musical score.

*Nosferatu the Vampyr, 1979
Remake of the original that keeps the same feel, buts actually adds more and enhances it. The plague scenes are a definite win, Klaus Kinski may or may not be haunting my nightmares (and walking suddenly into frame), and Werner Herzog shoots the best nature scenes of all time. OF ALL TIME.

You have consumed me, body and soul.... with HATRED

2009-10-05T22:42:00.006-06:00

I think it's about time for me to step out of the literary closet, so to speak.

For me to reveal something my close friends and family know, but it's gotten so out of control that I want to open up to the entire world.

I am about to say something that will cause some of you to judge me, some to hate me, and some to call me a heathen sinner and never speak to me again. This is worth it, just to relieve myself of the burden I've been carrying for years. I need to come clean. It's time.

I hate Jane Austen.

That's right. All you girls, you better click off now. Run away to some happy blog that quotes Pride and Prejudice every five sentences and compares every male to Mr. Darcy. I don't care. I don't need your desperate pleas defending her writing, describing how she makes you believe in love (to which I say, PSHAW), how she stands as an inspiration for women authors everywhere. I don't want to hear it.

I hate her. This is a deep, lasting, forever kind of hatred. There is no grudge here. It's a vendetta, a lifelong disdain for her works and her self.

Right now, I am at the point where if I could go back in time and kill one person from history, Hitler, Judas, and Nero can rest easy. Live on to be horrible another day. Believe me, if I was killing two persons from history, I'd keep one eye open, but for now you all are safe. Because I would target Austen and her snobbish, restricted class fluff pieces.

I don't care if Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy ever get together. They'd probably both grow a lot more as people if they didn't. And I don't care about Emma and her match-making. She should have stopped being silly and realized what was there the whole time. It's her own fault. And don't even get me started on Anne Elliott and Captain Wentworth. Newflash: you are both idiots who allow society to pressure you, and, quite frankly, only have yourselves to blame for years of unhappiness. If either of you had an ounce of confidence and assurity, this novel would never have happened. And I would be a lot happier. It would have led to the salvation of many souls, as girls realized that sort of behavior is not acceptable in real life, and that's why they are still alone, eating chocolate and watching BBC movies in their dorm room. Get out and actually interact with real people, instead of swooning over men in high-waisted pants and frilly shirts. No one pulls those off anymore. There is a reason that is not the fashion. If you saw a guy with a cravat, you would run away from him, not towards him. Rant rant. Rave rave. And etc.

And I refuse to believe that any merit to be found in her books cannot be found in spades in other tomes. Ever heard of the Bronte sisters? Woman empowerment that is actually empowering. And has depth. I know. Gasp. But look at Wuthering Heights. It tackles racial issues, class structures, whether man is inherantly evil or just a product of environment, AND it includes a very funny bit with a dog! What more do you want? Romance? There are lovers that are driven literally mad for each other. Or is that type of devotion too much for you? Because it is so much more realistic than anything in your silly little Austen books. But go on. Carry on with your "he's rich and prideful and I want nothing to do with him so we will fall madly in love". Good luck with that. Call me when that tactic works.

Come on girls. How many of you really just like Jane Austen because you are expected to? I mean, seriously. Colin Firth is not really attractive. Not even as Mr. Darcy. It's kind of horrible acting, to be honest.

I guess the real point of this is, does anyone want to write my multiple papers on Persuasion? Because it's causing serious harm to my sanity.

So It Begins...

2009-09-03T22:05:00.004-06:00

I was going to write about having my first teaching nightmare. But because I am becoming a teacher, I have no time. Obviously.

Ugh. Welcome to my life.

Still, I will share two things that are making me really happy.

This:

Two Weeks - Grizzly Bear from Gabe Askew on Vimeo.

And this. (Extra Credit: this).

Chirp

2009-08-22T22:51:00.000-06:00

Tonight was one of those ideal summer nights.

The kind of night where you sit on the front porch, relishing the warm air and the darkness surrounding you and the rising sound of crickets.

I love the crickets.

And you sit there and realize that you are experiencing perfect happiness. Until you notice that the widow across the street is totally spying on you through her blinds. But even that can't bring you down, so you just smile and laugh at the fact that your neighbors watch your every move, and soon you're going back to school so they'll have to find a new subject.

As far as days go, today was pretty swell. I love it when things turn out better than you expect.

So here's to new apartments, Batman, a chef named Joe Hicks that makes BLTs with "mother loving", my apparent inner Jew, smirking, the ever-delicious hot dog, Miniature Tigers, Pavarotti, and blackberries.

Now all I need is a snow cone, and I'll call Summer '09 a roaring success.

L'il Nothing

2009-08-20T07:59:00.000-06:00

Last night, I made cupcakes whilst listening to Jimi Hendrix.

It's moments like those that make me realize I'd make the most kick-A mother ever.

Also: less than 24 hours until it's just me and Sam Beam's beard.

Art Vandelay, Inc.

2009-07-31T23:43:00.000-06:00

It's official.

Architecture is now the sexiest profession.

It was bound to happen. So I'm sorry all you poets, journalists, rock stars, carpenters, rebels-without-causes and doctors out there. But there was a reason the estimable George Costanza proclaimed "architect" as his non-existent employment. It's just super hot.

We had to know this was coming with Ted Mosby. His optimistic view of love and desire to "settle down" combined with humor and sensitivity (but not total wussiness) made him a heartthrob to all, even hardened cynics like certain characters named Robin. And the only job capable of handling so much attractiveness? Architect.

But what guaranteed the win? Tom Hansen. The dreamy romantic from 500 Days of Summer will have every girl swoon as they fervently wish to console his wounded heart. And of course, architect is the only work that could show Tom as an observant, creative, but with a possibility to be succesful in a career, artist. That's what it comes down to. The perfect marriage of tortured artist with successful business sense. Whimsy and the ability to provide a level of comfort in the future. What more could we want, ladies?

