Birch Trees

Special homemade video just for moi. Crystal Fair sent this.

2011-04-12T14:30:00.001-06:00

Red Satin Pillowcases

2011-02-25T13:00:00.000-07:00

I bought a red satin pillowcase. I’d rather have had silk, but it’s hard to find silk in southeast Idaho. I thought a silk pillowcase would help my night dreams improve.
The night dreams are about essays I can’t write. My writing stops in the middle of the scene. Actually, it’s not the writing; it’s getting honest and staying honest. Some things I just can’t turn and face full on yet. I want to dress them up. I don’t want to say to myself or others that reality can get so dark that we break under it.
Like what?
Like watching a judge sentence my beautiful daughter to prison for her repeated failure to stop self medication, like how she turned and looked at me to save her from the handcuffs, and like how the wooden bench felt as I dug my fingernails into it from watching them lead her away. I looked around the courtroom and noticed a detective smiling and remember how it felt to want to claw off his lips and feed them to my dog. I remember the I-cannot-stop-what-will-happen-to-her gagging me, restricting my breathing until I felt like I could pick up the bench in front of me and heave it at the judge, hoping it would crush him, crush time moving on, crush the mistakes I had made, crush the marriage that had consumed me with its problems, always stealing time from my children, like how I still sat and stared at the door they closed behind her through two more court cases, feeling buried as if whole cities had fallen on my head—I can’t write about this yet.
Or another dream about how it felt to look at a dead husband who had lain down behind a car and sucked in gas fumes, the night before, until he drifted off and out of his body. The suicide note he left in the front seat of the car seemed like an afterthought:
“I love you, Shar. And I know you love me, but my heart hurts too much.” I can’t remember what the rest of the note said, even though I still have it, hidden away, with other sacred notes, in my home.
We had to walk across a dirty red carpet to the back room of a Salt Lake City mortuary. I floated between two friends and my sister. My father sat in a car outside. He’d tried to get out of the car. I saw him grab the door handle, but he slumped back in his seat, and said “I’ll wait here; you won’t need me. I did not know if I was sad or glad that he waited in the car. I remember feeling surprised when I realized he was a coward, but I didn’t have time to justify it, to help him back on his pedestal.
I almost pulled my sister out of the car. Why couldn’t she see we needed to hurry? I did not creep up the steps of the Mortuary like my sister did. I pushed open the door quickly, still sure that I could stop whatever grotesque process was in play. I could still grab the one round rock before it rolled into an avalanche that would bury me and my children.
The worried mortician did not want us to see the body. He walked ahead of us into a stark rectangle room with a desk at one end. Mustard paint flaked off the walls in one high corner.
This—I cannot write about yet either. But I want to. I grow closer. I want to grab all of it and form it into words and place it on paper, so it’s not chaffing at my heart, always at night, in countless endless dreams.

"Like a patient etherized upon a table." T.S. Eliot

2010-06-09T12:29:00.000-06:00

My son Beau sent me a quotation from Jack Handy that cracks me up every time I read it--maybe because it strikes close to home:
"It makes me mad when I hear people say that I turned and ran like a scared rabbit. Maybe it was like an angry rabbit that was running to fight in another fight, away from the first fight."
Some days I don't think there's much left that I'm afraid of: earthquakes, famine, volcano's--pashaaw, what could they do but bring adrenaline? But, other times I worry that I'm frozen in fear, frozen stiff like a statue of marble or lead. Thoreau's words beat through my head like a trapped bird: "I don't want to reach the end of my life and realize I've never lived." Fear is crippling. It's dark and lonely. It's my war.
Mostly, I'm afraid of going numb—like one of Pavlov’s rats that gets shocked so many times she stops moving out of the way? The behaviorist trains her to just sit there because she thinks that no matter what she does the electric shock will come again and again. And thus was born the term "Learned Helplessness".
Numb, "Like a patient etherized upon a table." What is that? What is going numb? It’s not letting any little feeling surface because if one tiny feeling gets though the concrete, others may come until there’s a whole wash of them, a flood that may drown us because the painful ones may be more agonizing than any we’ve yet known, and the sorrow we’ve already known was almost unbearable. I’m afraid of fear and how it can turn us inward to live in such a small suffocating world.
So, sometimes, to choose faith instead of fear means re-framing my day from the very beginning—not just once a week or yearly, but every single day, sometimes every hour. And the fight is endless.
Without the Atonement to oil this process, to soothe this rocky struggle, I wouldn’t last 30 seconds. I would turn my back on the future and stop moving. Like the Wife of Lot, I’d turn into salt because I looked backward instead of having faith in the Lord to shape a good future. He does have that kind of power. He does want our happiness. He does have a stake in our lives turning out well. And He IS very powerful and kind.
To keep my eyes focused takes much strength. This is the single eye in the head of the Buddha. But, there is no other way and definitely no short cuts.

My River

2009-09-18T15:03:00.002-06:00

Positive and Negative

2009-09-02T00:05:00.006-06:00

Sometimes I get caught up in terms of positive or negative. As in this is a positive or negative day. Or, I can’t think these negative thoughts, or I can’t write until I write positive words. But minutes and hours and days are not negative or positive. They just are. They go on and on. Minutes tumble over each other and turn into months, and then years, then decades, and what do we have to show for them? Is it negative or positive? How do we measure experience? How do we judge time?
What will it mean if we spend our years dreaming of money we want to fling around the decks of cruise ships toward the end of our lives when we've proven we're worthy of our hire? Money—the golden American calf—a flimsy symbol of exchange for real things we think we want—a new white summer dress to show off our tans, a float boat that drifts lazily down the Snake River while we catch more fish than we can possibly eat, a new dune buggy to race up hills of sand, down hills of sand, to make big, cosmic, silly circles in sand. Or, above all, it may buy a momentary look of envy in a friend’s eyes across a small dinner table in a New York cafe.

Money—that paper representing thousands of hours of my focus and time—may buy me a solid house with a full basement of food storage, so I can be safe and ready . . . for what? The End? The end of what? Some nights I see in dreams my fragile children falling from cliffs, and I am screaming until my throat bleeds, and it does not stop their fall. And they lie on the ground at my feet so real that I reach out and try to gather their jagged bones in my arms. But . . . with a full supply of food storage, I can, at least, be sure I won’t have to go begging to neighbors, whom I hardly know and barely like, for food and water. Ah, the threat of humiliation bred into me— probably worse than whatever pain the End will inflict.

Last night a small snake that lives in the flowers by the front porch slithered across the door’s threshold as I opened the screen. It was as thin as a pencil and as long as my foot. The snake must have been trying to find a warm place up against the door ridge or more bugs to eat. (Have I ever mentioned that I loathe snakes, detest them, and fear them like I fear rabid, raving Republicans?) This pearl-colored snake sashayed back and forth, fast, toward the coat closet before I could grasp that another of my nightmares was actually happening in front of me. (Though in my dreams, the snake is thick and ten feet long and, of course, poisonous.) He slid back out of the dark corner of the closet to slime sideways across the floor, and I beat him with a broom until I almost swallowed my tongue. He slithered back and forth, trying to squeeze under the door jam, back to the closet, and then slid sideways toward me. I swept him out the door with such force he flew across my garden fence. And then I clinched both fists, while I sat on the couch, shivering, to keep from smashing him into powder with huge rocks. Fear is an illness like a bad flu. Fear is a definite negative.

Or is it worth anything to me if my years never quite lost some moments of curiosity and creativity even though for many hours a day I tried to become a “company” person—to bend to those in control whose ideals I wanted to believe in, but could not because those ideals seemed to fly around the universe like loose wet paper, a compromise between fidelity to God and an obsession to turn out students on a conveyor belt who would, above all, be able to make more money. Can these two goals exist in the same overall blueprints? What has it all meant? The time I gave to my employer, organizing lesson plans, attending endless meetings, typing recommends for students who have no idea what lies ahead of them? I, who once received A’s, now gave out A’s—for what? Is it courage or resignation that I do not let the grind or the deadlines stop my ornery voice, keep me from singing Santana when others are not around? Or blind me to the deer in my backyard who stand so still that time stops? Or, instead, will I shut myself up in high towers –for creativity’s sake—and turn into cement?

What happens to the times we gave to friends who have moved on? The hours we lavished on our lovers--the vibrant richness we thought would never end, though it soon settled into dappled colors? If nothing ever disappears or is destroyed, where are the days we spent watching the skies and thinking about God, astonished at how His essence can infuse everything beautiful, but wondering how He can possibly hear our puny little prayers when at the same moment a small boy in Afghanistan is torn from his parents and bashed against a wall? Do those times get logged down in a book or do they fragment and float outward into space connecting with . . . what?

Earnest Hemingway won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1954 (?) and took his own life in 1961. His wife locked his rifles and pistols in the basement, and then put the keys behind the kitchen faucet. Why did she think he did not know where they were? Or did she know? I thought his suicide was in bad taste, not because he blew his head off—he had that right; we fought a war in heaven over his rights—but because he blew pieces of his brains all over the stairs for his wife to find when she woke up.

In Italy, I have trailed my fingers across the marble of a Michelangelo statue and felt so animated. I cried the same tears over the deep colors of a Rembrandt as I cried in 1960 Monterey, CA over a Crosby, Stills, & Nash concert. I have planted vegetables and flowers and watched them grow and ridden a horse to the tops of mountains behind the grand Tetons. I have tasted blood in my mouth during childbirth and buried two husbands—one in the ground, one in my heart. In Turkey, I lay on a midnight balcony to catch a breeze and watched two men below me play an all night game of chess in a perfectly round pool of light from the street lamp. I have listened to a Dylan song that suddenly helped me make sense of a confused moment. In Greece, I have felt under my feet the same smooth stone path that Paul walked in sandals to preach the gospel. I sat on cool benches in a chapel where John is rumored to have taken Mary after the crucifixion. I’ve jumped out of a plane and turned somersaults before the chute opened. On a black horse, I’ve chased a fox across snowdrifts, and I've heard the fall elk bugle in Harriman Park. I’ve watched my granddaughter laugh and dance as she blew bubbles that turned into rainbows and floated down on her hair.

I can’t stuff experience into negative and positive categories—except fear and snakes. Life is complicated and worth it—though I admit I go back and forth on that one—but what does it all mean? Do we live so we can have eternal life? Why? I don’t have any doubts about God. I know He is real and near, though often I don’t understand Him.

I doubt me. What if I don’t want eternal life? What if I don’t feel like I’ve got what it takes for eternal living? Eternity is a long time.

I have seen much beauty and know a few truths. I’ve been through great miracles, and I have paid for them—but not like the Savior paid. I can’t even comprehend what He did, which, I hope, is some kind of proof it’s all worth it. This is what I hang on to when the fog sets in.

Twitter

2009-04-18T15:42:00.004-06:00

Evacuate the rap of flip, zip,
I’m-so-hip one-liners.
Empty telephone wires
that never connect.

Rattle, zero prattle
Slappy, dappy madness—
Cell phones instead of ears
Replace being awake.

Let me have a break and back
Off, Jack. Eat the clichés
That say stop and desist.
Give it up. Enough.

Let me breathe
You deep into my brain.
See you laughing at 9 am on a Sunday.
Watch you pull apart a cinnamon bun.

Licking sticky fingers
Dipping fried bananas into huckleberry jam
as you tell me a long story
of motorcycle rides through Lolo pass.

2009

2008-12-31T23:59:00.002-07:00

Hey, New York. I scanned the skies and TV monitor for all you back east people. Times Square looked so great. I kept looking for your faces. They flipped to J. Brothers too many times(ugga), but I knew you were there in that 02 degree weather. We miss all of you.

On the Lighter Side--True Story (except for "minus 30)

2008-12-19T13:14:00.004-07:00

OK, I just have to tell someone this: Yesterday, I was sort of drowning (as you see from last post), but I was so busy writing in my journal to keep from jumping up and screaming every obscenity I know, and some I've forgotten, from the back porch that I was only vaguely aware of Cat (who hasn't got a 'real' name yet) running up and down the stairs and furiously round and round the kitchen. I thought Patch was chasing her because he does that when he's bored, but I looked up once (when the noise got a little out of control), and he was sitting by me watching the kitchen intently.
The noise IS unusual at this point, and somewhere far in the back of my mind I'm thinking of a discussion I had with Jacob on Monday about the woman in Ammon who was almost robbed recently. A man, posing as a book sales person (how dare he), shoved a gun in her ribs, tied her up, then started grabbing computers, video games, etc. and piling them by her front door. But, someone honks a car horn outside, so this guy runs out without taking any of the stuff. (What an idiot. I swear the IQ of thieves is dropping daily.) Her kids find her tied up when they get home from school--how traumatic for them. So, Jacob and I are discussing visits to locksmiths, since, let's face it, I'm never going to remember the safe place where I've hidden the key to unlock my 22, and because for some reason I've always wanted to shoot a thief (now, no gasping, please--just in the arm or leg). It's a secret dream of mine because HOW DARE THEY? I paid for my stuff, and no one, not even PresElect Obama is going to take it--unless I say so! But, hey, I'm busy writing my book to stay off the blog, like Matt Esq suggested I do, so who cares about creepo, probably meth-induced robberies, right?

OK, so I get up around midnight to hunt through my kitchen for some chocolate, and right there--between me and the kitchen--is not a thief but a mouse. Now, mice are not like snakes with me (a dead snake on my rug would have had me dialing 911), but I'm gagging, and this mouse looks like it's just faking dead. I don't want to pick it up because what if it starts squirming. The thought makes me gag twice, but I also don't want the cat throwing it up in the air again, and Patch is moving through my legs to sniff. And where did it come from anyway? I'm sure I've been "mouse-free" for years even though I know this is impossible when one lives in the middle of trees by a river, for hecks sake. But, I'M NOT PICKING THIS MOUSE UP! ... Yet, I have to get to the kitchen. Suddenly, I'm laughing hysterically, doubled over the back of the couch, because this is sort of a gift from God--the death of a rodent--to break my depression. Get it? It's so symbolic and I'm laughing so hard at myself that now I have to go to the bathroom, which means I have to pass the mouse, so I might as well pick it up, since I don't dare go upstairs and leave this dead thing down here with Patch and Cat, who sits by my feet, looking indignant, like, "Hey, I brought you a Christmas present and you dare laugh?" (I'm trying for the world's longest sentences, though I'll never beat Henry James.)

