A marble, a song, and a story.

Returning to one's blog, in order to begin afresh and find joy once again in the art and action or writing can be an interesting challenge. After all, I am accustomed to being of a witty disposition and a charming display of character in writing. Now, the problem becomes how to portray that once again when I am so very much out of practice. I admit that I wondered if I should open with a blatently bad pun, a horribly concieved joke, or a simple reference to a rather humorous situation, such as is common among those people who are in the dating phase of life.

But, in this case, I desist, because this blog is about the Christmas Spirit that is so much talked of.

I've heard that the Christmas Spirit can be defined as a lot of things. The pure love of a child, the accepting and giving feeling that comes from giving the perfect gifts to family and friends alike, the joy felt by so much sharing in music, the laughter of parties with friends and family, the happiness and peace of the time all are things that have been said to be the Spirit of Christmas. I discovered a little bit more of what Christmas is like, and I wanted to share it with as large a group as possible.

The story is really what portrays the Christmas Spirit, because it ties in the marble and the song. These past couple of weeks the Ogden LDS Institute performing groups have been preparing to present their christmas show, "Where Are You Christmas." The show is about a young mother who is trying to do a million and one things, and on top of that she decides to do a christmas pageant. She works hard at it, and eventually becomes discouraged, realizing that she has lost the true spirit of Christmas and the peace that Christ gives us. In a peaceful realisation she comes to know that Christ loves her, accepts her, and she finds once again the spirit of Christmas.

For this show I played the part of the rather frustrated husband who can't understand why his wife wants to do so much. It was a fun part, if only because I got to scream in frustration, and then have people laugh at me. It's a lot more fun to have people laugh at you then you think. Anyway, there is one scene where I'm carrying an exercise bike (so my 'wife' can do exercise during rehearsal of the christam pageant) and I set it down in frustration. During the last performance, though, a marble popped out of the handle of the exercise bike. I'd done this scene plenty of times before, and I've never had the marble experience, so I thought that was kind of random.

Part of the show is that there was a little kid who acted as our child. During the last perfomance, he bonked his head while playing around. Bonked it pretty good, too, because he had a monster goose egg afterward. However, he was pretty upset, and that's not that great. Turns out that he likes marbles. A lot. So I gave him the marble that had popped out of the exercise bike to play with. It calmed him down and distracted him from the pain.

And then came nearly the final scene, where Jennifer (my 'wife') sings to the Christ child in a nativity. It's a moving scene, and has always been a favorite of mine. The song is a mix between "Who is this Child" and "What Child is This." During that song, I realized that it wasn't so random that the marble had popped out of the bike. It popped out of the bike on precisely that night because Jesus, of who they were singing "This, This is Christ the King" loved that little boy, and wanted him to be happy. I contemplated on all the things that Christ has done to make me comfortable, and to forget pain, and I realized that that was the Spirit of Christmas. The very personal love of Christ in my life making me want to be a better person. More like Him.

And so, Merry Christmas to all! May the Spirit of Christmas find you this season.

The Problem

Once again we return to the subject at hand and heart. Okay, mostly heart, because that's the organ associated with feeling, and sometimes feelings are so interesting that they must be discussed to the most minute detail, that the things of life may be displayed in their true color. No, not pink, not black: yellow.

Actually, I thought I'd just share a little thought that I had. I've discovered my one and only problem with the love shared in fairy tales. I say fairy tales in general, because I can think of some exceptions to the idea that I'm about to present (Beauty and the Beast being one of them. I knew I liked that show for a reason), so it must be taken as a generic rule, with some specific exceptions. Indeed, it may be said that there will be disagreeing in the minds of many who meander along these words, with the same disinterested interest that one finds in a cat, interested in seeing where a bug will land. Ready for the kill, it waits, not interested in where the bug flies, but interested in where it will land.

Um, yeah.

The part of fairy tale love, the thing that is most difficult to get my head around, and in the end the thing that makes fairy tales not like real life is one thing, and one thing only. I personally think that certain types of people (and in many cases certain specific people) cross paths because of how happy they would make each other. I also think it entirely possible that these people would be attracted to each other at some stage. I also think that "happy ever after" is a distinct possibility, as long as it's understood that happily ever after is not a naive thing, and that anything that isn't naive feels pain at times, though in many cases these pains do not detract, indeed may add, to a deeper more genuine happiness.

So far, I believe in fairy tales. Here is the part that I am incapable of reconciling myself with. The idea of love as a force so powerful that it transcends agency. This idea of a love as almost an external force that drives men and women to do things that, quite frankly, they would ordinarily not do, is a little hard for me to swallow.

Case in point: what would have separated Cinderella from the other girls presented to Prince Charming that night? He had not spoken to her, had only had the chance to see Cinderella to make the decision that she was the one, over all the other girls. Now, I'm not a girl so I can't say this with total conviction, but I'm pretty sure that girls don't want a guy who is going to judge them purely on their looks. Because, if you don't think it was a looks based thing, then it had to be some sort of external force working on Mr. Charming. I have a hard time thinking that an external force could do that, transcend decision.

The problem in my mind is that the minute that the true love is found, the decision is made. There's no struggle. There's no inner battle between opposing forces, there's no decision made. I understand that some people actually make decisions in the moment, but it seems like most of the people who are like that go on making new decisions every minute. I think it would be tiring to be finding your one soul mate every other day. Just imagine how tired your singing voice would get. True love's kiss would definitely no longer be the most powerful force in the universe.

And here's a random question: If Giselle had kissed Prince Edward whiles still in Malaysia (or whatever the place was called), would it have been true love's kiss? Because if it wouldn't have been, does that make you nervous about the person you're dating right now? Imagine the implications for married people. But if it were, what would that say? Random, I know, but there you go.

Yeah, that's basically the problem that I say. Fairy tales in a general sense seem to hover around this idea of an external force that both transcends choice and circumstance (true love will always make the way in fairy tales. It's never actual people making the way).

Personally, I worry about the fact that I'm even taking the time to point out that actual love (real true love) isn't a chance thing. It's not something you win or receive, like the end of a betting routine. If that were true, I'd be worried. There's only one hero and one heroine that end up truly in love in the fairy tales, even though there's a lot of characters. Love is a choice, something you have to take a chance on. Something you have to decide.

We have to choose love? Spooky.

Happy Halloween!

Light

I wrote a poem today, and I liked it enough that I thought I would post it here, seeing as otherwise most of you would never see it. Once again, I enjoy it when people tell me what they think the poem is about, and if anyone guesses it right I'll tell you.

Light.

The colors are dancing,
The light reflecting and refracting
As playfully it meets the water
racing on, never retracting.

Cool and clean, the water leaps
from rock to rock, and sings
as he bounds along his way; his quiet
song the talk of bards and kings.

Rushing forward, he comes to a plain
of slow moving land, and feels
to come, nearly, to stopping, where time
moves so quietly it seems to steal.

A wooded glade, a nearly small pond
Where peace and quiet abound
and everything moves slowly,
even tranquility resounds.

The water, though, can't be content
to stay and stay in that glade;
For water still is never clean,
but with such a wait turns a nasty shade.

Passing by the dam
that slows the water so,
he accelerates, exhilarated
to once more easily flow.

He continues his race, being joined now
by other waters, who follow the same course;
gaining speed and strength, they rush on,
following the way without remorse.

A moment before the plunge,
when the path falls away to leave water free,
affected by glade, by rocks, by dam
water is what he is, while the whole path he can see.

The colors are dancing
the light reflecting and refracting;
as playfully it meets the water,
he continues on, never retracting.


As an addendum, I didn't pay particular attention to punctuation, grammar, or capitalization, and mostly just focused on the affect that I wanted the words to have, or the sort of feel that I wanted to give to the poem. I hope you enjoyed!

Socially Backward

Fridays. Or Saturdays. Fridays and Saturdays. People, we need to rethink this. In the culture that I'm used to, getting married to the right person is given as much stress, maybe even more, than getting a good education, good job, or even a good TV set. So, I've come to an interesting question.

Why the heck do we wait until the end of the week for to go on dates?

I can honestly say that by the end of the week I am exhausted. Not necessarily physically, because if I get the right amount of sleep I have about the same amount of physical energy every day, but mentally and emotionally I have had it by the weekend. I find myself yearning for quiet, for peace, and for a couple of hours just to think about the week. Now, if you take this exhaustion and add to it the fact that most serious social activity happens at the end of the week, when I'm already drained, I suddenly become somewhat of a socially backward person.

If you don't believe me, ask my friends who see me early on in the morning. In the morning I'm a bright, happy fellow who is chipper almost to the point of annoyance. However, come eleven o'clock at night I get very introverted, and I talk little. It's almost like a Jekyll and Hyde transformation, only I don't need drugs for it.

The same is true. Monday I'm bubbly and happy, but come Friday I just wander around, acting like my brain isn't really attached anymore and like I simply don't know what to do with myself. Emotionally, I'm spent.

It may be that this is just a phase, but I've been thinking: if during a date is when you're supposed to be getting to know people, it's not very fair that people are getting to know the Friday/Saturday me and not the Monday/Tuesday me. So, I've come up with a socially backwards plan for dating.