So students of architecture, prepare. You are about to get so much action. You won't know what to do with yourselves as waifish hipsters cast seductive looks in your direction. Just throw on a cardigan and go with the flow, and don't say I didn't warn you.

Those Awful Normals

2009-07-28T23:44:00.001-06:00

Tonight, I watched this movie:

It was ... ... interesting. I don't know if I'd recommend it to everybody. Actually, I'm not even sure I liked it. At least, not the traditional definition of "like". It would be more accurate to say it fascinated/terrified/intrigued me. It was one of those movies that enters your brain slowly, wriggling in through your ear and through layers of conscious thought until it hits the innermost psyche, until it feeds on every fear and doubt and insecurity and philosophy you hold.

That sounded dramatic.

The thing is, every character resonated with me. Near the beginning I saw myself as a child, identified with the imaginative worlds and fantasies. Then came the drama teacher, and she encapsulated everything I hope to be as an adult and an educator (one of the shortcomings of the film is how grossly underused she was). But even as I watched, I convinced myself that I could never be that way, that I have too much doubt brought on by social and self pressure. Can I ever really accept myself, can I ever "see myself for who I am"?

And Phoebe's mother. Ugh. Even as I hoped to imitate one person, I saw my future, far less pleasant, in another. There is one part where the mom breaks down and lists the angers and concerns she has. I want so badly to not be like that when I've reached that point, but I feel like I will, that I'll age into a haunted shell.

So I sat there through the movie, these agonizingly egotistical worries crushing me, compounded by the onscreen drama. Then came the end, which I found strangely comforting.

WARNING. SLIGHT SPOILERS.

Part of the climax deals with an absence of hope. Hope is such an odd, elusive thing. With most definitions, it goes hand in hand with faith. While I was hiking with some family/friends last week, we discussed the commonly held belief that you can't have fear when you have faith (slash hope). We all agreed that principle was baloney. Hogwash. Utter false doctrine. If there is an opposition in all things, then fear is not only going to be a part of our lives, but it is a necessity.

Right now I'm reading Mormon Scientist, the biography of Henry Eyring (not to be confused with son Henry B.) (also, this is a great book, especially for Mormon intellectuals). One section deals with the fear that accompanied and aided Henry's life. Henry managed by not having "fearfulness, but rather respect for powerful forces and inevitable consequences." When used that way, fear quite naturally runs to a confidence in ones self, an assurance that we will be able to handle what comes our way, regardless.

Bringing this back to the movie, Pheobe in Wonderland finishes in the most glorious way I could imagine. Using quotations from the book, it ends with a hanging question, leaving it open for the audience. It asks, quite literally, "who are you"? We all have misgivings about ourselves. There will be times when we aren't satisfied with what we have to offer the world, and that could tempt us to never try and to hide away in mediocrity. But if negativity is faced straight on, victory is possible. We can overcome challenges. We can more than accept the person we are, we can gain self-reliance through the process of unwavering trust in our own self.

Set You Free

2009-07-17T00:00:00.000-06:00

OK, so seeing the Black Keys live is going down in history as one of the greatest concerts ever.

It's such a relief after last week's disappointment with Jenny Lewis (she was fantastic, the crowd and my view was not) to go to the Gallivan Center and enjoy the experience. Yes, the audience was still full of self-important hipsters, but this time with some rowdy rock fans. And yes, everything still smelt like beer, smoke, and B.O., but when you're in the FRONT ROW, who cares?

That's right. Through some miracle, my friend Paige and I ended up in the front against the barrier, just to the right of center. Which was the best luck ever, as we probably would have died where we stood for the opening act. Let's just say personal space was non-existent, and that is no exaggeration. But never before have I been so happy, even while I was incapable of moving my arms. As I shook my hips and banged my head in time with the music, it was pure joy.

Blues rock is my ultimate. It's so full of emotion, so full of passion, and these two men wailed. Patrick on drums was a wonder; he just goes into this zone and creates this glorious cacophony that fills the air with clashing and pounding and rhythm. But when Dan touched the strings of his guitar, my face melted. I was a puddle, liquefied by his outstanding riffs. Being close enough to see his hands move up and down the neck, bending and twisting notes and banging out chords is a highlight of my life. As are the many moments where he came right in front of us and we shared brief eye contact as he blasted through a solo, leaning so close I could almost touch his guitar.

I'm pretty sure I just killed my body, what with the trials of standing that long and enduring the massive crunch of the crowd (major shout out to the guys behind us who protected Paige and me from the worst of it), but it was ABSOLUTELY worth it.

Now please excuse me while I pass out from exhaustion.

Epic.

Why Do We Love? Because We Can.

2009-07-15T23:29:00.001-06:00

Do you believe in love at first sight?

When it comes to people, I definitely, definitely do not. Call me cynical and jaded, but that magical moment where time slows and lights dim, and you stare at each other across a crowded dance floor does NOT exist.

But when we're talking about other things, such as, oh I don't know, TV shows, I say "love at first sight? Affirmative!"

The miracle of getting hooked on a program from the first episode has only occurred a handful of times in my life. Most shows take two or three weeks to hit a groove, or an entire season to figure out just who the characters are and why we as an audience should care about what is going on. My first memory of watching a pilot and falling head over heels was with Psych. Shawn's hi-jinks and fast-talking ways, the rapport between him and Gus, everything combined perfectly to pull me in. It was comedy, it was mystery, it was intrigue with a healthy dose of obsolete pop culture references. Who wouldn't love it?

Some time after that I discovered the genius that is Bryan Fuller. This man has yet to create a
show I won't watch. Each of his sadly short-lived series is a gem of quirkiness, of philosophy and smart dialogue, with ideal amounts of sweet and sass. While my love for him extends to TV long ago canceled, his latest (and possibly greatest. I haven't decided yet.) accomplishment recently aired it's finale. The loss of Pushing Daisies still smarts, and ABC must fry for the heinous mishandling of this pinnacle of entertainment. Daisies was intelligent, whimsical, and surprisingly fun for a show involving death. It was truly inventive, a rare original in the wasteland of cop shows and reality TV. The creativity of the team behind it never lagged, but they stayed true to the viewer, boldly working to create a story so heart-breaking and strange, unbelievable and enchanting that I couldn't help but fall in love. Totally, committedly in love. And then the Network Powers That Be decided a spinoff of Grey's Anatomy was more important, and axed the highlight of my television week. I just watched the last show, and it was painful to see something so good try and wrap things up quite clearly before it was supposed to. The hastily tacked on final ending almost made me cry. Pushing Daisies, I miss you.