So, I edge by, carefully watching for signs of movement, wanting to call my mother, for some reason, to ask what to do, but she is terrified of mice and once stood on a kitchen chair until my dad got home because one was under our sink, and it's now past midnight for hecks sake. I grab almost a full roll of paper towels, but that's not enough, so I pad them into an old cloth towel I won't mind throwing away, while the whole time, I'm screaming at Patch and Cat to stay by me: "Don't you dare go near that mouse, or you'll be as dead as he (or she) is," but that's the problem--is this mouse dead or a great Hollywood actor in disguise? I mean his legs (I'm sure it's a "he" now, since who else would dare interrupt my depression in the middle of the night. Females know instinctively that we all work it out on our own. They quietly sympathize, then leave us alone, bless their hearts. And, no fair jumping on that sexist remark) are sticking straight up, and his eyes are closed, but...who knows? So, I loosely cover him with a mountain of "stuff," and gingerly gather him up--because I swear if he's faking it and starts moving around, I'll throw him and towels and run for Canada, which means he could land stuck on the ceiling and stay there clear through Christmas (remember, it's past midnight, and I'm not thinking too clearly, nor would you under said circumstances).

Now, I'm carrying him--with my head turned sideways--convinced he's suffocated by if he truly wasn't dead--and head for the garbage can; but wait, I can't leave him in a can inside my house! But, how can I put him down to find shoes because he could still be faking death and suddenly run out from underneath the towels? I mean who knows? There’s been a lot of fake stuff happen in my life. So, I open the garage door, with two fingers, my head still turned sideways, and walk out in the snow to throw a dead rodent into my garbage can-- whose lid is frozen shut. I kick the can hard with my bare feet and bang my shoulder against it, because I'm not putting this mouse down for anything. And do you know how stinkin' cold it is here? Minus 30 without wind-chill (slightly exaggerated for effect). I finally run clear to the fence behind the shed and throw him--towels and all--into the big gully, and on my frozen run back, I'm wondering, "Is that littering?" which my dad taught us never to do.

I LOVE CAT. She is now playing with the colored lights that swirl around my floor from the crystals hanging from the windows (like in Pollyanna). She is truly one of the Great Females in my life right now. She's resting. I'm saving the rest of the mice (such as there is) for Em to catch, so she won't ever be bored living here in Ice City.

This is me screaming---Clear to Japan--Blood Essay

2008-12-17T14:33:00.009-07:00

Kylie asked why I’m screaming. I'm answering her on a different blog.
Kylie, you sweet innocent, I’m screaming because I've tried to catch up on the WC blog, I wrote replies, tried to patch up hurt fingers, change subjects, track down "Anonymous" (which I misspelled twice, but will never do so again), told WC assistants, in the most subtle way possible, that I'm glad everyone is homesick when they go home because home is behind us and ahead of us, NOT down here in this hell-hole of a life, but Julie said it better, so no one even talked to me but you, and Britt, Katie, Crystal, and Julie, Jami, Travis, Anona, Chan, and Matt (who said over e-mail at midnight, “Why don’t you just take a vacation from the blog and go write another book?")--which is, I guess, quite a lot of people talking to me, but it doesn’t feel like anyone because ... I, myself, am whining too much to feel the Spirit, which IS the only real comfort and peace we have. And no matter what anyone says to you, or promises you, or whatever they DON’T say to you, that is the absolute truth, because the Lord is the only One who can fill up emptiness.

But, here’s the kicker: He can’t give us peace when there’s no room at the Inn—when we’re too filled up already with resentment, or anger, or fear, or pain—and your incessant whining brought me face-to-face with my own pain, and I just want it all to go away, just like you do.

I want to crawl into a closet and sit, hugging my knees with my head down, until it melts away or thrashes itself to death against my bedroom window. I remember Chan saying "[when the memories hit too hard], use the Atonement," but I can’t right now, because my children are in pain—real pain, which I can’t even talk about. And because it snowed again--heavy.

So, I'm adding to the deep, sick, crap-sorrow-—claustrophobia, because now I can’t drive down my lane to help my 90-yr-old parents hang lights on their tree--because they’re sitting there too tired after dragging the tree in from the garage--even though I’ve driven round and round my driveway to pack down the snow, and Jacob and J. shoveled out my truck, so I could get down my lane, IT SNOWED AGAIN—-GET IT? DO YOU GET THAT because it’s important to me that you understand--it will always snow again. And twenty years ago, I could have taken a shovel and gleefully thrown snow clear over the roof, clear to Japan, but now I’m stuck here because it snowed again.

And Patch won’t eat because he gets depressed when I’m depressed, and so I’m saying, “Look, Patch, this can of dog food says Top-Sirloin Flavored... and Prime Cuts. “Umm, yum, yum,” and then I’m thinking, well, yeah, sure, someone offered you Prime Cuts once--over an altar--and it wasn’t real; it was a lie, and then I realize I’m comparing Jim to DOG FOOD, which does momentarily make me laugh, because sometimes it feels so good to hate him—-even at Christmas when we’re supposed to forgive everyone--especially when he should be here with a snow blower, or at his grandchildren’s basketball games, or helping my parents (whom he loved, and yet still broke my father’s heart when he just...left, without a backward glance, and, damn, I can’t fix it, because I’m not enough. I’m not a strong son-in-law, who can shovel snow off my dad’s roof), and, also, Jim should be with me right now wrapping presents to send to Turner in Slovakia or Parker in Mexico, or to Beau-—damn you, Jim, damn you clear to the hottest hell-—to Beau and Megan, and to Jason-—he should be anywhere but in a nice new house with a "Nice" new women, when my family is still sealed to him! Ahhhhhhhh...some days I think I will break in half. Yes, Kylie, this is me screaming, though I’m writing it on another blog, so you’ll never hear it, so you won’t catch this disease, this fear of the future from me.

And who can blame him for leaving since I am an angry, insane person and always sad? I can't even stand to be around me. I would have left me also. I did leave me. It was all too sad.

But, that’s not true. It’s literally not true. I’m looking at pictures of myself before Jim (Megan sneaked these pics out of Randy’s Minnesota house last summer, just for me), and I’m laughing and light and I remember—though it gets more vague—that life tasted so sweet and how I was glad to see the morning, even excited. ...so, what in the holy hell happened?

If I could just see it clearly, once, just understand a little of it....

And sometimes I just want to crawl in his bed and lay my head up under his chin or hear his voice because I can’t remember what it sounded like, but I remember it made me feel safe and warm—sometimes. And sometimes it made me feel like I had already died.

And the point is that no one can help you, and I don’t want help because I HAVE TO GET OUT OF THIS CRAP-HOLE MYSELF—and Heavenly Father is the only One who can really help. But, how the hell can He get through so much pain before it suffocates me, squeezes me until my bones break like brittle little mice bones. And I hear a line in my head from English Patient where the Count says, “Every night I cut out my heart, but by morning it grows back again.”

What I wanted to say to those groaning WC assistants was this: Wait to whine until you hit real trials. I know they seem big now, but they’re not, and how you handle these small ones will help you get through the big ones. You’re whining because your parents gave your room to your brother? Wait to whine until you’re 61, and you don’t go to church because some idiot speaker will say, “Everyone (she actually held her breath, anticipating the joy she’d bring to the congregation), now... close your eyes and remember your best Christmas.” And you innocently close your eyes because this is church, right? And Church should be safe, right? But you suddenly see a roomful of laughing children, a tall husband who can fight lions and tigers and bears oh my, and a big tree dripping with drippy ornaments made by the kids (which now sit in someone else’s garage, who doesn’t recognize which childish paper Mache is which, nor does she care). And because the tears wouldn’t stop gushing, you leave through the side door, embarrassed, but knowing now that Christmas can be lethal, and maybe it will be until you die.

Wait to whine until you wake up with eyes that hurt before you even open them. Wait until you have to take half the morning to re frame the day in terms of eternities, so you don’t look ahead and just see days of waking to no one--gray, quiet-quietness, where not even temples help-- before you can pull on clothes and drag yourself to a hostile place where friends used to be. Wait until you wake up to what you never thought would be your life because you wanted so much—-you, who raced a palomino horse down the Iona hill chasing rabbits through sagebrush, sure you would be empress of the universe someday; you dreamed so high that this can’t possibly be true—-THIS is the dream--I’ve disappeared already and only my shadow drifts around this house-—it’s ethereal. I’m not solid, but blend in with the chairs and tables. I’m a ghost before I’m dead. How incredibly strange, and it’s cold, so cold that my warmest blanket can’t get my blood moving again.

But, it’s not a dream, and you have to reach down and drag up from nowhere more strength and courage and spit and brassy grit because this stupid cat and dog are sitting at your feet looking up, as if to say, “Well, hey, you’re all we have, and--such as you are--you’re enough, so... what’s your problem?”

Therefore, I will turn my whole body towards the pain to disarm it, so it can kill me--face it, you wimp, you gutless wonder of a wispy wimp-—and feel it until you can’t feel any more, because it can’t kill you because nothing ever dies, and isn’t that the great irony? I am fighting an unreal battle—-a total illusion. ... I’m tilting at windmills, and right now, I don’t know if that’s painfully hilarious or heart breaking. Nope. I’m smiling. It’s funny. But, wow, what a waste of energy.

So, today, I thank the gods and God the Father that “after great pain, a formal feeling comes” and “Peace comes dropping slow,” so I can go take pictures of the snow as it falls on the river, the six-inch tufts on my deck posts, the bird and deer tracks, and it will be a good again-—for a while. I don’t know how, but the trees and river, and Patch chasing a squirrel, spraying up powder, will make it good again, so I can breathe-—because ...where else is there to go?

My biggest fear all my life has been that I would die before I died, and that is the actual battle I’m fighting through. How strange. And how stupid! Did I know this before? If I did, I wouldn’t have chosen it. Tanner Stellmon, in all your arguments about free agency, I think whoever chose this is either a total masochist or someone who had false grandiose illusions about her own strength. It wasn't moi. I just can't be that stupid. Right?

I’m going now...going to Innisfree to take pictures of shadows on the snow. (Count them—-four prepositions in that last sentence).

Dying is as constant as living

2008-12-06T23:56:00.002-07:00

Cool green shade
slides across the river.
Even mosquitoes are sleeping.

But bats zip in the nights,
blind, like military jets
heading straight for warm blood.

"The Times they are a Changin'" (Bob Dylan)

2008-11-05T16:54:00.005-07:00

I'm not going to say anything about the politics of the situation because I know my political views are different from others. Politics aside I'm looking at the big picture. Sister Morgan summed it up best with her Facebook status:

"Sharon Morgan is crying because she saw race riots in person, and now for the first time in 38 years, she feels proud of her country again."

Amen. Amen.

"Yes We Can."
"Yes We Did."
"Change has come to America."

All of these phrases marked tonight, which I would say is one of the more historic moments in the history that I have witnessed. Though it's not saying much it still says something. In my lifetime I have witnessed things like the Tuesday morning of Sept. 11, 2001. I remember coming in through the door after seminary, and shock as I stood next to my dad, eyes glued to the TV as the last of the twin towers fell to the ground, thousands of pounds of concrete peeling downwards. I knew then that the world would end. All chaos was about to be unleashed upon the nations of the world because people out there were evil enough to throw planes into buildings. And for what? What a contrast today is to that day. Two different Tuesdays.

I'm Canadian. Though American politics is fun to watch and follow, it really is like watching a sport to me. I follow it the same way I would follow a favorite sports team--slightly detached and rooting for a team that really doesn't mean much. That's not to say the issues aren't important, but they don't affect me directly because I'm not American. Sad truth though is that having spent the last five years in America, I know more about what's going on here than back at home. The issues here have more relevance (if not relative importance) to the issues at home.

Today, I saw a million people gather in a place that was the site of racial riots 40 years ago to support a new President. I saw in the smiles of the anonymous million waiting for President Obama to make his acceptance speech, the shadow of hundreds of years of civil rights atrocities and injustices lift from the face of America. I saw in the hugs of jubilation that differences can bring us together: history doesn't have to dictate the future. I saw in their tears the visual expression of the hope that I felt.

I'm not a very optimistic person. I'm a person that loses faith in humanity more and more as I get older, but tonight it was different. In those people's expressions I felt hope, I felt hope in humanity because I knew that America had gone a long way to overcome it's own past. America elected an African-American man to be its president.

I don't know how long this hope I feel will last, but I know that at for at least one night, I can be proud of the human race again. Ivor Lee

Well said, Ivor. This win was breathtaking; I am overjoyed, but probably for different reasons from those of my friends and colleagues.
No one could say McCain isn’t a sincere man after listening to his gracious concession speech. But, as the Prime Minister of England just said, “This day will go down as one of the most significant days in history.” I do not think people realize yet what has happened.