Why not have one day in the middle of the week off and one day at the beginning of the week? You know, like have Sunday off of work and school, and have Wednesday or Thursday off as well. That way you get one day at the end as well as one day in the middle.

I wonder if anyone will ever think about implementing my idea. . .

Just Because

Every once and awhile I need to hear this, and the only person who ever proffers it is myself. So, I'm going to say this right here and now for anyone who needs it.

Stop it! Okay, just stop!

That's it.

Cookies!

I found the cookies. Yep, that's right, nothing will keep me and my stomache from becoming one for quite awhile now. Actually, nothing will keep my stomache and me from becoming one for as long as the cookies last. Which turns out to be about five seconds ago. (As a side note, the spell checker says that stomache is spelled stomach, but that looks so weird to me that I'm going to leave it as it is).

Sigh.

It's interesting how fast things we take for granted disappear. I really was looking forward to having cookies tonight. My mom made these really amazing peanut butter chocolate bars that are always delicious, and I found them earlier on today, to my delight. You might ask "to what lengths is Major Bubbles willing to go to get his cookies?" I answer for you, willing to go the impenetrable darkness, the unbreakable security, the outright shockingness of the cookie jar. Works out well that way, because that's where my mom always puts the cookies (weird, huh?).

I'm in a slightly reflective mood (something that is not really that odd for me) about those cookies, and about my life in general. I've been super busy of late, as reflected in the amount of writing I've done. Between a play, choir, school, trying to work thirty hours a week (not doing well so far), and also trying to be a good friend, I have what I like to refer to as an excess of life. Being that busy makes it hard to just stop and think, but every once and awhile I get a gem of time to think. Normally my thoughts at those moments revolve around girls or relationships (whether they be of the romantic or not varieties), in varying states of annoyance, happiness, hope, and destitution. That's not the only think I have, though.

I also like to think about me. Oooh, so humble! Of course, I don't have any material to work with that's so quite immediate as myself, so I think it's excusable. Today I'm thinking about me and cookies.

I like to eat cookies from the cookie jar. One, that's where they're supposed to be. Two, every time I eat a cookie I see how many are left. Three, every time I want a cookie I have to get up from what I'm doing and physically go to the cookie jar (I've thought about coming up with a song about skipping to the cookie jar, or maybe the happy cookie song, but so far I've got nothing). Four, when the cookie jar is empty, the cookies are gone. I may be sad, but I know that they're gone, and for the majority of the times I don't go looking for more.

Right now I have a question. Are life's cookies found in a cookie jar?

Another great thing about cookies is that you have to learn early on that you can't shove 'um down your mouth as fast as you want to. I tried that at an early age and found out that the Heimlich is not as fun to have done to you as it is to say. Yeah, my limit is about two at a time. Okay, my limit is really only one, but I eat it so fast you might easily be fooled that it's really two.

Are life's cookies found in a cookie jar?

My favorite cookie is the chocolate chip oatmeal cookie. My goodness, you'd almost be willing to sell your soul for a batch of those. My mom knows that they're my favorite, so she almost always makes an extra batch, because she knows how fast I go through them. I once ate fifteen (or more, I don't remember because I didn't count) cookies in one sitting. Granted, I had a rather nasty sugar rush and later headache afterwards, but man were those cookies good.

Are life's cookies found in a cookie jar?

While you think about it (or don't think about it. I'm not a mind reader, I can't tell you what you're thinking right now), I think I'm going to go and eat the very last peanut butter chocolate bar cookie thingy that my mom left. Yummmm. . .

Blended words

Every once and awhile I have something I need to say, something that needs to be expressed the moment after it's felt. Even though it's much past when I'm comfortable being awake, now is one of the moments.

One of the worst things about these moments, though, is that it often involves not wanting everyone to know, but being unable to say it to anyone in particular. There are emotions that would be uncomfortable and even inappropriate to be shared with some people but would perhaps be suited quite well for other people. So I'm stuck in an odd situation of having something that needs to be said, but being unable to say it to anyone in particular (with the exception, maybe of my parents) and at the same time not feeling that it's appropriate to be shared with all.

When this happens, I always turn to my old standby; poetry. It's the best tool I have for saying something without actually stating it and also expressing myself in a way that is satisfactory for me that wouldn't give much away about myself that others don't already know. I think. Anyway, what follows is me poetically turning my thoughts inside out. It's coming out raw, so don't expect anything spectacular.

Blended worlds

A blender must be an exciting place to be
Swirls of color and sensation all
Mixing life together in a dazzling array
Of swoops and swirls.

Perhaps people even are like that blend
Of fruits and vegetables, ice creams and
Sweeteners, orange juice and raspberries
All swirling together.

The noise of such excitement
Can grind at times; while beginning
Or slowing down, but the middle of the incessant
Noise is bearable, even pleasant.

Each moment more life swirls by
To add to the color and flavor of the blend.
An excitement unparalleled inside
That machine Goes on and on, until it's done.

Speeding up or slowing down,
The blender is merciless in its march
I just wish someone could enjoy
The moments the blender stops.

Perhaps I wasn't as good at hiding the meaning behind this one. Perhaps I was. Only time (or you, the reader) will tell, and meanwhile, I feel better about the evening. I have a lot to think over. Goodnight, world.

A small (not short) story

Hello blogger friends! I admit with frankness, I'm not blogging very much, though the reason is an understandable one. Between the life of a working full time student who also is involved with both a choir and a play, I'm a little sandwiched at the moment, and find little time for much other than taking care of the various things I've already committed myself too. Still, I found time today for a little bit of blogging fun.

I just barely started an introduction to fiction class. One of the first things that the book of that class mentions is the ending of books, about how some books are written merely for the purpose of enjoyment, while others accomplish that while still portraying a message. I decided to try my hand at a short story today. You can pick it apart as you wish (and in fact I'd be delighted if you did). So I hope you enjoy this small story.

Crossing Point
By Major Bubbles.

"The middle ground is always the worst," he thought, as he cautiously approached the opening of his cave. His heart began to race as the cold air that always mingles on the edge of the cave encroached his lungs, stinging his throat all the way down. He shivered as he got closer to the edge, the white, dead light from the world outside now beginning to overwhelm the warm and friendly yellow glow from inside his cove.

"Could something be waiting for him, just outside?" he wondered, his mouth dry and his breathing shallow. Wishing there was another way, he slowly poked his head around the corner, his heart beating so fiercely that he felt it pounding in his head. Trying with futility to quiet both breathing and heart, he stuck his head a little further out. Now, at this moment, when he couldn't quite see around the corner, but someone could probably see the top of his head, was the moment of greatest alarm. Trying to swallow his dry tongue, he pushed out far enough to see around the corner. A sharp intake of breath and. . .

Nothing. Even though it meant temporary safety, all his nerves were tensed, every muscle ready, knowing that any moment the clear horizon could be smudged by a hostile observer. Wishing for extra eyes, and trying to see everywhere at once, he crept further out into the cold, hard light. He felt exposed, cold, and vulnerable. Thank goodness the distance to travel across the middle ground was not long.

He made his way across, coming to the place just around the corner of safety, of another secluded spot. Clutching his only protection close against his skin, he sidled around the corner, wary of anything moving. Suddenly, there was a sound! The soft padding of something moving, quietly, slowly behind him. His heart began to race, the adrenaline in his body surging as he considered what to do. Fight? No, he was much to vulnerable and exposed. Flight was the only option. The quiet movement behind him echoed in his ears, pushing his heart to greater limits. Blood rushing to his head, he fled.

"A few steps more, I mustn't be seen!" he plead to whoever listens to human thoughts. "Let me not be seen!"

The soft footfalls behind drove him on. One step. Two. The sound grew greater, perhaps more because of his fright than actual fact.

He practically flew into his safety, into seclusion from watching eyes, pausing only to shut the way behind him. Flicking on the lights, he breathed a sigh of relief, comforted by the warm yellow glow of familiar lights.

"That's the last time I forget to take my towel with me to the shower," he sighed, beginning to towel off.


I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope that it was enjoyable. Feel free to pick it apart, I'm kind of hoping you do.

Vocabulary

Fwidipan, who I have made mention of before, once caught me in a web of kindly meant fabrication. I have the tendency to assume that people are better at things then they normally let on, and so I also am wont to compliment people for skills that I have not yet had the chance to see in action. In other words, I assume that people are good at things when it's very possible that they are not. Such was the case, once, with Fwidipan, who sought to disabuse my ideas of her ability on the piano by saying "Major, you've never actually heard me play." Her timing was most exquisite, as I was in the process of explaining just how good she was to my mother. It's a good thing that those sorts of fabrications never do much to hurt my self esteem, or I may have been irreversibly damaged.

I thought about it later, though, trying to come up with a reason as to why I was so ready to accept that my friend was indeed the talented pianist that she later turned out to be, and I finally came up with a reason. Yes, my friends, I would very easily be scammed out of my mind (though it is still in debate how much good cerebral donations do anyone) because I based my opinion of Fwidipan's talent on one thing, and one thing only: her vocabulary was right.

