Be Still My Soul

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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.