But moving on is an important step in any heartbreak, and while nothing will replace Daisies, I will love again. And have already. I'd like to introduce you to a little show called Glee.

The commercials for this new show, airing on Fox come fall, piqued my interest. And after watching the premiere, I can say with confidence that Glee has gained a new fan. It's good for: people who have participated in show choirs, Utah residents (sorry, that was redundant), people with a good sense of humor, anyone who has lived through the awkwardness of high school, future teachers, and you.

Check it out on Hulu. Click that link. If you regret it, I'm sorry. And we are no longer friends.

Ouch

2009-07-12T20:25:00.001-06:00

Apparently I'm a "hot-tempered hussy".

Yeah. Thanks Mom.

Following those Country Roads

2009-07-07T21:35:00.000-06:00

Well, it's official. I am home... whatever that means. By that, I mean I am back in Utah. It's odd. Yesterday, as I sat on the airplane, curled up in some absurd position to avoid the steady stream of cold air rushing in from the emergency exit door that was my seat mate, I looked through the window at the Rockies for the first time in over two months.

Europe was such a big part of my life, but as I cruised around SLC today I felt as if no time had passed. The trip was a dream, and the last thing I remembered was standing outside of that teppanyaki restaurant in the rain, wondering what was in store for me. That sounded lame. This is why tired posts should never be allowed. Which I almost spelt "aloud". I thought you might like to know that. I think I'll give up on the retrospective now.

Summer has officially started, my first real summer since 2006, and I am out of my mind excited. Freedom! No school! No required papers! I can write anything I want and read any book I choose when I choose! Is this Heaven? Quite possibly.

Like the organized dreamer I am, I have already written a list of things I want to do this summer, a list that I will now share with you, my lovely blog audience. I am doing this for two reasons. A: I have nothing else to write about, and creativity is so last week, and B: so that if I run into one of you, dear cyber friends, we will have something to talk about. As in, you will ask me about these and I will feel pride if I have done it and shame if I have not. The basic principle.

Things To Do, This Summer, Part 1A:

-Practice the guitar and become a blues goddess.
-Cook often, with emphasis on artisan breads and pastries.
-Finish all those books I've started, including the rest of the Border Trilogy, Executioner's Song, and House of Seven Gables, along with just reading a lot in general.
-Get a bike at DI. Use it.
-Go to every concert at the Gallivan Center.
-See 500 Days of Summer, along with many Broadway film offerings.
-Flesh out all of those essays I've outlined in my notebook, and to write more creative pieces.
-Get efficient at playing the organ.
-Watch that documentary on the Vietnam War, try to talk to father about it.
-Clean my closet.
-Get a JOB.

A European Explosion

2009-06-29T09:42:00.000-06:00

Prepare yourself. Here comes a completely random, thrown at the screen rundown of all the odd, slightly blog worthy thoughts I have had over the past two or three weeks. WARNING: this post contains a great amount of text, with no pictures whatsoever. This should be an adventure.

Mini blog A: Wherein Rick Steves is God

So, traveling with two older ladies has been a vast, VAST change from bombing around the UK with 30 kids my age. I have never been so resistant to something in my life, but sadly my easy adaptability won out. I found myself quoting Rick Steves opinion at every landmark, treated his guidebooks like the Bible, and exhaled "how lovely!" at every brightly colored apartment building and sparse field of wildflowers. Following my mother and aunts example, I fed "scenery into a hungry, one-eyed camera eager to eat the world one monument at a time" (I've been listening to Billy Collins poetry lately. Check out "Consolation"), snapping artsy pictures of lamposts and skylines, churches framed by tree branches and details of statuary. I did resist the 9:30 bedtime, but I still went to sleep far earlier than the 3-7 schedule of London.

Mini blog B: My Soundtrack*

I listen to music far too often, and some songs work to define parts of my life. Drama class in junior year? "Don't Bring Me Down" summons memories of crouching in the wings of the stage, bobbing my head and worrying about the latest scandal with the choir kids before I left that behind me forever. Summer of freshman year? Walking across campus like a gangsta, cruising to "Seven Nation Army". OK, this walk down memory lane was not the purpose of this segment. I swear. What I really meant to talk about was the songs I've had on repeat the past few days, the songs that have embodied my post-London self.

1. West Coast, by Coconut Records.
All right, guy I kind of sort of dated but not really February aught eight. I owe you a big thank you for all those mix CDs. I didn't give them enough attention, missing little jewels like this song I didn't even know I had. I'm sorry I wasn't responsive to your wooing, but you're married now so you probably don't care. Still, thanks for the great tunes.

I played this song over and over the last week of my study abroad. Even though I wasn't heading back to the states, I still identified with leaving places and people I loved, friendships that would never be the same and the desire to take it all with you. And the fact that it's the awkward kid from Rushmore singing to me makes it even more special and bittersweet. Somehow. Don't ask me how that works. Also, the line "rains a lot this time of year" fit perfectly into the theme of my actual travels, which leads us to ...

2. Why Does it Always Rain on Me?, by Travis.
Major kudos to Kate for gifting me this awesome Brit band right before I left, and then to my buddy Grant for noticing them on itunes and giving me this particular beauty. Along with being yet another angsty, reflective song about the past, this quite literally described my trip. No joke, after the third day of traveling every, single, place we went to was cloudy and hazy and then rained at least once. This proved a saving grace in the oppressive heat of Italy, but grey skies make for some tricky, monotonous pictures.