Now, before you decide that I truly am a simpleton that enjoys writing nonsense on the Internet, and then checking to see how many people are reading it, I'd like to defend the intelligence of what I just said. I get a strange satisfaction out of sitting in front of my computer, checking the meter and saying "oh, look Bubbles, you got another one." But that doesn't defend my intelligence in any way. Now the defense may present it's case.

I call as my first witness my brother, who for the moment I will call Three (mostly because I'm stealing the idea from Tolkien Boy who for the longest time referred to me as four, and this is a pretty easy way to refer to someone in a nondescript way). My brother is a very intelligent guy, and understand computers and things to do with them and his job much more than I do. How do I know that? Well, because he talks about hard drive, gigs, memory, storing capacity, something to do with rams and fords, and other stuff like that. When a person understands (and can explain) the meanings and uses of the vocabulary, then more often than not they actually do know more about it than I do. Unless I can do the same.

Now, we go back to Fwidipan. She mentioned how much she loved playing different styles of music that I know I've heard of before, but most certainly couldn't tell you what they're like. Certain composers she mentioned (that I was vaguely familiar with) and I got rather intimidated. So, I came to the natural conclusion that she must be a good pianist.

Now, here's the clincher. Most of the time, and with almost all walks of life, I make up my own vocabulary. I'm worried that that means that pretty soon people will begin to either think that I'm a genius (which I'm not) or a simpleton (which I'm not) or just plain crazy (which I just might be. I've never been tested). What can I say? I'm a cahoodling maniacle. Of course, I might have just used two words that already exist (or maybe just one) that have absolutely no relevance at all to what has been said. Mlegh!

Not Sure

"Where are the clowns?"

I've decided that there are many things that may be counted on in life. The fact that I will be more serious when I'm physically exhausted is one of them. That I will be more spry and basically overly euphoric when I am physically brimming with energy is another. Yet another thing that I can count on in life is that my mother will continue to love me, that my father will continue to be there when I need it (and consequently kick my rear when needed), that friends will always be important to me, and that little children will always, always make me smile.

The problem is that there are things of which I am in a constant state of not counting on, or in other words that I am unsure of. For instance, I am unsure as to where the stinking clowns really are, though as Sondheim seemed to know, I'm begining to suspect that they may be closer than I could have expected or wanted. I'm unsure as to what I want to do with myself career wise, I'm unsure as to the whether tomorrow, and I most definately do not know if the apple I'm going to eat after writing this is going to be as scrumptious as the last one I ate.

It's odd that those things of which I am unsure could cause more commotion in me then the things of which I am sure. For instance, I know that if I go on a date, I will have a good time. Past experience has proven this to be the case almost exclusively, so I spend a sinfully small amount of time actually premeditating a date. This comes with a dependant clause, though (I'm thinking of opening it up with a 'because'), because if I should be very attracted to the girl, all bets are off.

I would explain, but that would give a large part of the "me mystery" away, so I will not be explaining, and you may draw all of your own conclusions. I suggest using a pencil.

Thought Tank

Salutations from the mind of Major Bubbles. It would seem that brilliance is not as hard to come by as would be imagined, or at very least that good ideas for very random and interesting blogs are not hard to come by. It's getting them to stay that is the problem. Perhaps I (being the mind and power behind this very blog) should take the time to consciously write down ideas, therefore assuring that those ideas stay concretely in the conscious world.

You see, I as a brain have a problem that is very difficult to overcome. I process more information, more electrons that fire, and more unknown stuff than any one computer, or probably any current string of computers does. I'm not sure (seeing as my carrier has not taken the time to present the knowledge to my connection to the outside world, the senses) whether this is the truth, but as a mind I'm allowed to be as vain as I want, as long as my carrier is good at repressing or at least masking that vanity in a more socially acceptable atmosphere.

Still, I have a problem. I've taken control, for the moment, or my carrier, to make sure that everyone may know that it's not HIS fault that there are long lapses in interesting and rather unique blogs, but rather that it is MY fault. Major Bubbles' Brain. If you want to, you may call me Charles. I will know explain the problem that I have is wont to make it difficult for the Major to display the normal brilliance that I am the author of but he gets all the credit for.

My thought tank has a hole in it. This is no laughing matter, I assure you. Other people have referred to this same problem as attention deficit disorder (and done so mostly in jest, though I'm told it's really quite a serious issue). Every brain, or I at least, takes a moment while it's still in the development stage to order a thought tank, a great big vat where all the information can be stored, either to be swirled together or kept separated by tiny vials of precious information. I can't tell you what a mess it makes when information that is supposed to be kept separate from the rest of the soup is smashed open and mixed with all the rest. I understand that happened to Albert Einstein's brain once and the result where some rather controversial theories that threw everyone into a stew. I digress.

My point is, my thought tank has a leak. I've been coming up with new and brilliant ideas to put into the mix, and so I store them in the tank, only to come back five minutes later to discover that my precious thoughts have all leaked out onto the floor! It makes a terrible mess, and as any brain knows, the more thoughts get lost, the more the carrier has to blow his or her nose to get rid of all the congested thoughts that end up pooling there. (That's what nasal congestion is, didn't you know?)

The effects of a leaky thought tank are disastrous. Not only does it lead to a congested respiratory device, it also leads to short attention spans and very short term memory. When I say short, I mean the shelf or tank life of a thought is about four minutes. The carrier of the brain (as is the current case with mine) then exhibits attitudes that other carriers associate with mental instability. Talking of random things, thinking that things are happening that aren't (that's some of the thought that ends up stuck in the tank), and the such.

So please, if you see my carrier blowing his nose consistently, or even if you notice a slightly maniacal tendency with him, be considerate and forgiving. He's trying to deal with leaky thought tank.

Church

Not everyone is confident enough in their masculinity to admit to certain things. Which, as it turns out, is a good thing, considering that if women became confident enough in their masculinity it would just mess up the entire social setting to which I have grown accustomed and to some degree have learned to survive in. But, that being said, not all men are confident in their masculinity to admit to the facts of life that might be considered all together not nearly masculine enough. In order to ensure all of my readers that I am, indeed, very masculine and have no conflictions about such thing, allow me to do a little pig speak and make some rather manly guttural sounds.

Grunt! Grunt! Snort! Grunt! Arrr!

Okay, the last one is worthy of being debated as to whether or not it truly is a manly guttural sound, as both the arr sound is not all that guttural and the arr is also used by both female and male pirates alike. Oh well, I'm hoping that you, the reader, are appeased and will not doubt my manhood after I make a rather unsuprising admission. But I'm not going to let you into the show.

I watched Pride and Prejudice last night. The long one. By myself. And I liked it. I really have no qualms about admitting this, because the truth is that anyone and everyone ought to enjoy it, or at least anyone who enjoys the display of human follies. Either way, it was a romp, and I had a good time.

And now, on to the actual blog!

There are many things in life that are repeated so often as to become almost unconsciously familiar. Or as in we're so familiar with them we're almost unconscious. The problem is, in some of those situations, being truly unconscious is a very, very bad thing. Even being unconscious of the situation, a common and understandable enough occurrence, can lead to some rather sticky situations, speaking both metaphorically and literally. When it comes to being in church, unconsciousness to both the situation and unconsciousness in general is a sure fire way of having some very good people having the time to make their own little jokes, and even finding a little humor in an otherwise common setting.

Take for example, the man who sits in front of the congregation. Or woman, for that matter, though I have observed that for the most part it is a man who is more likely to forget the situation, being so very familiar with it, and begin to do some very odd things indeed. Said man, in front of the congregation, would be thought to be uncomfortable enough, with one hundred eyes watching with differing degrees of interest, to actually pick his nose. I have noted, however, that some, especially if they be of the younger variety, have not seemed to uncomfortable with displaying the insides of their nostrils to the entire congregation. Worse is when they then ingest said nostrily entrails. Which sounds nasty, even to me. I have seen it happen, though. So take care, it could happen to you.

Another is when people find the speaker addressing the congregation to be of such a familiar tone as to be almost as bad as early morning classical jazz radio show hosts, those who are hired if and only if they have the capacity of making a hummingbird fall dead asleep in mid flight. Then if happens that those people slowly, ever so slowly, succumb to the sultry sounds of sleep. This is bad for two reasons. One, it's very possible that people who give in and sleep peacefully will begin to snore. If you don't think this happens, just look around next time you're in church. Someone is bound to have their head down, and is also just as likely to jerk upright suddenly, elbowed by either a concerned parent or by an embarrassed wife.

But snoring isn't the worst of it. Oh no, the worst is when drool begins to escape. It's silent, and therefore twice as deadly. Once someone has drooled, the damage is done, and no amount of elbowing will fix it. There will be forever, or for the next ten minutes, a wet spot at the top of the collar or tie (I'm assuming it's a man. I'm not sure, would it be a west spot on the necklace or neckline of a woman?) of said slow spitter (that's what drooling is, right? Slow spitting?). This will invariable lead to some interesting second glances and, of course, the knowing smile and repressed snicker. Which has nothing to do with candy bars.

