A Guilty Post-script...

So, you know how people have that little gadget thing on the side of their blog that has a handy little photo of the book they're reading? I wanted to make one. So I started. And then I realized that it would take up...soooo....much....space....

because as an English major and as a student who commutes at least 4 times a year on airplanes, I've started wayyyyy too many books.

So, here's what I'm reading right now. (Sans pictures, we'll chalk that up to laziness.)

A Good Man is Hard to Find- Flannery O'Connor. Given to me by my Hawaiian creative writing teacher, it's a spectacular collection of short stories.

The Hungry Ocean--Linda Greenlaw. Autobiography of a female swordfishing captain who captained the sister boat of the Andrea Gail, of "Perfect Storm" fame. Super interesting book, with too few technical drawings for those of us who aren't avid swordfishers.

The Count of Monte Cristo--Alexandre Dumas. It's been my airplane book for the past three years, and I think I just need to start over with it. Dang.

Breakfast of Champions--Kurt Vonnegut. As much as I love Vonnegut, I'm taking a moral pause on this one. I need a breather from him sometimes. But his writing is snapping and precise, like Fitzgerald. Mmmm.

To The Lighthouse--Virginia Woolf. Amazing, with more character depth than possibly any other book I've ever read. Also assigned for a British literature class, so I need to have it finished up before that final on Wednesday....

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man--James Joyce...also amazing. Also needs to be done by Wednesday. Dang.

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter--Carson McCullers. A personal favorite, it's so tastefully and powerfully written, sortof a mix of Barbara Kingsolver and "Winesburg, Ohio." I'm in the last 20 pages, and just need to finish 'er up, to cross it off the list.

The Book of Mormon--inspired prophets. Oldie but goody, I think. ;)

So. What's on your list?

This is What I Miss Sometimes

my family...

(all of them)

the white mountains



my parents, and their great sense of food

Ferry Beach, a 10 minute drive


But! This is what I have:

laughter! (and BEAUTIFUL women)

color!

bicycles!

and homemade ginger beer, among other things.


Oh life. :)

Memories of My Dad Coming to Me While in the LawBrary, Trying to Write A Paper

I remember chicken marabella and couscous that mom cooked, the way it rolled in it’s own light olive-colored sauce, the tiny bubbles of oil pooling at the bottom of the bowl as I lifted it to the dishwasher.

I remember cherry pie and mango ice cream, him twisting the ice cream maker’s handle with his large hands.

I remember his hands, with black hairy knuckles and broad, flat fingernails; how I used to play with them in church, try to stick my pudgy fingers into his cavernous palm before it closed on me.

I remember sitting in the yoga room (before it was even that, I guess) on the burnt orange couch, sitting there with a sketchbook in the evening, and seeing his sure, easy fingers draw the smoky outline of a face, a woman’s face, beautiful and definite. “You come from a line of beautiful women”, he told me there, while I sat staring in frustration at the page, an unhappy thirteen year old. “Let me tell you about yourself. You’ve got your mothers lips, big and full, and that’s a good thing, although you may not think that now.” and he drew them there, a curving, gentle line with a smoky dark shadow under it. I stared at the page. He smiled as he drew. “You’ve had your mom’s lips since the day you were born, and you’re lucky.” And I thought of a picture of me, maybe three months old, clutching a tiny teddy bear and puffing out my lips, wide eyed and whispy haired. (I feel that way now, sometimes, just sitting and clutching and staring, adjusting in my body, knowing my own skin and eyes, sitting breathless in my own life.) “And,” he said, “you’ve got your grandmother’s hair. My mom.” I winced a little, running a hand over my frizzy splitting ponytail and wishing that I had inherited something a little less unruly. His voice changed for a moment, thinking, not talking to me anymore. “Your grandmother was a beautiful woman.” I thought about her, hunched and a bit paunchy now, generally looking stressed. Carma. I hardly know her, I wonder sadly, Grandma Carma. I thought of her name, Carma Carma Carma. What a beautiful name, I thought. I wish dad had a photograph of her when she was young, like a wedding picture. I imagined Carma with brown, curling hair, still short, but very thin, like all the girls of the 50’s. Maybe she wasn’t like this at all, I didn’t know though, so I let her name and Dad’s thoughtful description whisk me away, while he sketched.

“Carma Carma Carma.” I remember this.

If I Ran The Zoo...

A few days ago, one of my friends asked me why I was taking German. I shuffled through the various reasons:

• because I've heard too many lame jokes about choking on your food and being mistaken for speaking German
  
• because after three years of Latin in High School, I didn't feel up for another romance language, but wasn't quite ready to commit to hours of meticulous scratching over kanji or Chinese script during my first semester of college
• because Germany and Austria sounded completely bomber places to visit
• because it wasn't Spanish, which somehow seemed so boring (and now, I envy the pure range of communication that any Spanish speaker has, just the functionality of being able to speak with so many people in America...unfortunately, there aren't that many Germans wandering the Utah highways, asking for directions...)

and then suddenly, I realized why:

Because when I take over the world, I'll be able to communicate with the most organized and technical people on Earth, who have already had some decent experience with world domination.
Bingo.