3. So So, by Gary Go
Ladies and gentlemen, this is THE SONG. It is me the week after the program ended. It is the way I felt, wrapped up in one glorious feat of lyricism. Basically, each line expresses the emotions I was dealing with, the sense of loss and growth that I experienced. And have I mentioned how magnificently angsty it is? All of these songs made me so "emo", even though I prefer the term ruminative. Yes, that's it. They made me contemplative and reminiscent, as I was transported to a time, not too far off, that I missed. And Gary Go himself was such a part of my London adventure. From running around town looking for music stores to buy his album, to playing it on Allison's laptop and dozing off in a Stratford guest room with a gaggle of girls, to sharing it with members of the group, Gary Go was the quintessential English music find, and So So is the ultimate in London nostalgia. "Take me back to the London Town, when it felt good to be around..."

Mini blog C: Spew, a.k.a., Random Observations from the Road

When you are in the Italian countryside, the air tastes like wheat and sun-dried tomatoes and you almost fall in love. And then you get to the city, where the air tastes like garbage and acrid cigarette smoke that makes you miss English tobacco, and then you almost vomit.

Clouds that wisp like sulfuric steam rising from Roman baths of old are pretty neat.

Absence does not make the heart grow fonder.

Italian men are an even bigger letdown than the British accent's aphrodisiac power. Hint: ear piercings aren't as cool as you think they are.

Venice manufactures romance like it's cheap insulation, but you still fall for it.

You never know who you will run into and where. And how you will look when you run into them. And when that time comes, you will always regret not taking a shower that morning.

Germans are definitely not Nazis anymore, and are in fact quite warm and hospitable. And make freaking amazing food.

What is it about countries where they speak a different language that suddenly makes you want to eavesdrop on every conversation you hear?

*From now on, I've decided every song I mention on this blog can be found on the playlist to the right (with certain exceptions, like Gary Go, which is not on playlist.com but you should look him up anyway). Important ones will be near the top, but all should be found by browsing, along with several other great tunes that help me survive at work. Enjoy!

A Major Issue

2009-06-08T17:40:00.000-06:00

So this study abroad has been dominated by two groups: the English Majors and the Theatre Majors.

I hope you envisioned a West Side Story-style rumble right then. I know I sure did.

We don't really have a rivalry. Not a blatant one anyway. It's just been very easy to see the difference. I mean let's face it. In the immortal words of Batman, "it's what I do that defines me". And majors most definitely define people.

Think about it. I say Information Systems. You think: person, slightly socially awkward but not too bad, really good at fixing your computer but will most likely judge you for not using your machine to it's fullest capacity. Or MFHD majors: yeah, they're here to get married.

It makes perfect sense. Different personality types are attracted to different careers. And this is oh-so-evident when you are living and traveling and spending every waking moment with a very select group of people.

Let's just say, it's very interesting/hilarious to see the English and the Theatre people interact. They are like two cultures, circling each other, with wary eyes and distrusting demeanor. I expect to hear the tribal drums any second now.

Only a few more days in London. I don't really want to think about it. This place has been incredible. Woah. Get ready. Here comes a change in tone. This place has been ... dare I say life-changing? That feels a little bold, but I think it's accurate. The atmosphere just suits me so well. In London, everything is busy, but not in an overwhelming way like big cities in the States. It has this gravity gifted by history, by a knowledge that the building you just walked past is guraanteed to be at least a century older than our entire country. And it only gets better when you leave London and venture into the countryside, see the green and yellow hills and smell the air, air you couldn't believe could taste so fresh.

They sell a T-shirt in those hole souvenier shops that says "Good girls go to heaven, bad girls go to London". I chuckle a little at it, but realize how misguided it is. London is heaven, one and the same.

WIZARD! YOU SHALL NOT PASS!

2009-05-30T02:03:00.000-06:00

Sir Ian, Sir Ian, Sir Ian.

Bonus points to people who get that reference. And no, it isn't Lord of the Rings.

So I continued my rampage of getting famous people's autographs. Let's just say I might have a promising career as a paparazzo, judging solely by the lack of shame I feel holding a camera in celebrities faces and not by the photographic quality.

I saw Waiting for Godot this week, and first off can I say that absurdist theatre is fascinating? It's tough not to try to apply symbolism to every little line, and in some ways that's part of the fun, but the pure nonsense that is absurdism is glorious. Godot in particular was just so fun to see.

This version starred Patrick Stewart (!!!) and Sir Ian McKellan (!!!!!!!!!!!!), and I don't know what to say. It's incredible how spry and coordinated Sir Ian is. He can jig with the best of them. I think he and Patrick should be best friends, they just played off each other with impeccable comedic timing. And let's just say, Jim Dale has some serious competition when it comes to narrating my life. Patrick Stewart's dulcet tones would perfectly accompany my actions. "As Cat walked down the street, she was suddenly struck with how beautiful life is, and how wonderful falafel would taste at that moment." Hmmm.

On a completely unrelated note, I've decided I want to live in Ireland.

Wolverine, I will punch you in the face.

2009-05-13T18:05:00.000-06:00

Seriously. No joke.

So the point of this post? If you value brain cells, don't see this:

You will regret it.

This particular cinematical experience made me want to claw my eyes out. I spent well over half the movie writhing in pain and smothering laughter. SO. BAD. If you want to see a movie full of death scenes that make you laugh out loud, shoddy special effects including claws that look like cartoons coming out of Wolverine's hands, and a script that is nothing but a long laundry list of cliches, this is the show for you. Honestly, every. Single. Word sounds like it's a sound byte taken from a particularly awful B-movie. Like so:
"You shouldn't have come back here!" "I had to stop you!" "I can't be stopped!" "What you're doing is wrong!" "What would you know! You're an animal. Be the animal you are!" "I'll never look back! I am more!"
*Cat bashing her head against the seat in front of her*
Ack. So much bad movie. Well, at least I have something in common with one of my heroes, Dr. Perry Cox from Scrubs. We both share an undying and completely justified hatred for Hugh Jackman. Hugh, you're officially On Notice.