Except you're wrong, Ivor, when you say American politics don't affect you. What happens in this country is always global. The eyes of the world are always upon us. And, for many years, I've ducked my head because of that, wanting to clain I was Canadian, Irish, an alien from Mars. We have a constitution that says we will live under a true democracy—which means we are supposed to be a country who gaurentee human rights for every single child of God—whether that person is Jewish, Hispanic, White, Black, or Chinese. In case anyone forgot— Democracy is “for the people and by the people.” Yet, when I was your age, I saw that we spoke out of both sides of our mouths. We were the greatest of hypocrites. I saw Afro-Americans (what an ironic term) beaten by police and spit upon, humiliated by white people; whites who then walked home to eat family dinners as if they had just been swatting flies. I saw little girls with black hair and skin hide behind their mother's skirt when a caucasian came near them. I saw more than I could stomach--more than I wanted to see. And I can never forget it.
More importantly, I saw massive discrimination happening in a critical arena— minorities had to fight to get an education or even be admitted to our universities. No wonder so many just gave up. Is it possible that people in this country think this did not happen? I was ashamed to be an American for many years, as I witnessed abuse of authority (Nixon’s deceit; Clinton’s blatant and embarrassing immorality, Bush’s stupidity), our genocide in Vietnam as we protested genocides in other countries, our division and petty politics, our cruelty to each other as children shot other children. (How did you make it through your high schools without severe mental damage? Uhh, never mind. I take back that question.) There was no United in the United States I grew up in--except for a brief time under J.F. Kennedy (the first Catholic to be voted president), but he was assassinated, as was Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy shortly after.
Disillusioned with my country? That’s too mild a word. I have felt guilty, ashamed, angry, and embarrassed—and responsible for its condition—until the tragedy at Kent State when my feelings turned into a bitter cynicism, which I have tried to keep to myself (unsuccessfully) for many years.
The point, for me, is not so much the next four years: most people realize that whoever won (won? another ironic term) the presidency, whether it was McCain or Obama, would be extremely limited in what he could accomplish in the White House. We know the next president inherits a narrow isle, in which he can operate, from the presidency before him. Obama‘s presidency (or McCain’s if he had won) will succeed or fail by the choices he makes in his cabinet. If he surrounds himself with good, EDUCATED advisors, and if he listens to others and pays attention to what history has taught us (or not taught some of us), he may be able to pull us up a notch or two. And, in this area, maybe his inexperience will be an asset, since he will need to listen and learn. But, it’s naive of some to think that either McCain or Obama could fix what’s wrong with this country— either economically or politically, nor can they fix our relationships with foreign countries. We are in a mess that we ourselves have created. And it’s our value system that is at fault. Our heroes are movies stars and sports figures. We idolize the rich and despise the poor. We celebrate army tanks in our parades. We give away our right to privacy. And we do not respect each other. Blah Blah Blah.
But, last night I saw a shift in American values. I am elated about the historical change in the American people. For me, this signals the beginning of the end of racism and prejudice. (Dr. King only brought attention to our hypocrisy.) To me, this means other countries can finally view us as a place where EVERYONE does have a chance to pursue a dream and actually reach it. Maybe they will view us as a democracy again rather than a group of white skinheads—rich ego elitists. I have hope that in my next trip to Europe, I will not ridiculed for being from the USA. I saw young people filling Times Square; cameras showed them pouring out of dorm rooms at colleges celebrating their country for the first time in 35 years. Why? Because we all want to change. We want to be proud of our country. We want to be unified. I saw a long dry apathy blowing away in the wind.
I was in graduate school when President Kimball received the revelation that Afro-Americans could now receive the priesthood. You cannot imagine the pure joy flowing within the halls of an English Department where it was always difficult to reconcile a discriminatory ideology. I had such a hard time understanding how we were ALL children of God, when some of us—even though worthy— were denied full temple blessings. But, I knew the church was true, so I swallowed this paradox and kept my faith high anyway. When the revelation came through President Kimball (who prayed long and hard, because he was also troubled), my sister’s husband, who is anti-Mormon, said, “Of course, this decision was made. It was completely political. The church has to APPEAR to go along with the Civil Rights movement.” Soon after, at an LDS Conference, the Lord let us ALL understand the revelation was held back because WE were not ready to receive it. (And it’s true that many in the South left the church at that time because it was too hard for them to think of taking the sacrament sitting next to a colored person.)
If the American people can vote in an Afro-American, they may have no problem, someday, electing an L.D.S. president, which could never have happened before this. Those who have lived all their lives among the saints find this hard to believe, but it's true. It may not be Mitt Romney, but whomever (?) will have a chance.
I am overwhelmed, absolutely stunned, astounded—I cried and cried— not because I think Obama will lead us out of this mess—we will have to take responsibility for that—but simply because Americans finally grew up enough to elect someone without discriminating against race (maybe we can add gender later). Even just to see young people politically alive again makes history. And by the end of the week, everything I'm saying will be cliched. But, for me, right now, I finally understand patriotism.

However, a small bubble of cynicism still sits right under my ribs. I am still afraid that those who oppose the status quo will be assassinated and was glad to see the thick protective glass surrounding both candidates last night.
But, . . . Wow. It finally felt good to vote again.

Changes--Beautiful Women

2008-10-26T00:49:00.000-06:00

Lodge poles

2008-10-13T15:57:00.004-06:00

Living is throwing a rock at a car.
Kicking a cat.
Tossing toothpaste and socks in a bag,
grabbing keys and driving

somewhere, no where for a week.
It’s a silent scream
at winter coming before you say it’s OK.
It’s sin that cuts both ways.

Wear a scarf over your blond hair
or someday some creep will scalp you
and hang it from his lodgepole.
And they will praise his name in the hallways.

You will never be safe, yet you must act safe
And never tremble to face the day.
The sun will not shine when you want.
And the rains won't come.

But the sea rolls in
and out again. And you breathe
whenever, wherever you choose.
It’s true. Ask anyone.

Recent pics of Henrietta Pew--beautiful

2008-10-12T02:16:00.006-06:00

Question? Which picture looks like Brian? Which one is Emily, Emily, Emily?

"Peace comes dropping slow"

2008-10-05T20:34:00.004-06:00

My friend reminded me today of a character in a story I told her about. He was hurt and dying, trying to crawl along a desert floor toward his daughter. An evil Shaman stood over him and said, "I see two wolves at war in your heart--both powerful--one is dark and stained; one is light. Which one will win?" The man squinted at him through the blood running from his eyes and said, "Whichever one I feed the most."

I love this.

The Shaman spits on him and leaves. Then a beautiful bird lands by the man, and the man whispers, "Little Brother, I have treated you well all my life; help me now. Show me the way."

After conference weekend, I am humbled at the clear power of the Prophet to show us the way. I wrote down questions and fears I had. After the first session on Saturday, all had been answered and peace filled up the room. I took pictures of the leaves reflected in the river, of the trees, and sunset. I am amazed at all I have been blessed with, and at how fast my life can change. I am well. I am happy today. And I am stronger than I have been in a great while. This is not bragging. I am just back on the path I started many many years ago, and it feels safe, and it looks beautiful.

Scavenging echoes

2008-09-17T11:14:00.004-06:00

I don’t know when I’ve felt so empty. As I count my days, I see many I’ve spent alone—more than most, but I can’t remember emptiness. I was always filled up with friends from my books, with their pain and ecstasy; in fact, maybe that was a curse. I attached only to a few close friends right in front of me. The friends I knew intimately were homeless or aristocratic, wandering, or frantically engaged, peaceful or catastrophic and always bigger than life itself. I walked around with Anna Karenina’s silent wail, Gatsby’s unshakable dream, My Antonia’s yellow wheat fields, Tess’s lost eyes looking down such dark roads. (Scattered roses weren't enough. How did Hardy know that?) I never waited for a doctor’s appointment without traveling to an Italian loggia or London garden from Howard’s End or Room with a View. Numb? I ran to the moors with Heathcliff.

The emptiness is huge, chrome-like, all in shades of silver, gray, and black. It’s standing in a carved out circle with ten hallways extending off of it, without ceilings. And they wind away from the circle with nothing in them but air. I feel like a tiny piece of gravel, because the empty is bigger than standing in front of the sea, bigger than the universe. It’s vast.
And I’m surprised. I never anticipated its constant insistence on making itself known. This quiet encircles people, crowds, the earth and goes on forever. I feel people moving around me, hear them talking, but it’s jargon. I could grab the words out of the air and shape them into steel spears to drive into the moon or carve them into willows to roast marshmallows.
I drive through Idaho fields toward home, and there’s just the steering wheel. I can feel the highway rolling under the tires, but even the sounds are all low like far away thunder. I don’t look up anymore to search for the hawks. It feels like drifting away from chatter and chaos, from endless busy-ness—just drifting—floating, sort of evaporating.
Still, I have been blessed. There are traces of opera left—I can hear it like I hear echoes in a canyon. Narrow Italian streets with crumbling tangerine plaster. Pigeons in Venice too thick to walk through. Winding staircases and cicadas. The horror of the coliseum. The hot walk up through the bored shopkeepers to the Parthenon. We could barely make our way through the ghosts and barely sense their grandeur.(What did they want? Why did they build this pillared massive stone monument? In hopes that the gods would smile on them? And who was I next to these lost people?)
And the bright, sharp, Van Gogh light in Southern France with strangers sitting at tables eating strawberry crepes. We said we’d make love in every town across Europe to make it our own, though we fought once in Florence—my most favorite pile of stones in the entire world. I don’t know. I thought it was his fault because he wanted to shop for leather, but maybe he couldn't live up to my expectations of a Medici moon. Maybe everything else paled beside the harps floating up from the restaurant beneath the sculpture garden.
I have loved some good men; my heart is full of great children, but knowing them has made the quiet bigger and wider.
I always believed in the sweet surrender of a someday-death, but there is no death. The real tragedy of suicides is that we live on forever. No one will ever die; we go on and on whether we like it or not, though we move into phases in life that we don’t anticipate. New landscapes that someone at sometime somewhere must have whispered about, but I was too blind and deaf to understand them. Now, I hear the empty spaces even in the books and their depths spin my head, along with the courage of the authors, who attempt to uncover them. There must be a way to become comfortable with changes, to live with the empty quiet gracefully and “first do no harm.”
I want to stop the car at the railroad-crossing, drift along the tracks to the Snake River, ease through the wild wheat to slip into wet, smooth coldness and swim clear to China where red and yellow flags hang in streets smelling of fish and poppy flowers. I want to crush through a mass of people, watch children flying kites, or chase rabbits through the sagebrush. And I see Streisand turning in circles in The Way We Were saying, “I want, I want, I want.” What I really want is to be past this phase or at least walk through it with grace and clarity.

Memories--Sweet Summer Day

2008-08-19T12:45:00.016-06:00

(Play the song; the last clip is Young Dylan on Johnny Cash show: "once I had mountains in the psalm of my hand" ... whew.
Redondo Beach, California. 1967. A Summer night by the sea.
Danny’s three room apartment is painted deep blue. A red silk scarf from a flea market drapes down crazy in a corner--not where one would expect. Something written in Chinese calligraphy hangs over the couch; sounds of Leonard Cohan, Moody Blues, Janis Joplin. Someone smokes rolled cigarettes. This room is filled with good friends--though we don't know names. Our baked skin from a long ocean day brings us close, brought us here. My lips still taste like salt. I comb sand from my hair onto a towel and slide down to lean against a couch, the only furniture in the room. A dark-haired girl lights Sandalwood incense. People move around in muted talking, cooking in a tiny kitchen. Sandals scrunch sand on the tiles. Kat, from Idaho, pulls my hair back and braids it into strands, tying the ends with string. Another girl weaves the braids together with pieces of thin cloth she cuts from a blue scarf. There is no fear in this room. (Most of my life, I’ve been blessed with good friends. Sometimes they seem to come out of nowhere.) Faces shine in the dim light. My muscles release into drowsy--from running in sand, sea spray, sun and more sun, waves breaking over my shoulders. The dark-haired girl hands me a plastic fork, ice water, a hand-painted dish filled with cheesecake and warm raspberry jam. Someone else comes out of the shower. I trust these people--all of them. Here, I am not just what I can do. I am not my face or wit. I just "am" to them. We listen to the end of “Nights in White Satin.” For a moment, it’s quiet: a soft kind of easy stillness that no one wants to break. I hear a spoon scraping a bowl and seagulls on the beach. Danny picks up a guitar. Long-haired-blond-guy by the window wipes a harmonica on his shirt. He blows three or four notes, licks his lips, drinks water, while Danny picks at strings. He hits a certain chord. The blond person glances over. They strum and blend, and we sing--just because we want to, just because it’s a good day. In this twilight room, there is no Vietnam, JFK, Dr King, or Lyndon B. It’s just us and “Take a Load off Fannie.” Then, for the first time, I hear Bob Dylan's "Girl from the North Country." Even now, when I grow up I want to be Bob Dylan. The music could go on forever, floating out over the sand, over the ocean, straight up to the stars. I think good memories must be rocks we step on to get over bad ones.

Opening Ceremonies--A Celebration of the Human Body.

2008-08-09T20:40:00.003-06:00

OK. Yes, my heart hurts over Tibet (it has for a long time), and yes, I'm aware that a family member of our Volley Ball coach was murdered by a Chinese man on Saturday (who immediately committed suicide), and of other sundry events taking place as I write,but I'm still in awe over the opening Olympic Ceremonies.
Can we argue that some of the money spent should have gone to other causes? Yes. Of course. Is it strange to see Pres. Bush playing volleyball in Beijing while Russia blows Georgia off the map? Yes (enough said on that issue). But, I feel sorry for any who missed the opening ceremonies (except for EmPo and Bradly, whose wedding is a very good excuse). What an amazing event!
Zhang Yimou (director of HERO, HOUSE OF FLYING DAGGERS, etc.) gets most of the credit. Maybe later, he will regret aligning himself with China's official authoritarian state identity, since he's been at odds with China's leaders most of his life, but he is an incredible Chinese Artist--maybe "he" will be the future China, as he tries to move his beloved homeland out from under Mao Zedong's shadow, or, maybe he's in the process of selling out his old beliefs--but, right now I don't care, because he gave those who saw it an amazing gift of art, vision, theology, harmony, and pure beauty. I heard two newscasters today, who have covered over 25 opening ceremonies between them, say they have never seen anything like it, not only in the Olympics, but also in any art form, ever; nor did they expect to see such an event again in their lifeimes. One said, "There are no words for it."

Today, I got addicted, forgot about politics, watched volleyball, swimming, and cycling--yuk--but I loved it all--even found myself routing for Lithuania's long-haired Samoilovs against US almost-seven-foot giant, who should have won, but didn't. And good for Spain for winning the cyclist race, which was painful to watch because of the tortuous route. The point? The celebration of the physical human body is the center of the Olympic Games. My body hurts all the time now, but I remember how it feels to be healthy (though none of us will ever reach the training heights of Olympians. Hardly). I love this celebration, no matter where it's held, but, there's no doubt that Zhang Yimou artistic portrayal will be hard to beat--ever. If you missed it, try to pull up some news coverage re-runs--but not from YouTube--don't wade through the hate mongers; go to a reputable news source--that is, if you can find one.

Twins Fawns across the River--Late Summer Afternoon

2008-08-08T18:36:00.001-06:00

Your children's courage comes from you...

2008-08-07T12:09:00.003-06:00

I love you, Mom. And I love these beautiful souls you've found in your students. And I love how much they love you. You're post isn't depressing; it's just truth. Our truth... None of us saw the holes we've fallen in. It was an impossible situation for us all. But your children are crawling out of them now, looking to you for our way, though. Because you are our strength, our comfort, the reason that we are brave and alive today. Don't forget that. I love you with all my heart.