There are other general no nos and human foibles that come to play at the churchy time. Parents actually admitting they're addicted to graham crackers or gummy worms (or cheerios. That's a famous one too.). The tabu talk surrounding a reported single person sitting awfully close to another single person (believe it or not, I heard someone pronounced to be thinking of marriage, based solely on the closeness of their sitting position to the girl they were sitting by). And I'm sure there are many others that I can't think of.

I think I'm going to go have some graham crackers now.

Crazy Man

I admit without any sort of embarrassment that the title refers solely to me! Hey, this blog is about me after all, and so it should come as no surprise that I actually reference myself continually and with no effort to conceal the fact that I am, indeed, the star of my own blog. If I can't shine anywhere else, at least I'll shine to myself. I also admit that this blog was written way too late at night and under the influence of an overexposure to Strong Bad emails.

It turns out that I am insane. Oh yes, my friends, I'm a stark raving lunatic. Okay, I'm not stark naked and I'm not really raving, either, because I'm not foaming at the mouth and it's been a good long while since I said "nevermore." Okay, that was bad, but hey, it was an illustration albeit in words and not pictures of what I'm saying. I've gone crazy.

I think it was a gradual thing. I began to notice it this summer, when school had been out of session for a good month or so and the natural regression into a state of survival only had begun once again to take its reign. That's when I noticed that I was starting to forget what I was doing or what I had said. Now, it wouldn't be too bad if I forgot what I was doing, say, last week. I could even excuse if I was going downstairs to do something and on the way I forgot what I was doing. But no, it is much worse than that. I began to forget what I was doing and saying in the middle of doing or saying it. Imagine my regret when I was halfway through the swing of a hammer, and suddenly my mind caught hold of the idea of a painted pony, running across the skies, reds and oranges dancing across his face. The streaming cape of velvet clouds he wore was a royal mix of purples, oranges, and beautiful pink, only to disappear the moment the hammer made contact with my left hand. And then there followed a string of inexcusable words that definitely did not describe the painted pony running cross't the sky.

It's worse, or at least I feel more crazy and stupid (but more the latter, I'm afraid) when in the midst of a sentence, I trail off and often wander off. I can't imagine but that my friends and family are becoming worried about me. "Yeah, so I was at work, you see," I might say to my mom. "I was thinking that maybe we should do something about. . ." I say while mindlessly wandering off in the direction of downstairs, the vague idea forming in my mind that my sock drawer is out of alignment and must be rectified. Right in the middle of the sentence. I seriously need to work things out.

My favorite moments of craziness, though, are moments when I actually enjoy them, and can find humor out of them. It seems like the voice inside of my head doesn't really have an off switch that I have access to. It just so happens that sometimes that voice in my head gets out of my head, and begins to use my mouth to provide everyone around me with a random display of my brain.

It normally goes like this. I'm in an elevator. I'm alone. I begin to talk to myself. Saying such things as "Oh I don't know, Mr Smith, I don't think Bond would appreciate it." "Oh, I know he would." I answer myself, now assuming the character of Mr Smith, Bond's nearly equal sidekick who kicks every body's butt but is never heard of, ever. This conversation continues on, silently, as people get on the elevator. The elevator in my office is slow, though, and one can only hold so much drama as my personal conversation inside the mind for so long. To be as inconspicuous as possible, I begin to mutter under my breath. You might here such treats as "wapow! Fwish!" or even a "frankly my dear, I don't darn, ever. I hate socks." Yes, I enjoy my personal conversations to the degree that I even forget that others are around, and speak full bore sometimes. Or is it full boar? Anyway, my point is that I have become certifiable.

Just think, though. Now I can become a famous writer so easily. I was so worried that I would never have any sort of personal or mental issue strong enough to be considered a truly great writer, but now that I'm insane, I won't have any problems at all!

Mwa ha ha ha ha!

As a disclaimer, I'm not really certified, not yet at least, and hope never to become so. My sympathy is to all people who actually suffer from diseases that might actually make them have more than one personality, or personality problems, or whatever. I feel that I've been very blessed in this category, and hope to help anyway I can for those who may not be quite so blessed.

Black Cats

People aren't the only ones with personalities. Well, maybe personalities, but not animalities. I admit that I heard something that made me think of that (horsality) so I cannot claim any sort of cleverness or creativity for saying it that way, but animals most definately have their own unique way of dealing with situations that make them oh so lovable some days and oh so ready to be beaten the next.

I have a pet. Her name (at least she used to be a female. The fact that I feel conflicted calling my pet an it proves that I'm a little bit trepeditious about the whole idea of surguries to make people into the gender of their preference that is different from the one they were born into, but that's a philosophical or religious discussion for another day. I have neither the time nor the patience to debate it now. Unless someone were to call me and tell me something provocative. At which point I would probably debate) (reminder, I just said Her name) is Tuxedo, or Tux for short. She's black, excepting on her belly and paws which are white. Hence the name.

Like all cats, in the dark Tux's eyes reflect any light in a rather creepy fashion. I get the chills everytime I see the narrow slits reflected in the light like golden slashes of fear, blazing through the night. Which is odd because normally when I see the eyes she's looking up at me, and the only time she actually looks in my eyes is when she wants me to pet her, ergo she is in a compassionate mood.

Anyone who knows my cat, though, will also know that she's a demon. I'm writing this blog for the sole purpose of describing a scene that is altogether too common. Or was. Tux has gotten older of late and is not nearly as psychopathic as she once was. That being said, let me describe the scene.

It's late. Dark out. Curtains drawn, all lights inside have been turned off. I find myself downstairs, the house still, silent except for the occasional sounds of an older house settling. Thirst tickles my throat, taunting me, tempting me out of bed, upstairs to find cool relief at the hands of a loving water tap.

In near delirium, I stumble from my bed and head upstairs. I get to the top, thinking of the long and nervous road before me. My mouth's already dry, but if it could it would be dryer, as my pulse quickens. Heart beating furiously in my chest, I listen. Listen to silence. With shallow breaths I take one step. . .two. I relax, all remains still. I take two more steps when suddenly a noise! The sound of little feet! But, there's nothing to be seen, nothing except a swift shadow. Oh no, not agai. . . AAAAAUUUUGH! Gaaaa, tux attacked my feet in the dark AGAIN! I'm bleeding! Oh, the pain!

So, it actually never hurt that bad, but it always did make my pulse go like none other. You can't see a black cat very well when there's no light, and hearing the noise of impending pain, even if it won't be that bad, is always frightening. If I ever have a heart attack, let Tux run at me when I'm not looking, and my heart will jolt back into submission.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Some Dead Guy

I really don't have much to say for this blog. If considered with my other blogs, this is very odd.

I have, of late, been almost excessively committed in time and effort to the creation of art. I say art because there's enough of me in it, or enough of personality, that it can be considered such. There is enough creation of both the beautiful and the rough together that it becomes, by nature, a thing of art.

I have been involved in a play. I continue to be involved, actually, with the opening night being not too far off. Most everyone who reads this blog is already aware of this fact, but I figured that I would not be being fair to the other actors of the play, and that I would not be giving an accurate dipiction of either my life or my mind set (which seems to be set utterly on random. Does anyone know how to stop a random generator that's going on in one's brain?) unless I made mention of the play here.

It's a musical. About a dead guy. Or a mostly dead guy. Who wants to go on vacation. If dead guys can go on vacation. It's called Lucky Stiff.

I'm sure that if the authors of the show ever read how I just described it they would make sure that I was a very UNlucky stiff. It's a lot more complex than that, and turns more into a show about how to live by taking chances and doing new things, and has an odd twist at the end about how we should be forgiving and loving and, ahhh, isn't it so nice?

If you don't think it's going to be funny, I can tell you it most definately is. The script is hilarious, if not exactly how I would have done it. The acting has been spectacular and I'm excited to see the final product come together two nights before we open August 1st. Oh, how I love the last minutedness of community theater.

Showing at the Terrace Plaza Playhouse, it's sure to be a delight. So come. And say Hi to me when you do. Because then I'll feel validated. And I like feeling validated.

Pig Talk

In my normal manner of starting in a way that is completely unrelated to anything else in the blog, I hereby state that I have been on an impromptu sabbatical. I understand that all great writers of any era have always needed a time when they get away from their work (which is understandable, most people switch careers at least five times in their life) and my current lack of greatness rating means that I'm entitled to even longer periods of rest. The world seems to think it's backwards, though, and gives much more licence to truly great writers for rest taking and sabbaticals, which makes no sense to me, because if they are so great you'd think their tolerance level would be much higher than one who was not so spectacular.

Anyway, I'm done now and plan to actually blog with more than a random effort, but concerted and controlled I will go forth and blog many a blog, type many an ill fonted letter, and generally make a fool out of myself.

I also take this opportunity to announce to one and all that my brother, Tolkien Boy, and I have started up a blog of poetry. Mostly because we both enjoy writing it, and the easiest way for it to share it with each other is through blog. If ever you should feel the desire to read some amateur poetry that is almost qualifying of the grand (but not quite great) rating, then feel free to peruse. The blog's title is Ebulliency. As of right now I don't actually know what that means, but I like it, and I'm sure it's something wonderful.