But at least something marvelous happened the next day, as if Fate was officially apologizing for awful films. I went on A Magical Mystery Tour, walking around London and checking out prominent Beatles sites! Thank you Universe!

I think I salivated appropriately over everything. Our tour guide was competent, only missing a couple of stories I found imperative. Not telling the "rattle your jewelry" anecdote? Shameful! Anyway, a couple of highlights.

Paul McCartney's office (his is the one with the arched window):

3 Saville Row, location of the last rooftop performance:

The art gallery where John met Yoko (also where Peter Asher displayed his work, co-owned by Paul):

The pub where the Beatles frequently visited, also where Jimi Hendrix was discovered:

And of course, the penultimate moment of the tour, Abbey Road Studios and ABBEY ROAD!!!:

I can die happy.

Dizzy With Absolutely Random Happiness

2009-05-06T06:47:00.000-06:00

I've been seeing plays like a mad man (insane person, not incredibly suave and hip business person). I haven't been this exposed to that culture for years, and I guess it's working for me. I enjoy it. Whatever. It sort of makes me miss it, miss the thrill of walking on stage, taking on something other than self, convincing an entire audience that there is no possible way you can be anything other than what you tell them you are, all while you are safe behind an invisible wall.

I really missed it last night, when I saw three days of rain at the Apollo. *TEASER* It stars James McAvoy. And with that bit o' information, hold on while I wax philosophic for the next couple paragraphs.

The play was fantastic. It was technically brilliant, using a relatively sparse set design that served as the perfect space to inhabit two ages, both the modern day and 1960. But it was the lighting that carried me away. The action was all set within a loft type apartment, with huge windows completely making up one side. They shone light through those in such a way that it looked utterly natural, which is some tough stuff. Very impressive. Along with that, the manipulation of the character's shadows were obviously examined closely, with their movements precisely located so that the size and location of shadow added to the plot perfectly. Beautiful!

And then there was the acting. The other two actors were fine, and held their own, but McAvoy was why people were there, and deservedly so. As Walker/Ned, he proved that he could navigate a stage just as well, if not better than, a movie set. His characters were so different, one tortured and possibly mad, plagued by self-doubt, and the other still possessing doubt, but doubt that came through a debilitating stutter and a quiet demeanor. Both were engrossing, and he was mesmerizing to watch. I got a little choked up at the end, and that does not happen to me.

And then I had the best fangirl moment ever. One of the girls in our group wanted to wait for McAvoy at the stage door, so we huddled and waited for him. We stood there with a huge group of the most polite, calm women you've ever seen. Even when he came out of the theatre, there was no pushing or shoving or that ever-annoying shrieking that usually accompanies these sorts of things. Just people courteously waiting for him to sign their ticket. Which he did, every single person's that was waiting. I love it when people are just as nice and adorable as you always hoped they were, and he lived up to expectations. In fact, we even talked a little while he was signing my ticket. Cue nostaligic memory music and cut to the script!

Me: I loved you in Macbeth.

James (in Scottish accent): Thanks. You might want to watch out where you say that name though, we are outside a theatre. (Gives a wry half smile, signs ticket)

Me: (swoons, but just a little) Oh sorry, I mean the Scottish play.

James: Technically the Scottish TV show. (hands me ticket, may or may not wink).

Cheers!

2009-05-03T17:10:00.001-06:00

I think that is my favorite English phrase so far. That and "no more getting your dongle out", but that's a different story for a different audience. Contact me if you want a more detailed version.

Things in cheery ol' London are going swimmingly. I've been fighting jet lag tooth and nail, allowing myself one morning of exhaustion before pushing myself to get out of the flat, rarely to return. It's working out pretty well. Five to six hours of sleep a night versus twelve hours of walking a day? Where do I sign?!?

Here's some words of wise thought from my British experience:

1. Chocolate is ruined for me forever. It's so much better here! Even though I'm not sure if that's reality speaking or my expectation that all British things are hip and mucho better than America. I expect the latter. I mean, NO. Chocolate is better! And there are many more Cadbury varieties. Mmmmmmm...

2. British accents don't automatically make a boy more attractive. I know. It came as a shock to me too. They might not be the automatic aphrodisiac I thought, but seriously, they sure do help. Just not always.

3. Diversity= Goodness. I went to my ward for the first time today, and it was AMAZING. Over 75% of the members are first generation and from Nigeria or someplace similar. I love being so close to new testimonies, where everyone is full of excitement and fervor. Smaller wards are my favorite. Plus, I want a black child with hugenormous rich brown eyes, like the three year old I flirted with during sacrament meeting. Sorry redheaded babies, you've been replaced.

4. Cliques are for losers and squares. The more people you know, the more people there are to mooch off of when the occasion requires it. See? You learn something new every day.

5. Nothing can compete with Shakespeare. Ever.

So go London! Or go to London. Come on. Everybody's doing it.

Losing It. Seriously.

2009-04-02T23:04:00.000-06:00

I will give a great amount of something, possibly money, to the person who can answer the following question. Why am I losing everything I own? And why is it that the things I lose are the things I love? I don't know if it's just me being extra-spacey or if there is a grand conspiracy out there trying to undermine my sanity (think "The Net" but on a slightly lesser scale). Honestly, I think I'm going crazy. That's got to be it. How else can you explain the gradual loss of my personal items?

The whole thing started last December, when I lost this:

My iPod, glorious in all it's 80 gigs of music. It was my world. As far as I know, I left it on the floor of the JSB while I was cramming for a test. I realized I didn't have it about a half-hour after leaving, but when I returned to my study spot, my dear iPod was gone. Despite daily visits to the lost & found, it was never recovered. My cheap nature has kept me from buying a replacement, and I've been making do with a 30 gig that doesn't hold all my music. It's not fun, but at least I have something. To the jerk who picked up my iPod and didn't turn it into the lost & found, I hope you get infected with boils. Shame on you! Stealing an iPod from the religion building? You are so going to Hell.