GM, pain can't be "silly," because it hurts too much. (Don't read; very depressing post)

2008-08-06T13:43:00.010-06:00

GM, I love your comments because they push me further. One thing I know for sure-- I don't know how God thinks. I don't know His perspective.
When He says, "His ways are not our ways," I think this sentence is filled with the deepest kind of implications. He knows us, but we cannot comprehend Him. However, I wish I knew more, because I get so impatient with Him.
And it doesn't pay to get impatient with God. In fact, maybe that's the whole trip. (Sorry, if I sound a little bitter today.) I think feeling long-lasting pain just doesn't pay off. It’s simple economics. Nature says if you don't grow, you can't just stay the same; you wither and die, or someone has to cut off the brown withered part and throw it away. My problem is that I can't seem to cut off my own "withering" parts. (Wow. Poor analogy.)
Pain is familiar, but I hate it. Some parts of my past can still make me gasp and actually double over from the sharp edges of memories: the comfort of laying my head on a husband's shoulder during a dull sacrament meeting, waking up to a full house of laughing kids, barking dogs, and the smell of pancakes, racing a fox on my own horse on our own land— so much of it is washed over with false sunshine that I even forget the dark holes I skirted--big holes that Megan and Beau fell into. Some of my pain is "long lasting" because I still stare it in the face while I watch them suffer from MY decisions. This pain--the pain over your father, the ache over lost relationships, or sharp betrayals that should not have happened-- can't be "silly." It's too physical, too busy etching scars on our universe. But, I believe getting lost in it wastes our time. However, sometimes I get so lost in those dark corners, James; it takes me weeks to fight back out. If God could tell me how to cut this away--even if He said to use a knife--I'd do it in a second. That would be easy. (I think motivation for most “cutters” is to get rid of pain. Too bad it doesn’t work.)
Can God cut away pain? I believe He can, but it's conditioned on more spirituality and more obedience than I can give Him. To me, this is the great tragedy: The Atonement can heal and is able to work now--not just to redeem us from sin, but to bring us peace--but I'm not strong enough to claim it. I have grown old, all frozen up with fear, and I don't think, anymore, that the “mermaids will sing for me.”
But, James, you are young and creative, and, for you, nothing is set in stone yet. Faith can still move your mountains. I, at least, strongly believe in you (just so long as you don't point out mixed metaphors in this post). In fact, I predict this: you will stay faithful to your wife, you will greatly respect your own sons, you will teach others to be honest, and I will live to see your name in print (Oh, also, you will dedicate your second book of poetry to me for predicting such a wonderful future).

Hey, Tanner

2008-07-14T00:16:00.003-06:00

STELLMON. That would be Tanner Stellmon I'm talking to--my nephew (though I guess he's not technically my nephew anymore), NOT Tanner Warnick, whom I am not talking to right now, since I had to find out about his wedding from his little brother (Whoops. Sorry, Chan. His "taller" brother) even though I planned on dancing--on the table tops--at his wedding, since I personally had to suffer so much from his troubles with Melissa, who was probably just sent to get him ready for his real wife.
Soooooo, Tanner STELLMON, I was wondering if you have an office, and if you do, is it F.S.? I tipped over rock salt today, which I had in all four corners of my house to suck out bad energy. Wow, I bought that rock salt with Serena--that's how long ago it was--it seems like I dreamed it.
Remember when I had you and Jared move my desk around so it faced exactly SE, which meant it sat triangular to the door? Whew. Did my F.S. work? I don't know. I think I'll try it again and pay attention this time. I think it did though; I'm normal more than half the time now; but I was wondering if yours did.
I wonder if the Lord ever gets irritated with our silliness.

yael naim new soul clip

2008-07-11T06:46:00.002-06:00

PERSPECTIVES--It's always interesting to see how others view us. I'm usualy appalled at another's perspective, or surprised, sometimes amused, or irritated, disappointed, or just plain happy that someone actually understands me.
On another blog, Sarah (just had baby girl--Ella) posted lyrics from C.Crows song, "Marjorie is Dreaming of Horses." She says it reminds her of my life. To me, the lyrics paint a depressed loser. Whew (though I DO often dream of horses and related).
Today my daughter sent me yael naim's "New Soul" and said, "This is you, Mom." I relate again, especially to the lyrics "to learn to give and take ... but make so many mistakes." Also, in our 100 moves, I could never unpack boxes unless I decorated walls with my DI art and posters first, even if it meant we slept on floors and ate off crates. I relate to her scribbling in her own reality between the lines until it bursts into her vision, and if this is what J. Watson refered to as my habit of changing reality to fit what I want it to be, then he may be right. It's possible I was wrong. This looks like a younger me. (Yeah for the resurrection-the day after, I'm going to run and dance to Santana.)
But, I see pieces of me in everyone and everything. So much for identity--it's over-rated anyway.... I know I DO love this video and daughter Megan.

4th of July--White Kittens and Chainsaws.

2008-07-09T12:29:00.011-06:00

I'm glad to have friends who hop in the car--without thinking--at midnight to help Megan and me run disaster kittens to a drop box at a Humane society. I'm glad I have that kind of a daughter. It's late on a long holiday. Em and I are sitting around a fire, and she's telling me some fascinating mystical story when I see a white kitten through the smoke--sitting perfectly still--watching us. I'm sure it's not real; it's a flashback spirit-guide from Peyote dreams of long ago, but it whines and moves. I pick it up to find its twin sulking in the shadows (marking in my mind the spot where Em needs to finish her story). They're tiny and hungry and look like they've been beaten up by raccoons, so I know what's going to happen when Megan sees them. I automatically go to the garage to cut air holes in a box. Then, we three leave son-Taylor, Jessica, and Ben and drive 15 miles over construction roads to help two mutilated kittens. Em sticks out her hand to pet white guard dogs, who happily jump in the open car door after we wouldn't let them eat the kittens. It's even later now, but time has evaporated, so we buy soda and ice cream at an all-night truck stop. For some reason, it's the best ice cream in the world.
Lil' Emily Pew, does this justify having Ben let Em practice with the chainsaw? Who knows? Yes, it's possible we'll see her name in lights for the next Chainsaw Massacre movie. But she wins heavy points for just being there, supporting Megan's thin-skinned heart--without questioning--and for being who she is (WHATEVER that is).

The Beatles - In My Life

2008-06-20T13:16:00.001-06:00

Couldn't resist this.

Patty Griffin- Heavenly Day

2008-06-11T22:22:00.001-06:00

Oh, Heavenly Day. Emily Pew finally broke down and BLOGGED. I'm in shock and may have to duck my head in the river to recover. Wow. This video is for you. Now throw on something you've written, Girl.

I think you're right about Em and the chainsaw, though chainsawing through this huge tree would be great therapy for her.
I'm going to take shots of my cat and post for H. Especially if you post. C'mon. Even just a small poem would keep us happy.

Beavers and Black Swans

2008-06-09T13:57:00.013-06:00

Sunday afternoon, and I'm lying on my porch swing reading and watching the birds dive bomb over the river, when the cat's tail starts to wag slowly in her "hunter-killer" mode. I glance toward the river and see a black swan, with a neck like a snake, swim by the small island, next to the new beaver dam. I've never seen a black swan out of captivity, and I spend the rest of the afternoon watching it glide back and forth and dip its head in the river. Once it came up to swim next to my canoe--what a treat.

Next, after dark, Patch is barking frantically enough to pull me away from another book. The idiot has something pinned down in the garage. I draw back to consider, since last time it turned out to be a small skunk, who sprayed. But I finally reach my hand around the door and hit the door opener. Does Patch chase the "thing" OUTSIDE? Nope--that's too easy for him. Instead, I hear them running directly back toward me as I dash for the door, just in time to see . . . what? A raccoon? It ran like a beaver, but it was too big. My first thought was "It's a porcupine," but Patch would have quills sticking out of his nose by now. Whatever it is scrambles over the cat, who jumps to my shoulder (with claws,of course, open); I scream, and Patch barks this brown lump, three times his size, clear to China and back. What a grand day. I think it was a grizzly bear or a lion, maybe a tiger.

Red-Letter Morning and Apricot Pits

2008-06-09T13:28:00.004-06:00

Thurs.
Last night (Well, technically early this morning), I’m reading a piece out of Replacing Memory by Barry Lopez. I’m tired, but he has me in a trance. He's visiting Whittier, CA and tries to find two of his childhood homes.
At one place--he's guessing though--he walks across a perfectly flat lot: trees, bushes, numbers on mailbox, beehive--all "swept clean, empty," except for "the tread marks of a single tractor." He finds an apricot pit at the back of the lot and puts it in his pocket. But he finds the next house still standing, occupied by an elderly woman he once knew, says an old neighbor. She doesn’t answer his knock because “she's inside dying of cancer."
I'm leaning against pillows on a white feather quilt. My dog is draped over my feet, and Cat is curled up under my arm as close as she can get. She doesn't like it when the wind blows hard enough to swirl the birds outside. I'm wrapped up in the smell of lilacs I picked earlier—a sweet, slightly syrupy smell like getting off the plane in Hawaii the first time. Tori Amos plays on the IPod: Piano notes as light as raindrops:
"Excuse me, but can I be here for awhile?
. . . And sometimes, I said sometimes, I hear my voice, and it's been here -- Silent All These Years.
. . . So you found a girl who thinks deep thoughts. What’s so amazing about deep thoughts? Boy, you best pray that I bleed real soon. How’s that thought for ya? My scream got lost in a paper cup. I think there’s a heaven where the screams have gone.
. . . But I don’t care.
. . . Years go by and I’ll still be waiting for somebody else to understand. Years go by, even stripped of my beauty and the orange clouds raining in my hand. . . . Easy. Easy. Easy.
. . . Your mother shows up in a nasty dress, and it’s your turn now to stand where I stand, and everybody looking at you. . . . But, I don’t care.
. . . And it’s been years. And I’ve been here, I said I’ve been here, silent all these years.”
Whew. Amos is a morning gift. Vaguely I hear the birds start in and wonder again why they can’t wake up one at a time. It’s like some big bird conductors taps their wand on a tree branch, cough, and say in chirp talk: “Ready? Hit it.”

I turn back to Lopez, feeling that dull dread of the day coming after I haven’t slept, already anticipating sore eyes, a stiff neck:
He writes, “I told her something Wallace Stegner wrote: whatever landscape a child is exposed to early on, that will be the sort of gauze through which he or she will see all the world afterward. I said I thought it was emotional sight, not strictly a physical thing.”
Duh. Why did Lopez have to add his own thought? Couldn’t he just let us hear Stegner, since what he adds is obvious?
Back to the page, where he walking around the side of the house, which holds the woman dying of cancer, and I’m suddenly whisked away from this Idaho dawn to California where Leonard Cohen feeds me “oranges that come all the way from China”:
Lopez says, “We were standing on a concrete path, where I squatted down to peer at a column of ants going in and out of a crack. I had watched ants in this same crack forty years before. These were their progeny, still gathering food here [Ah, I love that line].The mystery of their life, which had once transfixed me, seemed in no way to have diminished. [Don’t like these two sentences, but love the last one, except for the word “deliberately.”] I felt tears brim under my eyes and spill onto my cheeks. The woman touched my forearm deliberately but lightly, and walked away.”
It’s those ants. Those ants get me every time because they’re such a minute detail, and they remind me how small I am also. My problems fall away, sort of shed downward like dead skin, for a moment, although I wonder if this generation will have the luxury of noticing that some parts of life always stay the same.

In her sleep, the cat scoots toward the bird sounds, but then slumps, like bones dissolving into milk, rolls over, and twists her head in a circle, with paws curled in the air. She makes me laugh. How can she sleep like that? And I notice I feel happy. Completely happy.
For a fleeting second, I realize how long it’s been. Whew, so long that the feeling is strange--unfamiliar, but I relax into it (because who can predict when it’ll come again) to watch the dawn, which does not come up over the river. It’s nothing swift like the “rosy fingers of dawn.” It’s more like slivers of color flow into gray then dissolve the darkness, like water filling up an empty sink. No, not quite like that. The light does not even “push” the dark out; it blends with it until it’s just more there than the dark. Dawn moves into another day smooth and soft, like the best kind of quiet. And now Santana plays his guitar in the background. Ha. Mmmmmm--sound of pleasure to hear that Black Magic guitar with dawn birds as grey moves into day—I have to smile again. I mean, people pay big bucks for moments like this.

Latest WC Party and Waikiki

2008-06-02T02:13:00.005-06:00

So good to see Steve Bell even if he is quitting teaching to go into dentistry. Good party with lots of singing around a fire against a sunset, but seemed strange not to have guitars.--Chan, Kaitlin, and Jami tipped over my canoe, but they dragged it back in snow run-off water, instead of leaving it at the bottom of the river, bless their hearts (or I would have killed them).
I had a strange feeling as I watched the fire and their shadows against the twilight. I think this was our last party by the river. Don't know why I feel that way. And it made me sad, like the end of a part of my life--another end.
Sometimes (excuse self-pity), it seems I've had more ends than beginnings.

If I could go back and do something over again--make a new beginning--where would I go? Whew. Never mind. Too many answers to that question. But . . . were there simple, small beginnings I missed? Probably thousands.
. . . Tonight, I'd go to Waikiki (1967 or '68) when a soldier on RR (Rest & Relaxation--ha)from Vietnam stopped me on the street to ask where I was from. (Funny this memory should surface now? Wafting up from those romantic days when most everything was golden--and whatever wasn't gold, we'd throw away by morning.)
I remember I looked up into the most beautiful green eyes, shy, clear, and lonely, and I couldn't think of one cleaver thing to say; I just pulled away from him and walked toward the beach sunset. Later I saw him eating alone at a sidewalk table. His eyes were looking at something far away--maybe the war, his little brother, or a girl back home. He sat hunched over, wasn't interested in his Patty Melt sandwich, and barely glanced up when I sat down. Somewhere between the clouds rolling in and his shiny military shoes, he turned into a human being instead of a hustler. "When do you go back?"
His eyes focused in, but he didn't smile. "Two days, but it doesn't matter."
"Are you okay?"
He smiled, "I am now."
"OK, listen, I'm from Idaho, love the color gray, lobster, and registered quarter horses. I'm sorry, but I don't trust guys very much, and I won't sleep with you, but if you want, I can show you a ledge outside the Hawaiian Hilton where we can hear some good music and watch the surf?" It all came out in a rush of jumbled noise because he had these amazing green eyes that seemed to really SEE me when he looked at me. And I wasn't used to talking to soldiers; they were too hungry, too rushed, too scared. But he seemed so . . . I don't know. Familiar?
"Are you picking me up?" Now he was grinning.
As usual, a defensive irritation shot up my spine. "Geez, I've never picked up a guy--whatever that means--nor will I ever have to or want to pick up a guy. Excuse me; I read you wrong." I marched away and ducked down an alley and into the back door of a bar I knew about to lose him.
But what if I'd stayed? What if I hadn't grown up with a hair-trigger temper, and I'd just laughed along with his joke--which I'm sure it was now. I missed a walk along the beach, maybe a swim in the always-warm water--I could have shown him the thick yellow rope to swim under where we could check out the million dollar boats on the other side tied up in the harbor; we could have played at picking out the one we'd sail away in tomorrow morning. We could have strolled through the International Market where I would show him the knife with the elaborate carved Ivory handle I was saving up to buy. I could have shown him where we could buy broiled shrimp for a 50 cents. And when it got close to his curfew, maybe I would have kissed him, since he was flying back to jungle rot and hutches where they tried to stay sane by smoking MJ mixed with Jimmi Hendricks. And because he had green, very green eyes.
Yeah, I ended that one before it began. And what a nice walk down the beach that would have been. Sometimes we eat our bitter fears for breakfast, like burnt toast.
Or maybe he was a serial killer in disguise, who had just slit the throat of a poor RR soldier for his uniform and planned on chunking me up for shark bait.
Naaaw. I don't think so. Otherwise, I would have forgotten those green green eyes by now.