So, this week I began a new workout routine, benefitting from my friend's mother's interest in having a beach body. The workout, referred to as P90X is supposed to give you the body you want (within limits, of course) within 90 days. I do not know as of yet whether the program will give the results I'm looking for. That might be because I continue eating, and if anything am eating even more than before, and it might also be because the results I'm looking for are impossible. I want to look like the instructor, and heaven knows, as well as anyone who has met me, that I don't have black hair or dark eyes. Sigh, I will never be tall dark and handsome. However, having one and a half of two of those will suffice. (I'm only half tall. It's a little like being half naked only better).

And so I began this exercise program. I have seen things in a new light since then. New work, new vision, new life, new energy, and a new understanding of pigs. Yes, the swirling feeling that I get as I lay, hyperventilating, after each and every workout that I do (which is basically every day excepting Sundays) watching the ceiling reel to and fro like a drunken man (or woman, we're equal opportunity here), has brought on new revelations, as has my experience following these close to drugged experiences.

Basically, the soreness has not left me since Monday. It's beautiful, but it's death at the same time (beautiful death, sounds like an abstract poem or funny movie). Every time I move the muscles in some part or t'other of my body files for a divorce. You can imagine what my poor brain has been through, with all the legal issues of keeping my body together, and every once and awhile (which translates to every time I move) my brain has to stop worrying about somethings when I move.

For instance, the pride control gets short circuited. I no longer care much what I look like when I move. Mostly I just want to move in the least painful way possible. If that involves crawling on the floor till I get near enough to a couch to kind of slidle up into a sitting position and then get up on the couch, I'll do it. Even if I look like nothing more than an ambitious worm.

But that's not the worse. Oh no, the sound monitor shuts down as well, and all sorts of things start coming from my mouth. Near obscenities aren't all that uncommon, but by far the most frequent thing that comes from me that you will not hear when I'm not sore is pig speech. That's right, I've learned a new language. I can talk Pig. No no, not pig latin, I can talk pure Pig. Yes, I suddenly understand why it is that every time they move (and sometimes even when they don't) you here guttural grunts coming from some unpopular animals.

Oh well, I guess that one can only process so much. After all, looking and sounding like an idiot is not nearly as important as not being divorced of your right thigh. But let's face it, my new found language is not going to help me any with my dating tactics.

Ah, the Wind

In my life there have been many experiences that have shaped the way I look at things. Experiences with family members have led to a deep appreciation of faith, of music, and of dice and card games. Friends have been influential in forming a love of acting, of playing sports, and of enjoying just sitting around learning more about people I don't live with.

Fear has played a vital role in my appreciation of wind.

I need to point out right now that I love the wind. On hot summer days, it cools the world as it playfully dances across fields and roads. It's usually soft and comforting fingers slide across me, like a beautiful woman massaging aching and burning muscles, relaxing all and causing a smile to slide across my face. Yes, I love the wind.

It hasn't always been so. I remember as a child my family loved hiking. We'd sweat and toil up the mountain side (how you can sweat up a mountain is beyond me), our hearts pounding, or at least mine always was, as we reached the top and rested, proud of the accomplishment and awestruck by the view. I can't understand why houses that are often described as being shanty and dirty can look so beautiful from the top of the mountain, but anyone who has been up there know that it truly is a breathtaking sight. Being the curious child that I was, I enjoyed seeing what over the edge of the mountain face looked like. Invariably, I would see the dizzying drop or steep incline below me, and begin to feel as if someone was trying to push me over. It was always the wind I attributed this to. The wind wanted to kill me.

I'm not sure exactly why I felt the wind had such malicious intentions. He (at that time the wind seemed a stern man, I've since learned that that is quite incorrect, the wind is most definitely a woman) was gentle enough in the valley, but on the mountain where so much depended on one step, he seemed brutal and unkind. The wind most definitely wanted to do me in.

I had this reinforced on a trip eastward for a family reunion. As is often the case in the Nebraska area, there was a tornado right when we were driving through. As we drove, you could see the Semi-trucks tipping back and forth, leaning in the wind, and it was frankly freaky. I was terrified, and my dad must have been concerned as well. We pulled off into a rest stop, where we watched the wind push garbage cans and later on vending machines around. It was like some big jedi was using the force in an attempt to make me hyperventilate, and it was close to accomplishing its goal. We were luckily only on the edge of the tornado zone, and it passed after about a half an hour or so, but after that my fear was set: the wind didn't like me.

For a very long time, so long that I don't care to admit to it, any breath of wind would make me tense up, ready for garbage cans to come rolling around and hit me, or roofs to break off and smash me, or just to be picked up and carried away, never to be seen again. This lasted a long time.

One day, though, I realised how silly it was to be afraid of the wind. So, on a particularly stormy night, I went out and had a conversation with the wind. I felt her pull me this way and that, I felt her scream past me in a gale, seeming to hurl obscenities and threats at me.

And then, in that storm, I understood the wind. It might be that it's just the changing of air that's trying to get from one very compressed and over heated area to somewhere not quite so warm, or it might be a plethora of scientific explanations, but I decided then that it was simply another one of God's creations, and that He was talking to me through it (or her, I prefer thinking of the wind as a woman now. Does that say something about me?).

Every time a cool wind blows, when trees sway back and forth in simple rhythm to the playing of the wind, I think of God's voice in my life, or I just relax and enjoy the sensation of receiving a free massage. Oddly enough, I relax more for those massages then ones that even the most gentle woman has ever given me.

Hug Me, Dang It!

I'm not really used to using exclamation marks in the title, partly because my upbringing has led me to abhor all over uses of the exclamation mark. I still remember the correlation my dad drew up between the uses of exclamation marks and the speaking style of a stereotypical valley girl. Like, oh my gosh! This paragraph has so much pizazz!

Or something.

However, in this case, I felt that an exclamation mark might just give the effect I wanted to the title. Why's that? Because even though I have a tendency to hide any and all real passion as deep as I can, there it is. Hidden below many levels of alternating happiness and yellowness and quietness, there lurks a quiet friend. A friend who may be denominated as a Jekyll or a Hyde. Some days, he comes up to show a passion in what is good, a passion for what is most appropriate, a passion for the way things ought to be. It's kind of fun when he surfaces, though most people seem to find him a little unnerving.

Also hidden, though not quite as evil as the Hyde of story book making, a more basic type of passion lurks. It's a natural sort of thing, but I'm not really going to talk about him right now.

No, I'm going to talk about something amazing, that's linked to each and every one of our passions: our bodies. No, this is not a sixth grade movie or slide show about how amazing our bodies are, or even a presentation on general hygiene or the upkeep of failing organs (my eyes and hair, both very necessary to that part of me I refer to as self image, are weakening like a flute player running out of air), but rather the statement of something I've come to believe about my body in particular, and by extension, every other person's body as well.

Satan must be pretty darned ticked at us. If you believe in the story of the rejection of him and his followers as found in the King James version of the Bible, you'll know that he actually doesn't have a body. The more I think about it, the more I realize that we were all pretty smart not to go down that road. Because, spirits, as many people are wont to remind us, are not the most feeling of creatures.

What senses do physical bodies have? Sight, smell, touch, um, there's two or three more, I'm sure of it. Oh, yes, taste and hearing. Can you imagine never having had strawberry cheesecake? Oh, just the thought of eternities without cheesecake are enough to make me glad I went the right way. Even just a strawberry, fresh, with just enough zing in it to make you know your mouth is awake, but at the same time sweet and refreshing. Yeah, I'm glad I have taste.

Now, I'm not sure if these senses are something that are unique only to our physical frames. However, can you imagine what it would be like to go through an eternity without smell? The clean (but ironically dirty) smell of the good earth, just as the rain has fallen, the honest smell of saw dust from working on a garage or other projects that your father has put you up to do, the sumptuous smell of lasagna as you walk in the door, the sweet feeling of smelling home made cookies, the enchanting smell of a woman's perfume (if you're a guy. Girls, please don't be enchanted by other girl's perfume. You can like it, sure, but no enchantment.) and the list gets too long. It's awesome to have a body.

Oddly enough, touch seems to be something that our bodies just can't get enough of. As infants, our growth and development has been proven to be retarded if there is no one there to just hold us, to rock us back and forth and to physically touch us. As we grow up, we hold mom and dad's hands, giving hugs and kisses. More older still hormones take us on a wild ride of wanting to hold other girls' hands (or guys, you know what I mean you silly people) to kiss (at which point in this blog my face goes red, evidence of my own standing in this sector) and other things. Throughout life, one of the major ways of communication is a simple touch.

I've talked before how hugs can actually become a rather developed form of communicating. I should mention that one of the five love languages, according to that one guy who wrote the book "The Five Love Languages" is physical touch. Our souls, the conjuncture of body and spirit, cry out to enjoy the body that they've been given, to take advantage of the marvelous gift that we've received for having chosen to follow the Savior at the first. The spirit, something that seems to me to be less adept at giving hugs, sure does enjoy hugs.

And in my case, every so often the spirit demands them.

People need hugs. Go give them one. It's nice. It's even nicer when the person hugs back.