After this most debilitating blow, more and more of my precious doodads started to disappear. To date, I have lost countless pro-recycling buttons:

One super cool Batman button:
Two of my Andrew Bird pins that look similar to these:

My Beatles shirt from the 1964 concert:

And one kick-awesome scarf, featured here:

Funny story, I actually lost the scarf while I was running around campus after a dance lab, trying to find the pair of jeans I had brought to change into. I was positive that they'd been left on the floor in the Wilk, and stolen because they were freaking awesome jeans. The pants turned out to be folded up on the couch at my apartment. The scarf was not so lucky.

But each and every one of these losses caused great emotional trauma. Seriously, I couldn't sleep well, food was meaningless, and there was a gaping hole where I didn't feel complete. I think it's because I get way too attached to inanimate objects. Maybe it's because I have a tendency to name them (Examples: My iPod Ignatius VI, or my guitar Montgomery). Or possibly it's the fact that I didn't have many friends my age growing up, blah blah blah, and so I place a heightened sense of companionship on the things that surround me.

I think it's because what we own defines who we are. No, listen. The things we decide to buy are the most perfect indicators of personality. Why would we lay down hard-earned money for something that doesn't express some facet of self? Nothing better encapsulates our likes and dislikes, personal quirks and passions better than our possessions. So when I lose something I've bought, something that is a part of my life and past, it hurts. And I can't get over it. It's not like I'm losing meaningless trinkets. I'm losing me.

So do me a favor. If I'm with you and we leave a place, check for what I've left behind. Make sure I'm not leaving a trail of pocket change and accessories in my wake. Or if you see me on the verge of tears, my eyes frantically scoping the ground, just pat me on the back, look around for a couple seconds, and assure me it will be OK. I'll have plenty of chances for new experiences, experiences equal or better than the ones that I've lost.

UPDATE: The scarf has been returned to me. Honest people ROCK.

I've Got No Write

2009-03-12T20:52:00.000-06:00

So I had a great moment today. And by "great" I mean "it felt like my insides were forcibly removed through the navel, stomped on, and then shoved back in". Or perhaps "like my soul was ripped from my heart and rubbed against asphalt for a while, before being dipped all raw and oozing into boiling water".

I realized that I am not a writer.

That might sound dramatic, and rightfully so. But it came as a shock to me. There I was, preparing myself for another Thursday full of classes, my mind drifting. I was thinking about how tired I was, due to the sheer amount of YouTube videos I had watched the night before. This led me to consider just how much time I spent online, which led to my blog obsession, which led me to wonder whether there were any out there that I followed and hadn't checked recently. This led me to think about Emily Wing Smith, which in turn made me reflect on the last time I saw her, at her book signing in Barnes and Noble. How cool is it that I know a published author? And then I remembered that when she signed my copy of The Way He Lived she asked if I wrote, and I answered yes, and she wished me the best of luck in my own writing.

At that moment, I stopped what I was doing and stared at the wall in front of me. Because just then, I knew I had lied. I had given a gut answer that didn't hold true anymore, and that fact make me want to curl up on the couch and listen to Radiohead's "No Surprises" until there was nothing left of me but an empty shell, where all that remains is the chocolate outside of a Cadbury Caramel Egg, sucked void of all creative spark (embodied in this case by sweet caramel goodness).

I think this is my first large-scale identity crisis. My entire life, I was The Writer, capitalized and all. From kindergarten to 5th grade, whenever I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would stand up straight and say "I'm going to be an author!" with all the pride I could muster. True, back then it sounded more like "I'm gonna be an authoh" because I coulnd't say my r's, but the conviction I had was worth a thousand words. Even after I decided to be an English Teacher in 6th grade, it was just the paying gig, my service to humanity while I wrote on the side.

That dream is dead now. I haven't really written in years. I did take a Creative Writing class to try and reignite the flame, where I wrote a killer essay (man, can I write an essay, even if it is technically "creative non-fiction"), an acceptable poem, and one disgustingly mediocre short story. None of them had passion. None of them were artistic and beautiful, things that all writing should be. They were just words, and I was merely throwing more subpar material into the world.

This blog was partially meant to resuscitate my writing. But even within the casual confines of blogging, I've struggled to find a voice. It seems that you can't write well unless you know your style, and mine is still nowhere to be found. The tones of my past posts are erratic, and you can almost visualize my woebegone wanderings as I grasp at genre. Am I humorous? Am I a poet? Am I a deep thinker, with new observations about the world around me? Nope. I'm not even a journal blogger, with mundane specifics of my day.

So that's the question I vomit on the screen, my words as stinky and almost as worthy of disdain. Without being "a writer", can I write? Is there a glorious resurrection in the future for me and my work? And is that passion for the pen even still within me? If not, can I regain it?

They're trying to "Fix Me"... a.k.a. my lame attempt at a punny title involving a Coldplay song.

2009-03-11T13:39:00.000-06:00

This is my saving grace at work. I used to listen to Project Playlist, but I got so sick of the songs I picked. Change was needed. Something new and fresh was needed. And that something was Pandora.

Listening to Pandora is fantastic. It's almost what I imagine a honeymoon would be like, but with fresh music instead of fresh marriage. Right now in my life, I prefer the music. But that doesn't have anything to do with what I am trying to say, so moving on...

There's only one problem to this system. As you might know, Pandora creates "stations" based on a musical artist you choose, playing music by the artist and similar musicians. This is a perfect system if you want to find new things to love, but sometimes the all-knowing Pandora can shove music at you. Like what they're doing right now with Coldplay.

I know most people will hate me for this, but I'm lukewarm when it comes to Coldplay. I really like "Don't Panic", and I'll jam to a couple other songs, but I don't go all weak in the stomach when I hear their music. Before you organize an angry mob (*cough* Kelsey *cough* Kate *cough* Paige), know this: I do appreciate and recognize their contribution to modern music. They just don't fill me with unhibited joy and passion, and I'm OK with that.