Roy Reynold's sketch of a Hipster

2008-05-15T04:18:00.009-06:00

Late 60's. I was in Moscow, Idaho looking into the church, and I read the scriptures for hours at a time. My artist friend Roy sketched me reading the Bible. I glued the sketch on a cutting board, so as not to lose it in the next 22 moves. The sketch looks like I felt at the time--scared, unsure, reluctant--praying all the time that I wouldn't find the Mormon church was true. "Please don't let it be true." But it was true then and is still true-blue now.
I splashed my favorite colors on the sketch. It makes me feel good to remember those slow diamond-like discoveries.

Bright Spots of Time

2008-04-12T14:10:00.003-06:00

Wow. You knew I would love the poem. I really love it. Where is this museum? And how was the poem in a museum? In what form? Or were there just poetry books lying around on every surface and decorating the floors? This is how I would arrange a museum: I'd lay my friend’s sculptures on slabs of marble and hang art pieces suspended from the ceiling to eye level; our chairs would be books.
I hope you get the job. It fits you, but how did you feel when you interviewed? How come I’m always in the middle of what you’re doing? Rachel is calling me early early in the morning because she can't reach you, so she turns from Utah to Idaho to find you in AZ.? Logic? I'm trying to find you with zip luck as she's in a panic on the other line. I finally told her that I had shouted--not gently nudged--but shouted at you through text and e-mail. And even though I personally knew you were in a fetal position somewhere under sagebrush, cuddling with the snakes, I didn't tell her that. I told her I was sure you would contact her immediately. And I knew you would, since the job fell obviously from heaven into your un-deserving lap.
How is the desert? I think it wears your name, but so does a graduate program.

Hey and thanks for bringing me back here. I’m looking around, and it feels good. Jaren blew me off this site a couple of months ago like a dark wind from hell with his condescending remark about changing reality. Now, he’s sent me an essay to read, which I’m dying to open, but won’t until I get an official apology from Tuscan. I love Jaren, so I’ve wondered why his snooty comment caused grief, since I realize he completely missed or willfully ignored my point. But, no matter what he says, he, Greg, and James were a delight to be around. Jaren and Greg pulled up chairs in my office to sit in on my interview with James, coaching him in what to say either before or after (can’t remember, Jaren, and it doesn’t matter anyway) because his answers read like textbooks. “I don’t need to hire another EGO, James. Looking at Jaren and Greg, I said, “We have enough egos already at the WC. Don’t need more, thank you very much.” Whoa and what if I hadn’t hired James? Makes me sick to think I might have missed knowing James Best.

Time is a strange animal. As I grow older, it speeds up and passes like a Technicolor dream. Memory is even stranger. Summer and fall semesters blend like falling leaves. However, at times, I DO choose to have a selective memory. I remember only good times in my marriage unless I’m with other people, since it’s a safer way to live. I locate bright spots and ask why they are bright? My memory of knowing James and Greg and Jaren (“around” the same time, Jaren) has sunlight about it—Why? Because I enjoyed their cynicism? Hardly. More because I loved their ability to let go of cynicism and see the present, see “now” like innocent children. They have keen minds and love to use them. (However, Jaren’s mind suffers lately from sunburn.) James and Jaren usually live at the front edge of their lives while, all the time, both investigate their darker pasts. Greg’s mind needs a hook like a large crochet needle to pull it in, but once in the vicinity, he sparks up any landscape.

In my writing, I compress time and blend characters together. My mother becomes part of my grandmother. Randy becomes part of Jim. You--Em G. -- and Em Little often blend in your exclusive brilliance. But I don’t mistake the center of reality, Jaren Watson. How could I? It has often slapped me side the head –even while I pulled mountains down to hide my home--with its continual harshness, complicated paradoxes, and forever beauty. Here’s why I think I felt insulted: 1) My life’s goal is to find exact reality; without that goal, I’m aware that I cannot find God. 2) I’ve been a long time at it. 3) It’s important to me because I spent time in a landscape where I wasn’t sure which reality to believe. Is the paint really dripping off those walls? Should I walk over and touch it to find out? Did that radio really come on before I turned it on? 4) It’s almost as exciting as being in love (but not quite) to find what really “is” underneath the 1000 illusions we pile on top of truth. 5) I’m aware there are 1000 truths inside one truth, and I love the hunt.
Enough. I love the poem

At the Heard Museum today......

2008-04-10T20:30:00.002-06:00

.....I bought a book of Louise Erdrich's poetry and found a poem that made me wish I were reading it with you, Sharon. So I thought I'd post it on here so you could read it. I was really impressed with the museum....I'll have to talk to you about it someday. Hopefully I will get Rachel K's job in Utah and not be so far away, although my heart is settling nicely in the Sonoran Desert....I'm afraid I will always be returning to pull a week on the trail here and there. I definitely need to purchase some artwork while I'm here.

Grief

Sometimes you have to take your own hand
as though you were a lost child
and bring yourself stumbling
home over twisted ice.

Whiteness drifts over your house.
A page of warm light
falls steady from the open door.

Here is your bed, folded open.
Lie down, lie down, let the blue snow cover you.

Love you, Shar. --Em

"Snow Woman"; Criticism; and J. Grifter

2008-03-19T12:23:00.016-06:00

Stressful day. Actually a bad, bad day; Nothing goes right, and I ache to drop this life flat and run to search out old hipster friends--just to hear someone sit quietly and pick a guitar. So driving home from work at 12 a.m., I'm looking forward to seeing deer in my yard. But, tonight, when I need them, the deer are across the river eating my neighbor's hay. Worthless deer. Tears move close to the surface, when I turn off the loud 4-wheel drive truck. But one thing I know--for dead certain--is I'm not going inside to sit in a pool of self-pity. I'll stay out in this ice land all night before I'll sit on my floor and fall face-forward into a "woe is me poor victim stance." Solutions?--none. First, I want the key to unlock my 22 to shoot at the moon, which I can't see behind the clouds. But I now it's there. The moon won't desert us like some famliy and friends do. It can't walk away. It's got to run the tides, the hecks sakes. But the key to my pistal is lost; Thank heaven. So I fall out of the truck, since I'm too short to step out gracefully, and stand to squint at the trees where the deer bed down. I'm emotionally stuck. But, slowly like small drops of water rolling off my roof, I hear the Quiet of my farmhouse laid out in the new snow, and walk in a circle.... I've never been able to find the exact words to describe snow falling past my big yard light.
It falls soft and light as if the flakes barely disturb or move the air. Quiet. The only sound tonight comes from ice breaking up in the river. The world begins to shift and change and fall back into reasonable places.
I can hear my dog, Patch, clawing at the door to get out. He loves me, can't wait to see me, needs contact with me, or he stops eating, drops into severe depression, which makes it hard to have my oldest son babysit him when I travel. I change into boots and my Minnesota coat, wondering if he got this disease from me. Patch jumps around my boots; I watch the sky for a break in the clouds. The snow falls straight down and makes the trees look like they float above ground. I study the sky again and remember making snowmen with the kids on nights like this: a familiar ache churns into it's fiamiliar pattern. I feel like spitting out a swearword. Surely, there's a way to live without constantly grieving the loss of people I have loved--some I'll see again; some are gone like they've been blown out of the universe by a hurricane--before I had time to wake up and say a proper, dignified good-bye....

Geez, I sound like a Carol King song. And who am I talking to anyway--the trees? the covered-up moon? or to God? I'm disgusted and throw a snowball at Patch. He runs around me, barking; he thinks we're playing. So . . . we do play. I roll the first snowball to make a snowman--Never mind. It'll be a snow woman (I hate all men tonight including my dad and my boss)-- mindlessly, roll it too big, I suppose forgetting that it was my boys who lifted the packed-down snow, forgetting that Patch is obviously too small to help me, and he's worthless anyway, since he's over by the river barking at ducks he can't even see but knows are there--somewhere. He trots back, tilts his head at the snow ball and heads for the trees to flush out the deer, who, for some reason, are usually there, but are not there tonight. This is life--animals, things, family, friends should be there, but, really, are not ever in a close enough landscape. The cat, who lives with us so distantly that I haven't even named her, is trying to get across the snow to where I'm standing. I wonder how she can see me through the flakes as she jumps daintily from one pile of snow to another with a faint, pitiful meow before every jump. She loves me also, but is a worthless cat who crawls up and sleeps by my neck as soon as she hears Patch snoring. If she makes it across the snow field, I realize I'll have to carry her back, and since she's not used to being carried, or even touched, she'll scratch the heck out of my neck. Wow. Geez, life is complicated for those in a bad mood, who like to complain. Turning back to start over on the snowman, I leave Patch to bark at phantom deer and by 3:00 am, I've made a very anorexic snow "woman" with small Christmas bulbs for her eyes, nose, and mouth--they shine--(I don't want her to have ears). She wears a cowboy hat and a tie-died red scarf, and though she tilts to the left side, she is one Picasso of a snow woman. "She's so fine," my artist friends are going to be jealous; Sculptress Friend Ann, move over and eat your heart out. I pat more snow underneath her left silver-ornament eye to keep the wind from sailing it into the river, since it's not real silver. It's not even plastic, but more like glittered egg shell. Nice. So nice. This Snow Woman is taking grand art prize of the year. I'm certain; they'll freeze her, wrap her in cellophane, and ship her back east to a famous museum, probably the one where Meg and I learned that J. Best is the only male we know who loves Wuthering Heights as much as we do. Even her stick arms still have dried leaves on them. A western Madonna. A Greek goddess. Just before I reach for the cat, who is now crouched against my boot, watching every shadow in tight fear, I'm proud--I'm feeling very proud--especially proud that--tonight--I beat back the Big Bad Blues, sans Ipod, sans late night TV, sans Alive PM.

Note to Em: Sorry I yelled at you during the whole phone call. I can't do that anymore. Just way too expensive for the minutes. Really. Sorry. You'll just have to come up here if you want criticized like that again.

Joe G. came to take me to lunch and left a note that was better than any mere lunch. Has anyone seen Grifter's hand writing? It looks like calligraphy. When I grow up, I want to write like that. But the cynical, music-lover that he is cannot write a straight-up note if it kills him. He turns everything into satirical drama, which makes life more fun. What a treat.
I, myself, would have written: "Hey. J. Came to take you to lunch." Not Joe. He starts with no salutation and turns the note into poetry: It's rings faint like "Forgive me; I ate the plums . . ."

Sharon
I stopped to take you to lunch.
You were gone.
Rain check. . . .

I also want you to know
That I would have bought
dessert.

Next time, dessert is
not an option.

PS
I was also tempted to
steal your checkbook.

Joseph Wyatt Griffin

New York 2008

2008-03-04T07:04:00.034-07:00

The Fox

2007-12-14T22:02:00.000-07:00

Guess who breezed into my office right before we marched through graduation in the Hart? Yep. The great breezer of all time--Gregory Fox himself. Bearded, handsome, excited to see Kimberly, taller? or did I shrink? Wow. It's good to see old friends. He's rich, thinking about grad school, still grins all the time he talks like he has a big secret he's going to tell you. He's writing, but it sounds like it's for other people--not his "truest blue voice" stuff, and he wants to party with AZ people after Christmas. As I sat in the Hart with the December graduates, wishing I'd talked him into sneaking away for dinner, listening to a speaker encourage students to build the right "study environment" (a little odd for an exit speech), I thought of the many days Greg and I have been through, many hours, thousands of minutes.

When I interviewed him for hire, he looked so dang normal. How'd he do that? I swear his head circled the moon at least three times a day. He's a delight, but hard to explain to people. One time before a party, I threw a mop in his hands and said, "I'm so glad you came early." Ten minutes later, I came downstairs from cleaning the bathroom, and Greg's still standing in the same place, looking at the same mop. Luckily Beau came in the back door, saw the problem, gently took the mop, and talked nonstop to Greg, so Greg wouldn't notice him rinsing and cleaning the floor. It was just too hard to explain "mopping a floor" to Greg when the sun hit the horizen. At one Christmas party, I had forgotten presents for the spouses and was hurriedly wrapping last minute gifts. He and Jaren watched for a minute, then, behind my back, they sneaked around corners, scooping up things from my shelves, kitchen, etc. and wrapped them up as gifts to put under the tree. I opened one up later and said, "Wow. I just bought a straw doll at D.I. just like this." Weird? Ohhhh, "I could tell you stories." I grounded him from taking the Scribblers to the English Department because he stopped and flirted with the secretaries and caused such chaos. One day he whine and whined, so I sent someone with him to babysit. Geez, sure, as if she could control him--"How'd it go? Did he behave?" "Well, ...Sister Morgan, yeah, he did. I mean he didn't stop in the office and flirt, but.... " I was walking away and turned sharply to face her. "Well, nothing, really; he just sort of stopped at every open-door classroom and waved at people."
After the Becca heartache, he'd be so ADD some days that I couldn't stand to have him in seminar. But he wouldn't go away, so I'd give him paper to draw on and make him promise to sit in the corner and shut up. One seminar, while he threw across the room strong insights about the essay we were analyzing, he drew fifty pigs in different stages of dying--one had a dagger through its throat, another had his eyes blown out, blood everywhere, etc. I wished I'd saved it. In case I ever get accused of having sane acquaintances, I can pull it out as proof. Nope. Sorry. Normal? Never heard of it. I hang out with writers.

The semester that he, James Best, and Jaren Watson sat in seminar together was electric. Fun. Seriously brain-ripping brilliant, though I wanted to shoot all three of them before it was over.
I really think old friends are the best.