Poetry Soup

Once again, it has come time for me to share a poem. And so, here it is, the unrefined (meaning roughest draft there could be) jumblings of my brain.

Poetry Soup

As slashes and swirls
Dance across the page,
They paint a picture with
Less than a thousand words.

An angry “The” got up
To clash with a defensive
“And” who sought nothing
But to bring two “The”s together.

Vowels and consonants
Raced each other in a whirl
And bumped a comma who
Was avoiding the period,
Not wanting to be a semicolon.

Every once and a while
A consonant and vowel
Crashed into others
And a conjunction was inevitable.

This crazy dance got faster
And faster as the words,
Punctuation and letters got more
Heated, passionate, and moving.

Till it seemed this literal soup
Would exceed its bowly limits,
And that is when this paper filter
Fell in the soup, then all that
Literary movement got stuck on a page.

Why

“I’m a team player. No, I’m not a polygamist.”

This blog has absolutely nothing to do with the saying; I just thought it was funny, so I put it here with the intention of making someone smile. If you just smiled, whether at what is quoted here or at me actually taking the time to tell you that I put it there just to make you smile, (and if you happen to be one of those lovely ladies with whom a crush is forthcoming, then that was meant specifically for your smile, ‘cause it makes me go all gooey on the inside) then I have succeeded in my quest.

I think making people smile is a good sort of quest.

All of that is beside the point. As many of you know, and as those who don’t shortly will, I enjoy music. I have enjoyed music since the days of my youth, when we actually have home videos of my Dad getting out his guitar and playing some song from the primary. The primary, as you probably know, but for the sake of clarity and also to make myself feel good about my own capabilities of description, is a place in my church where little kids go to learn about God and all of the things he does for us. One of the most powerful tools of teaching, both for children or adults, has always been and will always be music.

I can’t say that I’ve always been the most inspiring when enjoying music. In the home video I mentioned before, it ended on the happy note of me deciding that it was “my turn” to sing, and when I didn’t get my way, I started crying. I’ve had great lungs since very young, it seems, because the crying was louder than anyone’s singing. Perhaps the best part of the whole thing was that, after I started crying, the camera went to my dad who then said “this happens all the time.”

Kudos to me. Anyway, I love music and always have. I have to thank my mom for that, for her love of music and for gathering all of us kids around the piano to sing songs, secular and sacred, that seemed to bind my family together, and throughout time those melodies have traveled the distances and times between my family members and have united us together in harmony. Oh, goodness that was sappy.

In my love for music I gravitate towards singing opportunities. One of which is a choir that sings with the institute of religion that I attend. We sing a large variety of songs throughout the fall and spring semesters, with plenty of opportunities for performance. I love this choir, so when a friend asked me to name a few good reasons why she should return to the choir next year, I was a little befuddled. Who wouldn’t want to return? I gave, as my reasons, the chance to get closer to God, and also the chance for social interaction.

It’s been about three weeks since that choir took a break for the summer semester, and I’ve had the chance to think about what I said, and what my reasons are for going back to the choir next year. In an effort to redeem my lack of eloquence before, I’m going to bear a little of my soul and explain why I’m going back to choir next year.

I was right about the social interaction, for one. I have a great system of friends now, because I was in choir. There are lots of sects that are Zionistic, one of the more famous of today is the FLDS ranch “Hoping for Zion” in Texas that has been in the news of late. Basically the idea of being one community, united in effort and ideal, is something that most people like. In a choir or band, this happens naturally; there’s one leader, one person that everyone follows to some extent, and the intent of everyone in the choir is to produce something that others find beautiful, that is pleasing to the senses, and that makes the singers/performers happy. You can’t go to the same class every day and have the same basic intent as sixty people without making friends. Perhaps that’s why religion is good at bringing people together as well.

Now, the reason number one that here appears second, that going to choir gives the chance to get closer to God, deserves a little more explanation than just that sentence. I am deeply religious, and so this point is particularly important to me. I’ll explain what this choir has done in this respect, specifically for me.

Service, getting out and following the example of instructions of a loving God as far as the treatment of others, is a marvelous way of coming to understand what an amazing and loving character God really is. When you come to know someone, and to serve them, you begin to see what God saw when He made that person, you feel love for them, and you begin to understand how important every last one of His creations are to Him, and how much care he puts into their lives. Music is one of the most comforting influences that I know. Singing in person, or hearing live music, is often much more powerful than listening to a recorded song. Singing then becomes a great service of comfort, and as you sing, you’re servicing not only those who hear, but yourself. My soul responds to that feeling more than many other things in this world, and it makes me happy.

In the midst of service, and especially when singing a more religious type of song, something else occurs that is worth noting. In Doctrine and Covenants, a modern book of revelation, the Lord says “My soul delights in the song of the heart; yea, the song of the righteous is a prayer unto me.” Each song we sing, whether it be specifically worshipful or not, becomes a prayer of faith and devotion if sung in the right attitude (and as long as it’s not sung in a disrespectful attitude), and therefore every moment we spend singing is time spent worshipping God. I love to sing, and I love being closer to my Lord, so having both at the same time is better than having your cake and eating it too. In the choir I participate in, that means an hour every day of singing and worshipping. It’s only natural that one would get closer to the Lord because of that.

There is one more reason why I’m returning to choir. The scriptures speak of singing the song of redeeming love. I can’t say that I know exactly what that song is, but I can say that as I sing, I feel love for my God, and I feel His love for me, so it becomes a song of love, and a work of love to be there, singing.

There is something beautiful in music. If music be the food of love, sing on ‘till I am filled with joy.

Magic

Magic. That’s what this new template reminded me of. Magic.

Magic has played an important role in my life. How ironic, something that doesn’t exist being so important to me, a being that I know exists, and as Descartes might tell me, I’m the only thing of which I’m sure exists, other than God, and yet something that is accepted by everyone, almost, over the age of twelve as being something completely not real is, for me, something that still plays an active role in my life. Even Harry Potter’s creator would admit that this world needs imagination and not magic, but I say that the world is full of magic, we just don’t realize it.

I’d like to invite you into a little portion of my brain. It’s beautiful there, this small portion. Imagine yourself on an average parking lot. Nothing really that spectacular about the lot, just a gentle downward slope to the north. The lot is adjacent to a beautiful old building made out of red brick. The lawn of the building is always kept green, except in early spring when it is airated and little children take turns believing the clots of dirt are first dog poo and then grenades, to be thrown at any and all enemies whenever you come in contact with them.

It’s a pleasant scene, but it’s not the place I remember as magical, the place that is still magical to me. Just north of the parking lot, there is a deep gulley, cut out by the constant eroding of a determined stream. With sides that are steep, the gulley is more like a small valley, creating it’s own atmosphere, it’s own feeling, so different from that of only a few feet up and to the south. One descends a mere ten feet to find all outside sounds have been cut off, and the only sound is the omnipresent bubbling of the stream about twenty feet below. The sides of the gulley are covered in lush undergrowth, and trees that appeared dwarfish from the parking lot suddenly become towering giants, seeming to hide tree-elves, those scheming tricksters who wait to play trick on the unwary travelers. If you listen closely, you might just hear a raccoon playing in the stream, or washing his food in preparation for the family supper. Thick foliage and trees effectively block houses from view, and it’s like stepping back in time, to when knights feared of demons and dragons, where elves walked freely and talked with men, and hobbits, though skittish, could be convinced to trust their noisy cousins.

I always thought I would find something unusual there. Wake up one day (after camping) to find a small dragon looking through my things, or perhaps that I should find that I had woken up in midst of a real forest, somewhere I could wander around forever, only to come out and find myself in a strange world, a strange place where anything was possible.

Each day I felt that way, I’d wake up in the same gulley. The morning there was always breathtaking. The stream combined with the steep sides made for chilly mornings, where the cold was trapped there, so waking up there was always a lot of dew around. For a few precious moments when the sun came up, high enough to be seen from the gulley floor, everything glittered, like a thousand diamond drops on each leaf. It was beautiful.

However, there is a dilemma: I still believe in the possibility of a lot of those things. I am not that odd in this belief. I find things like dragons, impressive animals and talking beasts to be a lot more believable than many of the fantasies regarding relationships that are thrown at me from modern entertainment. Perhaps this betrays a small amount of jadedness on my part, but so I see it. Magic, then, happens all the time, but in different ways.

And so, my friends, look! See the magic. There’s little things all the time that speak of beauty, of fairy dust falling, of potion dipped arrows, of greatness. Feel the magic. No, I don’t want you to go to Disneyland.

Regression

It seems that when one wants especially to jot down all the jumbled up thoughts and observations that moment is precisely when those thoughts refuse to organize themselves into anything resembling coherency (which may or may not be a word, but for the present circumstances will be allowed past any and all detectors of falseness, seeing as this is, as you will see, nothing more than a schematic of my thoughts and often I think false things). Having said that, I say now, what a wonderful thing (which I have recently been told is a completely guy adjective, no pun intended for those who have seen "That Thing You Do.") it is to once again be joining the blogging world in trying to make sense out of the insanity that is my life inside my brain, which I assure you is much less organized than my bedroom, which my mother insists on referring to as the climatic chaos of an otherwise well developed habitat. Okay, maybe she doesn't say that on a regular basis, or at all for that matter, but it sounded fun in my head, so why not put it here?