And then my friend reminded me that with my background in Latin, I'll have both the Germans AND the Romans behind me. Alll RIGHT.

(Mostly) all joking aside, though, what would I do if I ran the Zoo? A few thoughts:

• have more art and music taught in schools
• abolish billboards
• bigger libraries, with higher paid librarians
• more funding for the UN
• tax breaks for people who recycle, and for people who bike to work
  
• frisbee more popular than football
• start breaking down the military-industrial complex
  
• more cobblestoned streets
• un-invent drugs. (...unfortunately, this is a very hypothetical world...)
  
• have mango trees in my backyard
  
• more bike racks
• lower the prices of: climbing shoes, ice cream, hand lotion, tie-dye kits and laundromats
• more stores closed on Sundays
• no torture, ever.
• give funding for free concerts in the summer
• live in a place where the Wasatch Front meets the North Atlantic Ocean
• more local businesses!
  
• lose the drug taboo on dreds
• be able to slackline/hang hammocks on BYU campus

• and, as a shout out to the newly Oscar-ed Ms. Bullock: World Peace.

And what about YOU? What would YOU do if you ran the Zoo?

Which direction is YOUR duck facing?

Today in Sunday School, I heard an interesting idea. The young man teaching the class (which happened to be about love and communication within relationships) told a story about his friends, recently married and living in San Francisco. For their wedding, they received a traditional Korean gift (er, did I mention they were Korean? So the present wasn't as random as it sounds...)
The gift was two miniature ducks, carved from wood. The couple would place the ducks on a mantle or shelf, and used them as a weathervane for their relationship:

Ducks facing each other: all was well. No misunderstandings, no hurt feelings. He was using enough dishsoap in the washer, she was folding the towels right way, the dog was being fed, things were going smoothly.

However, a Duck facing away: trouble. Someone's hurt, upset, a little confused, feeling uncommunicated with. Maybe her back is sore today, maybe the radio was on too loud last night, maybe there were unkind words said in the car, maybe there was just a little problem with the tax receipts--but now, we're all aware of it, thanks to the unassuming, unbiased ducks, and now, it can be solved.


Strange? Maybe a little. Visual representations of personal conflicts are always a bit uncomfortable. But think of the genius: if I had my feelings hurt, but knew my (theoretical) husband was too busy to talk at the moment, how simple to sneak to the table and do a quick rearrangement of the Duck Creche, knowing that resolution would come quickly, at a better time for both of us. Also, ducks can't gaze in spite: no hurtful words would need to be said to initiate the issue, it could just be a simple conversation. ("Sooo, the ducks are fortelling a little conflict, hmmm?" "You look happy tonight sweetheart, but the ducks tell another story..." Heh.) But seriously, no emotional elephants lurking in the corners of the living room. And maybe, just looking at the two, unassuming animals gazing in opposite directions would be enough to soften my perspective. Interesting, how when I am forced to take physical (and not just verbal) action on my inner feelings, I tend to adjust them. Are the dishes left in the sink really worthy of a duck adjustment? Probably not.


So, I haven't scampered out to buy duck effigies yet, but I'm thinking about it! Until then, I'll just try to keep my duck facing in. :)

A Small Poem.

(Painting: Monk By The Sea, by Caspar David Friederich)

A monk by the sea,
A monk by the sea,
With his ponderous cloak
and back bent like a tree.
He peers through the mist
past the soft-spoken glee
of the wind-ruffled waves,
and he whispers his plea.
oh what does he see
as he stares out to sea?
Perhaps it's a vision of you
and of me.

Repentance and Thrice-Wrapped Scarves

Today, I ran into a good friend whose writing makes me drool (and whose blog you really must check out, called Word of Me, it's brilliant) and we talked about writing, Sherlock Holmes, Ghana, and blogging, among other things. And so I've decided to repent! And write more, just little pieces, to keep words fresh within myself.

So. Tonight, as I walked home from Spencer's apartment, (where I brought him a grapefruit and five dollars and returned with an original piece of artwork, a fortuitous exchange!) it was so cold that I wrapped my scarf around my neck three times (until I almost couldn't lower my chin without fear of cutting off my windpipe) and then once more, across my face. And then I sang all the way home, as loud as I wanted, all sneaky-like because the cars dashing by had only a smeared view of my eyes, forehead, and very shiny earrings before I disappeared again. My breath evaporated before me, slipping back into my face as I trotted homewards, back to muffins, a toasty afghan, and a good dose of literary analysis on "The Importance of Being Earnest." What strange breath of fortune tangles my hair on evenings like these.