"There are many prodigal sons ..." And football

2007-12-10T11:55:00.000-07:00

Tanner, I posted your picture today, so you won't go into withdrawal after seeing two of your pictures in the BYU-I class schedule. Those are W.C. pics. aren't they? You scene stealer, you.
Hey, I wish you weren't still such a graphic writer. The image of the rage-soaked boy knifing his own mother haunts me, as do some questions about free agency. When you said "There's nothing free about this kid's agency now"(that's such a great line), I thought this boy lost his agency long before he grabbed that knife. But when and why did he lose his agency? And how much did he have in the first place? The same amount as you or I? I'm so intrigued by "when and how," though as in this case, it's often a moot point. I think of this kid's intense anger and rage and wonder . . . because anger is always a secondary emotion, which usually starts with sadness or comes from fear, and fear makes most of us act like animals. I'm not trying to justify what this boy did. I just wonder what happened in his nightmare life to push him past living in reality. Why did he make this decision to plunge a knife into his mother's head? When did he make this choice? Did he just wake up that morning and say, "Hey, good day to kill a mom?"
You say that you believe all emotions and chemistry are rooted in choice, which implies that every act has a choice attached to it, which is when it gets very complicated for me. Something makes my head ache about that idea. I see a six year old in Iraq get his leg blown off, and I think, "Whose agency is working here? His? For being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Pres. Bush's agency? Whose? That’s at the other end of the spectrum, but still, some choices people make seem so limited to me. Or it’s like listening to a candidate who promises massive changes once he/she is in the White House, when I know that all new presidents are very limited in decisions they can make because of the circumstances they inherit with the office, and because of the “time of season, the time of man.”
I remember Elder Holland's talk and Elder Bedner's on the same topic. I thought, "So true, how wise. And who would choose not to forgive? Who on this earth would choose to purposely be offended and stay offended? What a small and closed-down way to live." Then my shirt was soaked with tears because I thought of all the people I know who are filled with such agonizing pain that they can't even spell the word "forgiveness" yet. I thought of the long walk they must take with the Savior before they get past the pain to see what forgiveness really is. I thought of little girls now grown into W.C. assistants who've learned to walk very quietly in the shadows, so as not to call attention to themselves. Some voice deep inside still warns them to walk here--on the very edges of life (long after they’re physically safe) so Dad or Uncle Harry won't hear you and come looking. Or slice your arms to shreds tonight because your body was involved in a horribly wrong act, and that will punish it for you. And they don't even know they still hear this little voice. Is this a choice? Of course. Is it a negative choice? Yes, it keeps them from living fully, but it's a choice born out trying to survive because someone bigger-- someone they trusted and loved-- betrayed them and used them like rubber dolls you buy at stores. Their choice, which governs how they live now, came about as a reaction to someone else's free agency. When families are ripped apart by whomever or whatever, Tanner, how much agency remains in the ruins? Aren't we all just scrambling to get to a safe home again? And when we don’t feel safe, we run, or numb ourselves, or get angry. When I see a snake, I shrink up inside and freeze in utter horror because I’m so afraid of them. I can’t move. I can’t help it. It’s a reaction. So, explain this to me? It all sounds so hopeless and helpless.

I remember when I first started walking with my head down--always looking at the ground-- because so many bombs were falling that I couldn't look up without fear of my head splitting open. The world was agonizingly ugly. Now, the bombs don't fall so much, but I still walk stooped over. Choice? Yes. But isn't there a difference between free agency and choices one makes from an instinct to survive? You are wise, Tanner. I think you understand something I don't see. Yet . . . when you draw causal connections between mercury poisoning and our decision to eat fish, I want to say "Whoa. Hold it." The mercury poisoning that kept me in bed, studying plaster on the ceiling, for two-three years while I was married to your uncle came from having soft teeth (gene pool--didn't choose that one. Or did I?), and my mother taking me to a dentist, when I was nine, who filled my mouth with mercury (an odd practice still around). I can't see a choice I made to get this illness. Once I had the mercury removed (an excruciating experience), I started to heal, but that took another year, and I did not heal before my children had suffered from my absence. They made choices--very young--to fill up holes in themselves from not having a mother around, so where is their free agency. They made decisions out of a need to survive a situation created by me? But, again, where was my agency in this? Did you choose your M.S.? I don't think so. Do you choose how to react to it? Of course. But you have an education, a safe, well-lighted house, lots of family who adore you, and someone warm in your bed every night who probably even laughs at your stupid jokes. So, your agency seems freer to me than some other's, Tanner.
What I'm saying is that for some people, this life has many dark crawly caves where the only choice is "to be or not to be" until they come out in the light again. And if they are strong enough to wait it out and fight an intense heart battle, they usually make it. But many people are not strong, Tanner. Really. And waiting for that light--sometimes it's a long time coming--takes more faith than they ever thought they'd be asked to give, more faith than they have, until they realize they have no faith left, and they have no place to go but to ask God for a gift of faith--or they will die. (And maybe this is a state of grace rather than one of tragedy, Tanner. To see the hand of God moving in your life is no small thing.)

See? I just go round and round about this. Of course, you're right and the brethren are right, but thank God for a Savior who stays with me--He stays--and (for me) that is the highest praise I can give, and He holds onto my children in our darkest places also, healing and speaking soft peace until some of the blood stops filling up our mouths and ears and eyes, until we can turn--and on our own--finally--as we begin to feel like the earth is not going to drop away underneath us again, like we might be safe for just a little while--forgive and forgive completely. I don't know, Tanner, I just don't know. It seems to me that choosing to not forgive or to stay offended is more a choice made out of fear and pain rather than one made out of revenge or anger. Otherwise, who would not choose to do it? This doesn’t make the choice less wrong or make the consequences go away, but I think it’s complicated. I don’t think we can judge. It’s like the beggar in Luke who lies under the rich man’s table to catch his crumbs as dogs lick his sores. If we saw him, we would say, “Get up. Get a job. Geez, this is America. Get an education. Stop whining that you’re hungry. Do something for yourself or you deserve this.” But he didn’t do anything to better his state while he lived, and he was taken directly up to Abraham after this life. So, is it that he couldn't do anything? Maybe he was ill, insane, incapacitated by brain chemicals, but the Lord allows it? Or is he just a symbol to highlight the evilness of the rich guy in purple. As in the beggar wasn’t real?
You said "we anticipate and accept some consequences as fair, and we don't anticipate or accept others. Our foresight doesn't seem to influence the consequence, but our ability to accept, adapt, and advance may shape our next choice," and this sounds so wise. But if we cannot anticipate consequences, how is our agency free? Or if our choices are made under the intense influence of other's agency, how is our agency free? I just don't get it. And I’d welcome any enlightenment because all this just bugs the crap out of me.

However, having said “nothing” in a long-winded down the valley way and . . . speaking of irritation and anger-- Jaren Watson, if you send me one more football score or long e-mail discussion about the injured QB of whatever stupid football team plays this week, I'm goin' bring a football down to your backyard and bury it where the sun don' shine. I DON'T CARE ABOUT FOOTBALL, you stupid Tucson novel writer.

Re-Thinking Education; Still Thinking Tanner

2007-11-27T14:47:00.000-07:00

Carver got his registration book for BYU-Idaho the other day. I'm in it twice! That's right, folks. Tanner can leave the Burg, but the Burg can't let go of Tanner. I was so tickled with my self that I signed Carv's book in my own honor.

November 19, 2007

2007-11-19T22:08:00.000-07:00

A fourteen year old kid stabbed his mother in the chest and head last night. She didn't die. The kid's life is over. He faces attempted murder charges, and plead 'not guilty' this afternoon behind a straight jacket and a black eye. He couldn't weigh more than 120 pounds in a fat suit, but he raged the steel knife bent on his mother's skull. Granted, innocence is presumed, but the four people who wrangled the knife out of his hands and plugged his mother's body with washcloths will have a ghastly story to tell a jury. Bloody pictures won't phase most film-going sorts - who hasn't seen someone shot or stabbed? - but I imagine that these four will tell quite a story with their eyes.

There is nothing free about this kid's agency now.

On the other hand, James Talyor came to town the other night. He sings songs for a living. He's bald, but he didn't seem to notice. He kicked around with with the Beatles, Jim Croce, and Carol King. His music listens easy, and, though he claimed to have performed it everyday for decades, I know I've heard "Way down here, you need a reason to move" more times than he has sung it. JT knew that we wanted to hear Country Road, Fire and Rain, Something in the Way She Moves, Walking Man, and Mexico; he obliged. He is a musician, but we weren't too interested in his new music.

I suppose we make some choices, and consequence makes the rest.

Nick Drake Pink Moon

2007-11-19T13:58:00.001-07:00

We'll create our own fairy tales...

2007-11-05T07:28:00.000-07:00

About your utopia in the trees, about all our crazy animals that magically make you happy with their little faces and paws. And their sweet, sweet, trusting spirits. Flying horses... We could even have a pine-tree eating beaver as our villian...

And my childhood? You've loved us through it all. And you gave us a love for books, Mother, so many beautiful books...

Thor vrs Helpless woman waiting for Princes

2007-11-04T23:59:00.000-07:00

OK. OK. Yeah. I always get my fairy tales mixed up because they used to scare the crap out of me. Although, I do relate to the dancing around the fire and stamping my foot in a rage. Chan says it's Rip Van Winkle, but I think I'll go with Sleeping Beauty--no, no, never mind. Wasn't she surrounded by briar's and brambles (like my house now) and had to wait for a man to wake her up? And that let's out Snow White too? Wow. No wonder I didn't tell you guys regular fairy tales; Too many sexual innuendos and helpless woman. I remember having nightmares after reading Hansel and Gretel: Then when Mom stuffed our pockets full of treats before a school outing, I was sure the bus was driving us into the darkest forest, that Mom had given us away, and I was so sorry for reading Gone with the Wind by flash light under my covers until she come up and grabbed the light last night. Whew. Even look at Rock a bye baby. It's so gross that people sing a song to little kids with a wind breaking a branch, and a baby goes splat on the ground, cradle and all. I'm glad I told you other, more gentle stories than were in the books we bought you, like Thor sulking, after fighting other gods with lightning bolts and thunder. (Oh, what a childhood you've had.) But I have learned we do have to wake ourselves up, every other minute. It's an constant art that takes practice.
Ahhhhh, but I'm beginning to think that sleeping is an art form also. You know, like those stretched-out, deep down sleeps after long horse rides? Remember the good tired left over from rainy days, the smell of leather and sagebrush? Ummmmm that sounds as good as eating lobster or watching waves wash up on a beach. Let's write our own fairy tales. I like that scene in 6th sense when Bruce Willis is dead, but he's trying to tell the little boy, who sees dead people, a bedtime story about a little prince who drove , and then drove further, until the kid says, "You haven't read many bed times stories, have you? ----Once Upon a Time . . .

You're the bravest woman I know, and by the way...

2007-11-02T07:50:00.000-06:00

The correct spelling of your fairytale dwarf is Rumpelstiltskin or in it's German origin Rumpelstilzchen. I think you're mistaken in wishing to be him (though if he had slept for one hundred years I'd idolize him also) However... the story of Rumpelstiltskin begins with a poor miller who lied to a king and told him his daughter could spin straw into gold, so the king locked her in a room for three days and demanded that she produce the gold and if she could not he was going to execute her. So Rumpelstiltskin appears to her in the night and in trade for his magic to make the gold, she traded him her necklace the first night, her ring the second, and on the third night having nothing left to give, the evil imp made her promise her firstborn child to him. So she marries the prince and when her first child was born the dwarf appears demanding the child, but she makes another deal with him that if she can guess his real name (he refused to tell her his name before) than she can keep the baby. She gets three days. So one night she hears him dancing around his fire deep in the forest singing his name and she guesses it the next day. And the stories say that Rumpelstiltskin got so mad that "in his rage he drove his foot so far into the ground that it sank in up to his waist; then in a passion he seized his left foot with both hands and tore himself in two." How's that for silly? I think we relate to his frustration...
Crazy little guy, huh? But yeah, I just thought I'd educate you on one of my favorite fairytales. People always relate him with sleeping for 100 years, but where in the stories does it say that? Can't find it. Beau and I used to watch the old movie of Rumpelstiltskin all the time when we were kids. It kind of used to freak me out, but Beau sure loved it.

You and this story got me thinking about who Beau really is and how much I miss him. How I used to know he was always someone I could count on, how he walked me to school most days even though I know he hated to. Helped me with my math, let me stay in his apartment in Salt Lake. He used to get so angry at the way I lived my life.
One day this will all be light again, Mother. One day, I know. I believe this, if we do not choose to believe we will live our lives small and afraid and alone, with no faith in a God that has the power to lift us high above this tiny piece of eternity we're wandering in.
I believe, Mom. Do you know that I relate my testimony to you? The example of your love for Christ in my life was my beacon. You weren't exactly the ordinary mother who was Relief Society whatever, but you were the one handpicked for me. The only one who could have stood beside me and helped carry me in my storm. Who else besides you?
I love you with all my heart. Beau will be okay. Whether in this life or the next, he'll become Beau again. I love the scripture in Morman Chapter 9 that says "When has God ceased to be a God of miracles?" Never.

I love you, I love you, I love you clear to china and back. And I can't wait to see you next weekend and walk among your trees with you...

My Silly Daughter, I do Believe . . .