This is, after all, an attempt on my part to get rid of a serious case of writer's block that I've had for almost a month now. Thoughts of how much I write about dating and relationships (which, coincidentally, take up a rather appalling amount of my thought time) and my complete lack of material, or the exact opposite of over abundance of writing material, have kept me in the dark as to what I should write about. Once again, in an allusion to the mad mad world that is my life, I told my mother that I feel the need to go on a date, but that I'm at a loss as to where to start. To which my mother wisely responded "well, you might try starting with calling someone and asking them out."

Word well spoken. Perhaps, I thought, those words would be a great motto for anything. It becomes a strange thought to do so when thinking "I really feel the need to go to heaven." I doubt that asking out heaven would really be the ticket, though a slight play on the words, and taking it more of in a symbolic sense than in an actual literal sense, might be exactly what one is needing.

The point of the rambling that has gotten me to this point is, of course, to say that the way I have chosen to get over my writer's block is to simply write. And write I am, (that is not correct but I don't care!), writing whatever random thoughts cross my mind! I'm hoping that what ends up recorded here will be both thought provoking and nonsensical, seeing as that is the type of writing that I find most enjoyable.

I think I'll start (or continue, as the case may more accurately be described) with an observation that came late last night, after I had finished being sick. See, I was sick for a long time, and spent, quite literally, the entire day in bed yesterday. In my delirium, though, I pondered over reactions that some girls had to a show, "The Holiday" I believe it was called, and comparing those reactions to other reactions from the feminine gender. I'd like to say right now, though, that the movie portrayed some pretty screwy philosophies. One of which was that physical displays of affection are cheap things that can be bartered about with reckless abandon and will not have any affect at all on what happens to the true love of people. I say true love because I mean the actual thing that joins two people together for more than just the duration of hormones. It's kind of weird, really, but different physical displays, hugs, kisses and, yes, the three letter 's' word that is so taboo in my culture (or at least in my head) that I will not actually write it here. Though, if movies are any indication I can spell it out, as long as I don't say it, and be a-okay! That's an odd thought, when you consider that I'm writing this.

Anyway, my point was about the reactions (I told you I would write this as it came to my mind! It's you're own fault if you didn't believe me). I've discovered a fool proof way to be attractive. Seriously! I've discovered something absolutely amazing. It seems that I was incorrect in my assessment of the character of Mr. Darcy, and why he's so attractive to otherwise logical women, as well as my overall assessment of the attractiveness of each and every one of Ms. Austen's male characters. What makes a man attractive (are you ready for this), are the three 'B's. British, Bounteous, and Beautiful. Yes, I thought of that while I was delirious, and yes, it made me laugh.

I realise that some people will disagree with me. They have obviously never been in a room predominated with females, all very vocal about their varying states of attraction toward male actors. Yes, indeed, after much thought, I have come to this fool proof conclusion. If you are British (the most important part of this being that you have a British accent, because it gives off the air that you know what you're talking about and you sound oh so sophisticated, which as Tolkien Boy, and English major, informs me, is actually a fact, that British accents make people sound more intelligent, even though they just may not be) which is unfortunately something that can only be given through birth but, in a pinch, just living in England until you have a believable accent will do, you're doing well. Now, if you're a rich British (that would be bounteous), then you're doing extremely well, and chances are you will be meeting someone important to you within the weekend.

All of these may be trumped, though, if you don't happen to be beautiful. I've found that small discrepancies on this account are forgivable, if you have the other two 'B's, but if you don't have one of the other two 'B's and are sadly lacking in this particular acronym, you're bound for trouble. Oh, the sad and sorry state that is life.

Actually, that brings up another thought. Are men thought cowards if they don't kiss a girl? Thanks to Disney and other related companies, the type of importance that is connected with a kiss ought to make the first kiss something of a ceremony, special and important. So, the question comes, when a guy is hesitant about kissing someone, does that make him a coward, or just wise to not go around sharing something that special with every girl he finds physically attractive? I've heard that emotional attraction can only grow with time, and that physical attraction is the only thing we have to go off right at first, and so I just have to wonder, if someone guards their lips, does that make them weak, or does it just mean that it's important to them?

Maybe it just means that they don't have very much experience kissing and so they put a whole lot of thought into the whole thing.

Probably.

I discovered something amazing. The reason that Nintendo games aren't really that satisfying is because you can't talk about them with your friends, really. I mean, if you talk with them about loads of yard work, and how beautiful your yard looks now, the things you've done, and about the sexy new tan you have (I'm borrowing someone else's words at this point, I'm sure) then you have something that other people will listen to. But if you start talking about "game high points" and "records," most people don't really find that all that interesting, and it's actually pretty hard to talk about.

Not that playing Nintendo is a bad thing. I love it, especially when I really don't want to think about anything at all. Then Nintendo is great, because I don't have to think. Maybe it's due to the fact that it's basically a computer that generates information based on a set amount of rules and those rules must be followed throughout the game and are relatively finite in number. That would mean that our impressive brains lock onto the "code" or set rules extremely quickly, and then they go on computer mode, where they basically produce what is required at the correct moment. Our minds become little more than computers. And computers don't think. Which means, at that moment, we don't think.

Look out, Plato, here I come.

Well, I think that about kills my writer's block. Or at least I hope so. I hope that you enjoyed my ramblings. They may not have been as rambling as I'd hoped, but, hey, nothing organizes like seeing the chaos written down.

Completely Random

Amidst the strife that surrounds my life at this time of year, I've had a lot of really strange thoughts and seemingly random observations. For instance, I've noted that I dislike seeing beautiful women. That might be because my heart does a little flip and belly flop every time it happens, and that can be painful, and may lead to heartburn. The scientists are still debating as to the validity of that statement.

Finals is a great time to get frazled. Everyone expects it of you, and honestly, it's a natural thing that happens. I've actually discovered that taking tests and writing papers can be more enjoyable than some classes are. For example, my current political science class is of such a kind that I would probably be better off not going to class (which I will no more forever) and just reading the book and taking the tests. It's not really that much different from what I do anyway, seeing as the minute I sit down, open my lab top, and connect to the Internet my mind checks out anyway, and my professor could announce that the entire class would be receiving 'A's on the final as long as they were willing to go and talk to him before hand, and I would completely miss it.

I've had a lot of interesting experiences this semester with my laptop. One day in Spanish, the professor was explaining a rather potent piece of poetry when I guffawed out loud. You see, I was chatting with a humorous friend, and the joke she had said moments before was the type that made it hard for me to control the laughter. I was subjected to one of the most evil stares by the professor. Good thing she was a substitute and not my regular teacher.

I've also found out a lot about girls. I have been chastised a few times for contradicting myself here in this blog. Self contradiction seems to be a human normality, and I no longer feel bad about it. Philosophy may hold that contradiction means weakness, or even that when one contradicts one's self then it is a sign of lack of intelligence, but I've come to the conclusion that all imperfect beings are in a process of gaining further understanding, and so it becomes very common to contradict what one has said before, as greater knowledge becomes part of who we are.

I mention self contradiction because I've discovered that everyone, including myself, is confused. I mean it. There are a few basic truths that anyone can know, but past those building blocks of knowledge the grand majority of everyone is just as lost to what is really going on as I am. For example (this is part of what I've learned about girls. Hold your breath, here we go!), I understand that girls would like to be appreciated for their talents, their personality, their way of thinking, and the different things that describe them, and not (heaven forbid) for their divinely shaped bodies. If I'm wrong in saying that girls often express the desire to be cherished for their personalities and their amazing souls over physical appearance, you may correct me if you wish (but I probably won't believe you). Now, if you take that idea, and compare it to a statement I heard, "Dating really is a game. You have to talk to a guy two or three times before he'll even consider asking you out on a date," from the very lips of a pretty sensible girl that I know, you must concede the contradiction. If a guy is expected to ask a girl out before he even talks to her, what must he judge on? Looks, and looks alone.

I realize that this particular argument has many holes, but just to add to the feeling, another person I know stated that she was waiting for a missionary, and the specific thing that she listed as being important was that he is taller than she is. I understand that girls enjoy feeling protected and taken care of, and that this may lead to girls desiring someone they date to be larger than themselves, but the emphasis is still the same. it was a little disconcerting, really, though I was glad for a little glimpse into what someone thought.

I may have inflamed countless people by now. It's kind of fun, actually. You see, I'm just as confused as you are, and must therefore not be taken any more seriously than the most foolish, or any less seriously than the most wise.

Girls are not, by far, the only ones living a double life. Guys as well (and I should know, I'm one of them) frequently lament the fact that no one actually appreciates "them." You know, the part that they hide so that no one can see, the part that they make very sure will never see the day light, and then they complain that no one seems to understand them. Sound familiar? Well, let's just say I have a lot of personal experience with that one.