But according to Pandora, I should be completely, utterly INFATUATED with Coldplay. They show up on every single station I listen to. My Andrew Bird station? Up pops "Green Eyes". Badly Drawn Boy? Even more. And on Ben Folds Five, Coldplay is seriously every other song, which really confuses me because I don't connect those two bands at all. And I haven't got the heart to click thumbs down, an action that feels like ultimate rejection. I don't dislike the songs, I'm just apathetic.

The only issue is variety. What a glorious word, representing all the beautiful choices and possibilities this world has to offer us. With variety, we can expand thought and create enlightened minds that think outside the box. With variety, we can accomplish more than anyone imagined. With variety, we can RULE THE WORLD. So come on Pandora. Expand your horizons and reach beyond the Coldplay universe.

Noble Beast

2009-02-26T22:56:00.001-07:00

This Wednesday I stood outside In the Venue for about an hour, patiently waiting with my awesome sister-in-law Kate to partake of a musical experience unlike any before. A musical experience known as Andrew Bird, a man who has changed the way I look at sound.

Right after seven we were ushered in, after being subjected to a quick frisking. Yeah... I'd rather not talk about it. But standing outside in the cold for an hour sure paid off when Kate and I scored spots right in front of the stage, complete with a handy barrier to lean on. Take that people who walked by us in line! You might be too hip for existence, but those squares near the front of the line hit pay dirt. Here's a little something to put it in perspective: we were less than then ten feet away from Andrew Bird. Is that heaven? I wouldn't be surprised.

The first highlight of the evening came with the opening band, which was blessedly the only opener. I'd heard of Loney Dear when a pseudo-friend gave some of their music to me a year or so ago. I listened and thought they were OK but nothing too special. They were just a another Death Cab rip off with whiny vocals and heavy back beats. Yeah, so I was very very wrong. Seeing a band live can completely change opinions, and Loney Dear proved their chops. The lead singer Emil Svanangen had a voice that floated above the earthy beats provided by a band with one killer percussion section. He really strutted his stuff on "Ignorant Boy, Beautiful Girl", where the audience sang a backup vocal lick while the band dropped out, leaving Svanangen to wail on the waves of sound we provided. You could tell he was having fun experimenting, and we were just thrilled to be along for the ride.

But nothing compares to Andrew Bird. Ever. I (falsely) pride myself on knowing my way around music. I think I can tell when a person is skilled or not, whether they have a firm understanding of how sound works. Bird is without a doubt the most talented musician I have ever seen. Not only is he insanely full of ability, but his imagination when it comes to music exceeds all others. It might sound like I am gushing all over the screen (and I am. Disgustingly so), but I can't even begin to tell you about how he manipulates tones to create the most unique and beautiful music I've had the pleasure to hear. The joy merely increases with lyrics that are way too smart for me but create poetical tongue twisters so thick and delicious you can swim in them.

The man himself was adorable, so tall and thin and gangly, exuding a delicately intelligent persona that matched his movements. He reminded me of that mythical liberal arts professor you have a crush on, with his long face and wide smile, hair flopping in dark wisps. But what was really impressive were his methods. As a multi-instrumentalist, Bird played violin and guitar, all while singing and whistling (something he elevates to an art form). To provide the right sound, he looped licks recorded at the beginning of each song, working pedals to produce the loops through what can only be described as gigantic gramophone horns placed onstage. He could smoothly transition from recording to immediately playing something new, backed up by what he had been doing seconds before, so seamlessly that you didn't even notice the change and wondered how one man could make such noise. The performance was something so extraordinary you really do have to see it to believe it. And I don't use that phrase lightly. It's astounding.

And the pure variety! Andrew Bird coaxes sounds from his instruments that are diverse and moving, capturing ghosts of other instruments. I was playing a song for my family, and my mom swore that she heard a bass and a banjo, when it was merely layers of violin. One of my favorite songs from the concert was "Effigy", where he starts with a mischievous plucking pattern on violin, going to more conventional playing that was rich and mysterious, looping those for a guitar pattern which he broke in the middle to play a folksy fiddle solo in the old Americana tradition.

Here's the thing: I love it when I go to concerts and feel embedded in sound. Most musicians try to do this by cranking up the volume so loud that you feel the rhythm, but lose the melody. Bird didn't need to resort to anything so cheap, instead covering you with such dense amounts of options that you get lost. The whole hour and half he played my entire being trembled, carried away by the transcendence of the music. Even Bird seemed to be swept up in the effect, as he appeared to be on a higher plane. Throughout several songs, like opener "Masterswarm", his eyes were closed as he moved his head to accentuate his work, only opening them to gaze above the crowd and into the distance, literally reaching out his hand to grasp what was presumably the sound that played beyond him. During "Plasticities" I'm pretty sure I had a moment of pure Nirvana. One of his ... gramophone things... was double headed (and accompanied by a sock monkey so cute that I will not rest until I own it) and could rotate at increasing speeds when activated. This managed to throw sound in circles around you, creating something otherworldly and exuberant.

When he closed after an encore of jazzy "Why" and upbeat "Fitz and the Dizzyspells", I didn't want it to be over. I had heard him expand songs I knew into new creations (like what he did with "Fake Palindromes" and an unrecognizable "Nomenclature"), been witness to a heady mix of jazz and blues and folk, all with a healthy dash of indie pop and improvisation. It was a concert I've been reliving in my mind every moment since it ended, and if that's not a sign of something wondrous I don't know what is. I've tried to include entertaining flippancy in this post, but I can't be light with things I love, and this music is worthy of love.

The Eighty One-th

2009-02-22T21:46:00.000-07:00

I wasn't that excited for this years Academy Awards, because let's face it. 2008 was a sucktastic year for movies. I hadn't seen most of the nominees, and none of them were surrounded by extremely positive buzz. It was mostly "pretty good" films in a sea of "astoundingly mediocre".

The Academy was definitely feeling the pressure, as seen by the amount of press they were putting into advertising this years "changes". Some were good, some were disappointing, and overall it was a solid meh. I watched to see Ledger win the first posthumous Oscar, and that's about it. But I did get caught up in some things. It's the movies. I dare you not to.