2007-11-01T12:07:00.000-06:00

that was not laughter; I call that hysterics. But how interesting that we both revert to giggling and uncontrolled rolling-on-the-floor laughing when faced with feelings of total helplessness (though I'm sorry I called your cat, husband and boss "stupid," when in reality only your husband and boss are stupid. Joke. I'm just still mad at Ben for taking you away from Idaho). I also think it's interesting both of us feel we've walked through most of the garbage trials life can offer--not with much grace (on my part anyway), but we've faced these trials and are still breathing and even still in love with living. I mean after brushing up against deaths, suicides, drug addictions, prison, divorce, prolonged illness, abuse--whew, never mind; I'm depressing myself; you know the rest--we actually thought ho, ha, famine, earthquake, terrorist attacks? Big deal. We'll be fine when those types of trials come. But, how could we have known that we'd smash up against another experience so far over our heads that we're craning and straining our necks looking into the heavens for understanding. I do not understand Beau.
I know hell. And I know you know what it feels like, looks like, etc also. We've visited there and know for sure we never want to go back. But Beau's particular kind of hell is one that's beyond me. His problems are surreal. I can't grasp them; they float in between neurotransmitters, deep in his hypothalamus, around dopamine levels, which reach out to circle the moon. But, I've got to believe that somewhere, somehow God's provided answers or that He will provide a way to ease some of his pain--even though, right now, it's a path that's invisible to me. This is more than simply changing, simply repenting. When he's driven by biology and mental illness, how much free agency does he have left? You are reading my words now, and my words are real to you; to Beau the voices he hears are just as real, only he has no reference point in his life to handle them. Can you imagine that kind of madness? His whole life, he's been brilliant, and now he's trapped in the very mind that was his greatest asset. And his thinking has betrayed him. On some level does his feel this? He must. Yet, when I talk to him, he justifies and slips between ideas so quickly--back and forth, up and down--that I feel like I'm listening to a thousand philosophers (every writer he's ever read) talk all at one time. I want to open his head with a knife and while it's open, quickly slide in this idea: "You are ill, Beau; You need medical help before you get worse. And you've got to help us because we don't know what to do." He jumps on a plane because the only thing he knows how to do anymore is travel, but he's lost track of where he's going and even where he's coming from. Has he told you yet he's in San Francisco? (I still can't figure out how you lost him when he lives right next to you; it's not like you're busy or anything. Another joke.) But I don't think he's going to Las Vegas. He's so slippery. Though I know this: things have to be very bad for him to call me for money, and last night when he called me to wire him $15.00 (Megan, even the amount shows his humiliation), I just sat there. I know he could sense my feelings through the satellites. "Never mind, Mom. the voices are just really loud today, and I wanted to get back to the airport." And I still had to say, "Beau, . . . I can't. I know you'll drink to get numb, to stop the noise in your head, and I don't blame you, but I'm more afraid of the alcohol.?" "No, Mom. It's OK. I can just run to Corey's; he's working, but he gets off soon." Then he just clicked off in humiliation. I felt so sick. You know the feeling: your throat tightens up, your head gets thick and heavy, you know you're going to throw up, then you want to rip the phone out of the wall, or scream and scream and scream, or jump in the car and drive all night to California to pluck him up off the streets yourself before some other person as crazy as he is finds him, before something irreversible happens, but you know it won't do any good because he'll just sneak away again to England or NYC, because nothing we do can help him, Megan. Nothing.
Later he texted me: Sorry. Phone needed charged. I texted him back: I will pray to God that He will send someone to help you get through this night because u r too far away to feel how much we love you. Then, I can't sleep again, Megan. I'm so stinking tired. I haven't slept in months, years. Somewhere, sometime, I'm going to find the softest cloud and sleep for a couple hundred years--like RumpleStilzSkin (msp)
In my life, Beau's always been this bird flying somewhere above my head. He's like a constellation I can't grasp. He was born thirty years old, much wiser than I, always sensitive to my every feeling. At Christmas or Thanksgiving, with a room full of people, he always knew exactly what I was thinking. I've never met anyone as sensitive, as beautiful, or as bright (except you, of course of course). To walk with him through an art museum, through China town, along a beach, to talk with him about Herman Hesse, Zen meditations, or any book (he's as widely read as you are), to hear him talk about India, Europe, Egypt, or Israel was to have a total involvement in a total experience. I don't know how else to say that. He lived so intensely. And now he works just as intensely to numb his pain. When he talked of swimming in the Thailand sea late at night, or running madly with Katy through the Himalayan mountains to shake off leeches, being attacked by the monkeys that guard temples in Cambodia, I was there with him. He's been a great gift to us. And now we want to give back to him in the worst way. We love him. But, like I said last night, this one is way beyond me, Sweetheart, way beyond the dark hall you just walked of also. This one we have to leave in God's hands now. Yet, more than anything else, we have to live so that if God whispers some idea to us, we hear Him. And we will not hear Him through worry. Worrying about Beau is too loud for us to hear God.
I'm so glad I have you. And, again, yelling about your stupid cat and your stupid husband and your stupid boss was me yelling at the whole stupid universe. In fact, "stupid" is my favorite word right now. In fact, if Beau comes back alive this time, if he isn't killed on the dark streets of San Francisco, when he gets back, I think I'm going to kill him myself. (Never mind. I can't find the keys to my locked down gun.)

My friend...

2007-11-01T09:11:00.001-06:00

So good to laugh with you last night...

Will ya still love me will ya still need me if I always misspell words?

2007-10-30T21:19:00.000-06:00

Calling all Emily Littles. Hellloooooo.
The renowned and famous Emily Little told her brother that she'll post here if I ever explain my user name. See Anne's explanation below, Girl. Now blog your heart away. Favorite New York detail? Least favorite? C'mon. Haven't heard from you for billions of seconds, and you know how I hate talking on the phone.

2007-10-30T10:18:00.000-06:00

Did you know that my health would be 76% less at risk if I would take care of my stress and emotional health more appropriately? I took a test yesterday and that's what it said. Ha. That would be nice if it was that simple, huh? www.webmdhealth.com/utah. The only good thing about this depressing website is that I get 40$ off my insurance premium every month now. Cool, huh?

the mysterious "Sky Scatcher"

2007-10-29T22:21:00.000-06:00

I have been wondering about the mysterious name "Sky Scatcher". It sort of sounds like a Canadian province, or a song from Fiddler on the Roof. "Sky Scat" (like scatological) could refer to the large loads of crap that the universe seems to dump on you on a fairly regular basis. My favorite guess has kind of a Native American flavor, "Skies-Catch-Her." I imagine you trying to hurl yourself off this sorry planet into outer space, but caught by gentle clouds and bounced back to earth to keep trying till you finally get it all figured out. Or grinding along full of worry or sadness, when suddenly you are caught up in an amazing sunset or the radiance of the huge harvest moon.

(Actually, I really know that you just accidentally left out the "r").

http://quotation-marks@blogspot.com (I am enclosing this link because I just used so many quotation marks and am feeling aware of my non-English-majorness, so wish to deflect your attention to this "funny" website).

2007-10-25T12:19:00.000-06:00

I read your writing, the Spanish poem and heart of darkness. They are beautiful. Moving.

I like the red for this picture, too. One of my new favorites. I played with pictures of you and Beau yesterday (not on the computer, of course, not that talented, unfortunately). I tried different formations on three different walls, in different frames that I bought recently. Finally satisfied late last night. I love pictures, especially of people that I love.

And I agree about the whole Conan-Crowman-Peanut Butter thing. He creeps me out, too. I think there's something really wrong with him.

Conan the Crowman & Peanut Butter

2007-10-24T18:37:00.000-06:00

I still can't stand him. He's disgusting, irritating, and ego incarnate. Almost always when I'm trying hard to go to bed at a decent time, guaranteed to grant me instant health, I turn on TV to catch news or music or an ancient Carey Grant film, and guess who pops up on the screen--skin and bones with a suit hung on him in the dressing room, probably by people paid minimum wage who cringe when he pulls at his collar, a constant habit that, I'm certain, he does in his sleep, in the shower, and at his grandmother's funeral. His face barely has enough skin stretched across the sharp angles and pointed nose and chin. Like Chucky--he's my worst nightmare.
My friends say, "Stay with him; he's brilliant in interviews, smart, funny." I usually trust my friend's judgement, so, I try to get past his floppy hair--I make it--then he moves into shaking his arms like he's got a bee stinging his elbow--I'm there--he starts his chicken dance from the '70's--and I'm fading fast. He starts pointing at the audience. Why? Why does he point at the audience?
"Nooooo, stay, give him a chance, you'll love his interviews, we promise," my ghost friends dance up and down on the couch, forcing me away from the channel changer, even grabbing it to throw across the room. Then, it comes.-- The jump.
What is that? Why does he do this thing? It's not even a real jump. He squats down, then winds up, brings his arms higher, looks to the left then to the right, and waits as if he's saying "and now, here it comes . . . ready?. . . everybody watching? . . . and I have to turn away because he reminds me of every little geek in high school that I felt sorry for and wanted to befriend because they didn't know--they never knew they were loud, tasteless, in-your-face, creepy geeky. . . . Then Conon springs, bringing his feet straight up to his suit coat. When his feet hit the ground, his bony face with the indescribable smirk jerks backward . . . I AM PRINCE HAMLET. LOOK! LOOK AT ME! I AM ODYSSEUS RETURNED FROM THE GRAVE, and you poor smucks are so lucky to see me, have me, hold me close to your chests, and love, love, please love me. He points again at the audience: "Ahhhh, yeah, I know you; you glad; you glad and you and you, so glad to see me. Then, barely able to contain my gulping nausea, I watch this insecure, gawky excuse for an entertainer smooth his red hair one more time and that's it-- I'm scrambling for the remote--beating off my ghostly friends with whips and sabers, hoping I can flip the channel before I shoot the screen out with my new 22 pistol.
Conan O'brian embarrasses me. I hide my head under a pillow. He doesn't even know his stupid, hair-flipping prancing makes him look like a complete idiot. Sorry. I just can't do it. I can never make it past his flagrant love affair with himself to listen to his "brilliant interviews." It feels like eating Peanut Butter. I want to eat Peanut Butter; I want to like it because, I've been told, it's a good source of protein; all my friends like it; my family loves it; but it smells like rotten peanuts and sticks to the top of my mouth and . . . I HATE PEANUT BUTTER.

2007-10-22T13:33:00.001-06:00

I love you, Mom. I'm so excited for your next book to come pouring out of you.

River runs through Idaho Autumn

2007-10-13T18:02:00.000-06:00

I wish I had a true camera to capture the true colors. Josh you need to come home and visit your mom. Can you see the ducks? Em, you desert rat, eat your heart out. You should have hitchhiked from Utah. We could have put on early Santana and built a night fort out of leaves.

I'm the new guy all over again

2007-10-04T12:40:00.000-06:00

Writing Assistants are still wearing those vests, at least they are in the pictures on the web page. Why didn't we go with camo coats again? Better, why didn't we decide to wear pink hair nets? The vests are easy to lose in a crowd, but a pink hair net - especially when two peeps are leaning over a some thematic prose - truly distinguishes an assistant from an assanythingelse.

My name is Tanner. I don't have a cool handle, and I don't know which handle corresponds to which of my friends. This is just like the first meeting I attended in the basement of the Smith building, only I can no longer hide behind the false confidence of a returned missionary at Rick's College. Erin - handle Dylan-with-no-z-or-x-in-name's Mom - is understandably wondering how I got posting privileges on the blog without an application or interview. (I apologize, Dylan-with-no-z-or-x-in-name's Mom, if I didn't spell her name correctly. We both know that she is still on the all-time cute baby list.)

I'm new to this whole blogging deal. I thought it was just a brain burp forum for disturbed sorts. I was wrong. There is some fine writing on this cyber-slate. I don't even pretend to know how to write anymore. I no longer write to communicate; I now write to argue. Law school, legal research, and legal writing put the kibosh on creativity. But, recognition is the first step in repentance - returned missionary at Rick's College card.

I loved the Writing Center in the summer. The whole campus seemed drowsy in the summer, and the Writing Center was the perfect vantage for observation. Jen - handle Coyote - didn't swear as much in the summer, Dylan-with-no-z-or-x-in-name's Mom only got crabby when I skipped meetings to golf, and Jill - handle Satellite - could be seen smiling occasionally.

This needs proof-read, but I'm afraid to re-read and re-do the whole thing. I know that the boss has administrative permissions to block me from future postings, but I pray for mercy.

3:10 to Yuma--Don't read 'till you see film

2007-09-24T15:06:00.000-06:00

3:10 to Yuma--Very violent, felt like I was watching re-runs of CSI as vet pries bullet out of Pinkerton's stomach. Dark, harsh, and cold. And I hated that R.Crowe didn't take riding lessons to transfer from English to Western riding because it breaks up the otherwise strong authenticity. But, . . . I keep thinking about this film. Christian Bale is great--only momentarily did his role in Prestige come to mind. (I never thought I could watch him in another film without envisioning his twin-ness in Prestige.) What sticks with me is that neither good nor bad wins, or rather, neither loses in this film. Black-hat, smooth-talking killer Crowe forms a strong respectful bond with Bale and,in the end, when his gang shoots at Bale, trying to save their boss from boarding the prison train, Crowe screams, then turns and coldly kills his own men. He, then, salutes Bale's young son and climbs the train steps to prison. The boy, who has despised his father--thought him a coward--runs to Bale and says, "You did it, Pa." He's proud and jubilant. But, how ironic that Crowe is bonded to Bale by Bale's lack of heroics. Bale's ambivalence then eventual manipulations for money from the Pinkertons and later his admission to Crowe that "I'm not a hero" keeps Crowe from killing Bale and actually wins his reluctant friendship. (By the way, it's only in this part of the film that Crowe kicks in and acts, though he has flashes of brilliance here and there.) But, has Bale saved the world from a killer? No. The movie ends with the good guy (Bale)dead and Crowe whistling for his horse as he sits on the train to Yuma. The end shot is of black horse running after train to pick up Crowe (who couldn't jump to the back of a running horse if his clothes were on fire--big flaw, I never once believed this outlaw was any other than Russell Crowe; he especially pales in relationship to Glen Ford's much earlier performance--except in end scenes).
But, I liked the film and will return to see it. First, because I'm a sucker for Western genre and second because black and white are really many colors of gray. My daughter (who was not bothered by Crowe's lazy acting) felt amazed that she wanted the bad guy to win. The film really is well-written--especially for "when" it was written. I remember in its earlier version, I was always on Glen Ford's side (black hat)also and felt the wimp who was taking him in deserved to die. Even when I saw Ford (and later Crowe) kill in cold-blooded violence, I was thinking, "Ooooh, not true; he didn't really kill that guy." It's similar to my first reaction to O'Conner's "A Good Man is Hard to Find." When the Misfit turns and shoots the grandmother "three times through the chest," I thought, no, not really, hey, this is a comic story, not a tragedy.
What's with our inability to call evil "evil"? Is this a willful blindness to reality? Or simple naivety. (In my case, it can't be.)Does this desire to believe most men/women are really good at heart explain the Germans who were not involved in the war inability to acknowledge the Holocaust even while it took place within short distances from their homes? (My son, who served a mission in Germany, always responds with, "No, Mom, the prison camps were hidden." Yeah? Well, who brought in food? Who passed out blind folds when prisoners were on death marches through the countrysides?)
Or, as in this movie, is it a question of relativity? Some of my druggie, but good hearted, friends shine in my eyes when I compare them to high priests who I expect to be righteous, but who live their religion when it's convenient. Yet, we're talking "wrong" in both cases. My own perspective puzzles me.
3:10 to Yuma is a study in relativity. Kudos to Bale that he pulls out the poor rancher role to match--play by play--bad guy's role. Crowe's character is charming; he even wins over Bale's son (an added character not there in earlier film), yet he really is a snake who kills without blinking. But the screen-writer plays him off worse characters, like a sheriff who tortures Crowe with electric prods and a posse member who has burnt down Bale's barn at the beginning of film, so, the audience moves to champion Crowe, actually gets annoyed when Crowe shows his cold vicious side. When Crowe kills a gray haired Pinkerton, whom we like because he's such a tough gritty man, the audience murmurs in protest. (I did not recognize Peter Fonda--good for him.)Crowe knocks him over a cliff because of a remark Fonda makes about his mother, which is ironic since Crowe tells Bale that Crowe's mother told him to wait at train tracks and read the bible. He read the bible all the way through (quotes from it often in movie), but his mother never returns. Yet he kills Fonda's character because he slurs his mother's name. Is this humor? Or more complexity in Crowe's character? The movie comes down to Crowe choosing to help Bale become a hero, but we know this is a momentary lapse in his evil nature. The audience knows that he will go on to murder many people, even though the screen writer (or director)has fooled the audience into losing perspective of what is good and evil by posing lesser degrees of evil against evil several times through the movie. Get it?(Hmmm If I had time, I'd rewrite--especially that last sentence, so this doesn't sound so confusing.)I found this fascinating and blatantly true. Bale hasn't made a dent in Crowe's career of killing. But, a killer's just-by-chance crossing of paths with one poor rancher turns the rancher into a hero, and we know his son will go home safely, save the farm, and generations will speak the Bale character's name with respect and honor. The whole family has moved into a safer, respected realm. So, did good win out? Yet, it couldn't have turned good without the bad helping it along. Anyway, I'd like to hear others' opinion. The film's not making it to my A list; for me, it's about a B or B-, but it's intriguing.