I really didn't mean this to be solely about oddities of the various genders (or perhaps just of people in general), but there it is. Perhaps, in the end of the day, we'll all realize that what we truly want is to feel appreciated for everything, for our minds, for our talents, for our bodies, and yes, even appreciated with our weaknesses and faults; and maybe, just maybe, when we realize that we already do that to others, or when we start doing it to others, we'll realise that it's already happening.

Windows

This poem comes as the realization of a promise I made to a friend, Annie, a while ago. Here it is, a poem:

Windows

Windows with crystal clarity
Show worlds just beyond our feeling,
That with their vibrant colors
Our breath, our words they’re stealing.

Content, one may consider
A view through crystal of celestial blue,
Free of clouds of strife, the very sky
Reflected in paradise’s dew.

Though the scene may show
Either deep heaven or shallow cover,
The beauty holds the viewer still
In awe of the heavenly color.

Another opening may betray
A glimpse of deep blue-green ocean,
Where shining sun reflects in rays
And enchants like a wizard’s potion.

A window there is that gives a view
Of liquid earth, a deep brown foam
That speaks of life, and with its charm
Makes a heart feel at home.

And yet another view is had
Of golden fields that glow;
That fills one with bursting energy
And lifts when one is low.

Satin black can be seen
And commands the viewers eye
It holds it steady to be sure
It catches each glint passing by.

These and other sights
Have been my pleasure to see.
Each window shows true beauty
And a glimpse of eternity.

Threads

Having something that reports to you about the viewing of your blog is an amazing thing. I have discovered that, shocking though it may sound, I have more people who visit my site on or directly after the day in which I post something new! Like flies drawn to a light, guys to a beautiful girl, or girls to a life-loving man, there is a dramatic increase in how many people actually look at my site after I post something. It behooves me to post more often, then. That being said, let us on with this blog.

College is a befuddling and interesting experience. Befuddling because it establishes a pattern, a set way of doing things, and then it puts kinks all over that pattern, like someone who crochets and intentionally puts a few weird angles or odd colors, just to give the feeling of chaos. Weaving in and out of every day's repetitive journey are strands of beauty that may be anywhere from blatantly obvious to divinely subtle, and are easy to miss if one doesn't pay attention. There may be a smile from a nearly unobserved but beautiful person. Perhaps, as one walks along a bird will sing a strain that resonates deep though it be but a simple tune. Every once and awhile, a thread reveals itself as being both long, beautiful, and masterfully woven into the very fabric of life, as a great creator puts on the touches to a tapestry of grace and wonder.

I'm normally not a particularly passionate person. There are few subjects that really create any sort of true emotion, the type that causes me to wish for better things (in the subject in particular) or that evoke the kind of actions that are normally accompanied by deep feeling. Among the few is this country in which (for the most of the people who read this) we live. The United States of America. Ever since I returned from Mexico, I've been so grateful to live here. This, my friends, is a land where opportunity is common commodity, and where anyone, with drive and ability, can become anything. I never felt that as strongly as when I had just recently returned to America. I do not know if this same opportunity exists everywhere, but I know it exists here. I love this country, and am grateful to have been put here.

Recently, there was a show done by the Ogden LDS institute entitled "This is a Great Country." I was blessed with the chance to be one of the hosts for that show. Normally I don't mention specific details about anything that I do, because I enjoy thinking that some of the people who read this have no idea who I am, but I will make an exception this time. I enjoy acting, and that really was the idea I had in mind when I auditioned for the part. Of course I was excited that I got the part, and have enjoyed it.

There is something that I didn't realise until the show was actually going on, though. Something beautiful. Patriotic shows are uncommon for the Ogden LDS institute. I understand that they only happen every decade or so. It is not very likely, then, that I should be part of a patriotic show, and less likely that I should be a host. As I thought about that, I realised that I had been placed in a particular place and time, just to bless me. There was a thread, going back to before I left on my mission, that had woven nearly unnoticed through a couple of years in my life. There truly is a master weaver, and I'm grateful for that particular thread in my life.

Perhaps most of the time I don't find threads that are that long or that graceful. However, I find threads that make my life beautiful.

Once Again

I was recently shocked to discover that there are blogs of people that I actually know in real life that are dedicated completely to dating. I thought that I was the only one who was compulsive and obsessive enough to actually write as much as I do about dating and relationships and the general turmoil of my soul that results in these blogs that are often contradictory and rather incoherent. Indeed, shocked I was. As was Yoda. However, I was afterward told by a good friend that really, dating is an important element of the lives of people found in my circumstance (that is, single, not dating anyone seriously, and being told by society that we are all freaks and should have some good sense beat into us, even if it must be done with awkward moments and bad dating experiences). How I love our culture!

This blog is actually not about the adverse effects of society on my sanity. No, indeed, that argument is nearly impossible to truly take one side or the other, seeing as my sanity was already in question long before I ever entered the arena of "on the market." A coworker referred to a recently engaged person as "off the market," which was an accurate reflection of common opinion, though I admit I don't appreciate the feeling behind the words. Once again, I digress.

Have you ever noticed that during life we have love cycles? I wrote about them in "Provoking" which was not received with open arms, but the principle was still a true one. Jewelsp suggested that the dark parts of the cycle, the times when no one is appealing as a romantic interest, come at moments when one is hurt and recovering. It's easy to understand how a broken heart would have a hard time risking injury again. Those moments of complete romantic abstinence are only part of the cycle, though. I understand that some people have learned to avoid those ugly parts well, and get through them quickly. However, it is still part of a cycle, and one that is pretty violent in my life. In one day I can go through and entire cycle. Starting out where all and every attractive girl is a romantic interest, then where it settles on one particularly attractive person, the hopes (of that day, week, month, year) then begin to be formed, then either satisfied or crushed. If satisfied, there's a small circle back to the hopes part, and more hopes are built up and either satisfied or crushed. If the hopes of the person in the cycle are crushed, then it seems natural to move into a period of hurt.

This hurt takes many forms. To start off, most people seem to just feel hurt. They feel weak and incapable of reaching out to anyone (and most of the time feel the need to have someone reaching out to them). Then the defense mechanisms set in. Some people have the destructive sort of mechanism, either loathing of all around them or self loathing, where no one is good enough or they'll never be good enough. Frustration abounds, and yes, I have been in this stage before, and I'm very familiar with the easy transition from the ache to anger. Not a good way to go, really. There are other defense mechanisms, such as hiding pain and making yourself busier. You might try acting as if nothing is the matter, or one might even act more cheerful than before.

Eventually there is something that brings the sharp realization that you have a problem. Oh, by the way, I'm talking to myself here. If it just so happens that none of what I've said applies to you (it might just be likely), you may discount what I've said, because this is all to get ready for what this blog is really about, anyway. When the realization comes that you are hurt, and that you need healing, there's lots of places to seek it. There are plays that help you work through emotions that are portrayed on stage that are similar to the ones you have, there are scriptures and prayer for greater understanding, light, and compassion, there are a multitude of things that help us feel what we have to feel in order to begin healing.

Once healing begins, we make a slow climb to the top of the cycle, with little encouragements here and there, a smile, a friendly hello and hug, a random phone call or email. Whatever the way, we end up once again attracted to everyone (and attractive to lots of people, I might add), and in love not only with other people but also in love with life and ourselves.

Now, I wrote all of that so I could write the next part:

Love songs are a natural stimulant of this cycle. Seriously! Love songs encourage love in general, which helps us be interested in everyone. I say that loosely, of course. If everyone was interested in everyone the world would be as crazy as I am. Love songs also push towards singular attraction: that special feeling toward a special someone. Yes, love songs can be the catalyst to push a young man or woman to action.

This is usually where love songs get me in trouble. That might be because some songs are clearly written for some types of people. A song that features long blond hair has me forgetting all about the brunette beauties that I know. And don't even get me started about eye color. Plus, there are certain songs that just go with specific personalities. Argue with me if you will, but the truth is that some songs just match!

Is it bad that I'm convinced into love by a song?

Anyway, love songs also help us past the hopeful stage, either in the direction of satisfaction and enjoyment of being preferred and preferring another's company, or into the crushing of hopes. Do you think hopes give out a juice when they're crushed? I think it must be a pretty sour one.
Mostly, for me, love songs make me face the fact that I don't have the relationships that my overactive imagination would have me believe that I have. I sing or listen to the words and say "gosh, that's not my life." And then a tear falls. Oh, so sad.

Love songs can also help one feel the emotions needed for healing to begin, and even instill new hope. I love love songs.

My personal love cycle might be described a little like this:

"Feeling Good" -- "Come to Me, Bend to Me" -- "You Don't Know Me" -- "Alejate" -- "If I Can't Love Her" -- "She Was There" -- "Feeling Good."

That's about what my last cycle through love songs was. Even one song can go through almost all of the stages of this cycle. Fore example, "If I Can't Love Her" features hopes and aspirations, the darkness of despair, anger about hurt, and the defense mechanism of cutting one's self off from the world. It's an amazingly bitter song, but it helps to get a lot of emotion out when one sings it.

So, there it is, once again, a story about something to do with love. I wanted to write something different, I really did, but my life is distraught right now with all the tests and various activities that are going on. So, if you didn't enjoy this, I'm not sorry, because I liked writing it.

So there.