First off, Hugh Jackman. Oh Hugh. Yes, you are the sexiest man alive, according to a questionable magazine that apparantly has the last word on attraction. He wasn't bad as a host, managing to be at least as funny as the last Stewart run. I loved his confidence, especially in the first number where I laughed out loud at the milk carton Batpod, Anne Hathaway (yes! Don't judge. You chuckled at the potential Frost/Nixon forbidden love too), and the complete lack of anything pertinant to The Reader. His enthusiasm for song and dance got a tad old after a while, especially with the whole "musicals are back!" rigamarole. Once Zac Efron and Vanessa Hudgens got on stage, I was ready for a return to the old formula of showcasing the Best Song Nominees--sidenote, I really missed that part. I loved getting fully acquainted with the songs, and the mash up right before announcing the winner didn't do it for me.

But as long as we're talking about Zac and Vanessa, let's get to my main complaint about the 81st Annual Academy Awards. Where the crap were the freaking celebrities?!? It looked like the first row was packed with all the nominees, and the entire theater behind them was full of faceless extras, or sound and editing people. And most importantly, WHERE WAS JACK NICHOLSON????? It's just not an awards show without Jackie Boy sitting front row center, wearing those sunglasses that allow him to look both old man creepy and lecherously cool. I mean if it wasn't for a nomination, I bet Meryl Streep wouldn't even be there. The whole thing had a B-list feel that left me feeling dirty and cheap. I mean Zac and Vanessa? Miley Cyrus? Robert "Edward" Pattinson? Apparently teenage girls wrote the guest list. Please, kill me now. Even Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie looked more stiff and uncomfortable than usual. And that's saying something.

Also, my last complaint (maybe)... Sean Penn? Again? Hasn't the man won enough? We get it Sean. You're edgy, and outspoken, and take dangerous roles and pull them off. Bully for you. But I wanted it to be Mickey Rourke's turn. I don't really know why, but I was rooting for that man to win in the worst way. It's not like I've seen The Wrestler, or really have any intention of seeing it. But America loves a success story. Just look at Robert Downey Jr. We are estatic when someone makes a spectacular comeback, and man was Rourke's one for the ages. Plus, I really wanted to see a randy hobo pimp accept the Oscar. Please Academy? Couldn't you have done this one for me?

But the Awards were not without their charm. The majority of presenters was full of inspired groupings. I have a slight crush on Jack Black, and dug the easy way he and Jennifer Aniston (who is totally hot, even though she feels some need to validate that fact all the time) interacted. And the ever elegant Natalie Portman and Ben Stiller. Who doesn't a love a well placed Joaquin Phoenix jab? I know I sure do. And I secretly want Tina Fey and Steve Martin to run away together and make small bundles of hilarity. But the definite highlight was the montage set to Pineapple Express. I don't think I've laughed so hard at a contrived awards show sketch in my life. I almost died at James Franco's sudden thoughtful expression after the Milk kiss. And a lauded cinematographer saying "suck it"? Priceless.

Finally, a quick runthrough of the wins that brought me joy. When Wall-E won I nearly jumped out of my chair. I was so nervous about all the Kung-Fu Panda upset predections, and it's great to see that the Academy didn't deprive Pixar of an award they fully deserved, especially after the Best Picture snub. Also, I was fully expecting Gus van Sant to win for director, and LOVED it when Danny Boyle won instead. His films are always a little odd with plenty of quiet beauty (even when it involves running from Rage infected "zombies"), and I was pleased to see someone so beneath the radar take home the big prize. And then there's Kate Winslet, looking gorgeous and humble and honestly so pleased to receive this honor. I loved her speech, loved her dress, just loved her.

Still, this year was kind of a bummer, with no tense anticipation or real competition. The overall feel was apathy, and that does not make for a great Oscar show. But the previews for upcoming movies gave me hope for the 82nd Academy Awards. With Public Enemies, Up, Watchmen, and my personal favorite, 500 Days of Summer opening soon, there should actually be some shows worth watching this year. I can't wait.

Summer Lust

2009-02-15T19:27:00.000-07:00

I long to sit in grass

enveloped in green ... yes,
that's the right word.
Emerald, with three syllables
and proper vowels is too cloying.
Verdant is better, but still borders
on lengthy, that extra
step that sinks the foot of description
into the slushy gutter
of overkill.
No, I'll stick with
green.
Fresh and bright, pure
crayon and light. Bursting
through closed eyelids with
it's warmth and smell,
like the new cut grass
on which I wish to rest.

From the Desk of a Bored Office Worker

2009-02-06T15:20:00.000-07:00

Well, it's the casualist of casual Fridays here in the workplace. The main supervisor is gone for the day, so the minions can play. I suggested ordering pizza and having a dance party to celebrate, which I still think is a great idea, but no one else got on board. Some people have no sense of freedom.

Random thought #1: I kind of love being facebook friends with my oldest brother. We don't know each other at all, and now I'm discovering he is amazing. And listens to music I would never have expected. I'm loving the "rebel rocker" Chris. Thanks!

Random thought #2: Poets are endlessly inspiring. Today for the English Department Reading Series, Natasha Saje did a reading and WOW. I swear every poem expressed a thought I've had but could never express, and now there it was! Out in the open! Written in a wry manner that embraced allusions and mere word meanings to the greatest power possible! In other words, it's back baby. The poetry is calling me, so expect feeble attempts soon.

Random thought #3: Ugh. Never mind. I don't want to think about it.

Random thought #4: My new favorite saying? "This should be a Seinfeld episode". Uttered by an advisor after we had debated for a half hour over whether to ticket someone who had held a parking pass overtime, only to discover they had already turned it in. Classic.

Random thought #5: I've discovered the key to a incredibly great nights sleep. Listen to Glen Hansard as you drift off to dreamland and I swear on my still living mother's grave you will have the sweetest slumber in the world.

Random thought #6: This post doesn't have any substance whatsoever, but I am trying to write more, so there you go. And here's something for no reason.Have a great weekend!