Alert--Serious Error

2007-09-20T01:38:00.000-06:00

Geez, we forgot Hud and Cat on a hot tin Roof.

All Apologies

2007-09-18T23:30:00.001-06:00

Greg, I take back everything I said two posts down. I can see now that you really are a busy man. With all the work you've been doing it's no wonder you've scarcely any time for paltry things like semi-annually keeping in touch.
For the rest, you can follow Greg's hectic life here.

When I grow up I want to be a Cowboy

2007-09-18T02:11:00.000-06:00

Yes, yes. Cool Hand Luke. I don't know of a film that Paul Newman's been in that I didn't like except Message in a Bottle (puke). And I forgot this Western--last line: "The old man was right, only the farmers won. We lost. We'll always lose." Magnificent Seven; I have to confess to being a Hitchcock fan. Cary Grant is...no words to describe.And I just thought of a few more that made my head spin.

Midnight Cowboy
To Kill a Mocking Bird
African Queen
Passage to India
Annie Hall
Easy Rider (of course)
One Flew over the Cuckoo Nest (wow)

2007-09-14T20:52:00.000-06:00

Greg, please forgive me for answering you on this blog. I just had time to read your e-mail all the way through today when BYU-I flipped off the server until Monday. And I want to write you now. No one ever reads the front page anyway except me. They read comments.
What's in Didion's Collection that we haven't already read? And what else for Ron Carlson? (I'm buying books this weekend.)
I empathize with you, my friend. I agree wholeheartedly with your decisions. I know also of this empty place where there are no words. Your landscape is probably different, but the grayness is the same, though I have such meager advice to give from my own visits to this cave. And you are only "visiting"; I promise. I've only found a couple ways to keep breathing when the air burns my lungs: I have to say prayers for insight (and courage), then I turn around and dive into the pit and look around. I force myself to name exactly what I see. Once I do that (never a fun time),I realize what I see is not going to kill me. But until I actually look carefully at the whole mess, it FEELS like it's going to kill me. I carry the grayness everywhere I go. I've also learned not to mess with the cave's reality. And, really, I don't know of another way to cut it out and leave it behind except to dive--plus, I force myself back there as often as it takes until I see light again. And I write about it....I write about exactly where I am, and I don't care if it brings people down; I don't consider audience in the least degree. I write about nothing, or I write stuff about the cave exactly as I see it at this minute--not next week when it'll be easier to walk, not next year when it'll be easier to smile--but NOW. I don't try to hide behind characters or form. At that point, I'm not writing to share, to give, to impress--I'm writing to save my own life. And sometimes I laugh at what I see has made me afraid, and sometimes, it's so horrible that I don't know if I can ever laugh again. I don't know, but I think this process will go on, every now and then, until I feel "safe"--damn.
Often, I have dreamed of someday meeting someone whom I could truly trust, who would help me feel "safe." (Jim did that for awhile, and whatever we went through may have been worth feeling even that false kind of "safety"--or, it may have made my life worse?) This is what I know about my empty, wordless places: I understand that when I was supposed to feel safe (as a child,as a twin, as a new wife, as a mother married to a high priest), I didn't. The ground beneath my feet has always felt like it will shift or give way at any moment. I don't even know what "safe" would look like, feel like, but I imagine it as a warm glowing place(with no snakes),where I can let go and be precisely who I am, without expecting blood and bruises. I have realized also that this "trust" won't ever be a gift from another person; it will grow within me (so sorry for how cliched this sounds), as I decide to feed it and stuff it full of faith, because the bombs never stop falling. But, you know? I want to meet the enemy head on, in the bright daylight. I don't want any more night time sweats when I'm looking back at something I can't see, something I can't finish or tie up in a neat little package. And (dare I go here?) . . . at times finding the faith to fill the holes has taken even greater faith because I saw God as the most loathsome creature who ever crawled through the universe. I knew of his Power; I'd seen it, and to know that He didn't step in when I couldn't get up, when my children were screaming as they drown in front of my face made me cringe from any sunlight.
Then I saw that He couldn't step in (I can never decide which is the worst idea out of those two) because of others' "free agency," and worse still that we had agreed to this contract. I have to admit to relating with the end of Conrad's Heart of Darkness, when Kurtz is dying and says, "Oh, the horror; the horror." And, I wonder, how did we--you and I--have the confidence we needed then, at the very beginning, to step down into this gray abyss? How were we ever that strong? But we were. And, Greg,I have looked around and seen green and ducks, and rushing rivers, Patch, my three sons, my beautiful Megan--and Beau, and I love them.
And I realize that if I can love--even the smallest leaf--God must be good; plus, where we're going must be great, or He would not--could not allow this. I want His vision in the worst way. I want to walk toward this grand place. And I can't--until I cut out any cancer that holds me back.
This probably doesn't make any sense and probably paints such a gray picture that you'll see how dumb it was to ever ask my advice. I wish I could give you more, but you need to go to wiser people, to happy people, and ask. All I can say is write about "now" or about spider webs and mailing bills. Use this blog. It's a sweet place full of good people. Write this: "I loved the Writing Center because . . . Do not say no.
And I love you, my good friend, my little brother. S.

2007-09-11T21:50:00.000-06:00

Hello Friends (and Jaren). I guess I've got a lot of explaining to do after my long absence, but explaining is difficult because I haven't really done anything with my life over the past few months. FranklinCovey is doing its best to eat me alive. I'm currently roaming accross small town america writing activity guides for teens. There aren't many perks to the job other than the snack closet and being able to expense issues of 18 and other such girlie magazines to capture the "voice" of whatever generation I'm supposed to be writing to. In short, I want to quit. I wish one of you had a guest house I could live in for free.

So since my life is boring, I will say goodnight for now. Applebees is closing soon (that's all Alabama has to offer right now and It's all I've eaten during the past week, maybe two weeks) and I want to take advantage of the complimentary hotel room delivery. I hope all is well at the writing center. I will stop by soon, crash a seminar, and stop any emotional fiascos that might be occuring.

Sincerely,

Kevin Federline (K-Fed)

P.S. I am in the process of purchasing a bulldog and I would like everyone to vote on a name in the comments section, please.

1. Lazer Fangs
2. Futureman
3. Nipples
4. Mr. Bo Jangles
5. Rumpelstiltskin
6. General Lee

2007-09-11T19:14:00.000-06:00

Jaren. I loved your post on the class critique. (I'd write this on your blog, but I'm too lazy to look it up again after being rudely interrupted while reading it--by my job.) Well written post, though I don't know about the story because "said" author didn't post "said" story, so the "said" story may not even exist for all we know. Also, really loved support you received from JG and Jimmy. You've got good friends, my young brother, who know you well. That's got to be worth a whole class full of talking lips.

3:10 to Yuma

2007-09-09T06:48:00.001-06:00

Mark the Date

2007-09-07T19:54:00.000-06:00

I just signed up for the AWP Conference which will be held in New York January 30-February 2.
Featured writers include John Irving, E.L. Doctorow, James Tate, Galway Kinnell, Robert Pinsky, Joyce Carol Oates, Billy Collins, among others. James Best and Joshua Foster are going to be there as far as I know.
We should all attend. For more information here's the URL. http://www.awpwriter.org/conference/2008awpconf.php

"If Tomorrow wasn't such a long time."

2007-09-03T10:26:00.000-06:00

As long as we're doing vintage--1992. And guess what? I'm not eating frogs. (Man, I've raised a lot of chillin')
Just got back from a week of fishing and camping. Blessedly alone.
I think I restored enough sanity to face fall semester. Ugga. And I did not eat beetles, ants, spiders of any kind, suck water from a cactus, nor even see a live frog. I did roast marshmallows, throw together dutch oven for when it got too hot to fish, and ate salted almonds while I devoured four whole books without neighbors or bills or cell phones interrupting. Thank heaven for rivers, pine trees, and full starry skies. Weird though how lots of memories came crowding in. I restored the peace I needed inside by throwing a rock at a bald headed, wall street jet skier. (Well, . . . Charity, he was out too early and scaring fish clear to China, and of course I missed him.) It felt good. I have to say. It felt real good to know that I almost knocked a loud jet skier into the Island Park Reservoir. Then I left for higher places.

Some memories make me feel all wrapped up, warm and safe. Some are like bee stings on the inside of my throat. I think living hurts, but, also, it sure has some ecstasy. And then there's Mr. Bob Dylan always riding over the plains on a bright white horse to keep things real and save me from crusting over into layers of safe, role-playing masks. Remember this one?

If today was not an endless highway,
If tonight was not a crooked trail,
If tomorrow wasn't such a long time,

Then lonesome would mean nothing to you at all.

Yes, and only if my own true love was waitin',

Yes, and if I could hear [his] heart a-softly poundin',

Only if he was lyin' by me,

Then I'd lie in my bed once again.

I can't see my reflection in the waters,

I can't speak the sounds that show no pain,

I can't hear the echo of my footsteps,

Or can't remember the sound of my own name.

Yes, and only if my own true love was waitin',

Yes, and if . . .

There's beauty in the silver, singin' river,

There's beauty in the sunrise in the sky,

But none of these and nothing else can touch the beauty

That I remember in my true Love's eyes.

For the Record, Pt. III: an excerpt from Marvin Austead's "Oral Fixation and Our Friends of Class Amphibia"

2007-08-29T21:44:00.000-06:00

Fig. 1: Joseph Griffin, December 2000, Pelotas, Brazil, demonstrating the 'Boca Ruse' approach to amphibian sampling

(pg 326) "...in the Boca Ruse manner of sampling Order Salientia, the sampler elevates a captive true frog in the air, and with a visage of wild-eyed voracity, feigns a gesture of consumption directed at said amphibian. The benefits of this manner of amphibian sampling are numerous:

Amphibian does not contact the mouth of the sampler, thereby avoiding the possible transfer of any virulent bacteria via the amphibian's osmotic skin.
The sampler's mouth does not pass on any foreign body to the delicate amphibian, via the amphibian's osmotic skin.
Awkward (and possibly ostracizing) social situations are averted.
Young, impressionable children are taught to avoid the ills of direct oral contact with creatures that regularly swim in their own evacuation."

2007-08-23T23:23:00.000-06:00

OK, I agree. Reunion would be good. But would it ever be the same? I propose a definite big meeting in Millennium. If we do it before then, I'd have you stay in tents at my house, and we could take the many children to Yellowstone, Jackson, etc., using my house as a base. But I'm not doing the cooking. And, yes, Jen, you're the only one of us who could plan and carry out this thing. Why don't we meet in Florence, Italy . . . say four or five years. Let's rent a villa. Tanner Stellmen, are you out there somewhere?

WC Class of 2003

2007-08-16T12:25:00.000-06:00

While was lying awake the other night, I decided that I think that we should have a Writing Center reunion. There are a few stipulations on this reunion though. Stipulation 1: the reunion will have to until I am once again living in the West. I am done with the East, especially since today is sinfully hot and humid, but I am stuck here for about 2 and 1/2 years, so the reunion will have to wait until after then, because I am pretty sure that if this really does happen, I will be the one to organize it and we don't have money for airfare to do it any sooner. Give me a break, we're still students. Stipulation 2: although the WC is actually in the library, I think the most appropriate place to hold the reunion would be at Sharon's. This means that you cannot sell until after the reunion OR you must find buyers who will let us camp out at the house for a weekend or so.

My reasons for wanting a reunion? Other than my roommates, most of my really good friends from BYU-I came out of the WC and I think unless we (I) put together a reunion, we will never be at the same place at the same time again. Sharon and Em...imagine hanging out with Tanner, Jill, Tobias, Josh, Millie, Erin Grant, Shalese, Serena, Trevor, Tony the Tiger and yes, even Jared (but only if he brought Pam). Sharon, we could even invite Jenny Oscanyon and Tatum and even, if we got brave, Catherine Mann (oh boy, I haven't thought about her in FOREVER). Let me know what you think. I'm not trying to be overly nostalgic or anything, but I would really like to see some of old friends again, even if the meeting is a few years away.

Backyard Moose (Nice pic of Depp, Em)

2007-08-03T17:24:00.001-06:00

Shot pictures of this baby moose in my backyard this morning. This baby is as big as a normal size horse. Beautiful brownish black, quietly eating from my trees, wading around in the river; I named him "Sunny B."

Emily, you know I never answer phones. Just text. And no I won't be at school for two more weeks, thank heaven. Come when you can. I'll leave pillows on the couch. Rodeo is Sat. at 6:15.

Last night I sat in a soft steady rain next to my dad, watching the number two rated in the world bull rider compete for a $10,000 ride. This was probably one of Dad's last rodeos. He still stopped to chat with all the old cowboys along the fence, but we had to help him into the grandstand. He won't stand for that again. We ate fried waffles with blackberries and whip cream and jotted down each score until the program got too wet and ripped, and I picked out the $50,000 barrel buckskin horse that I'm going to search heaven for when we get up there. He moved like silk from India.

After all this heat, we felt in heaven. A little Native American five-yr-old won the mutton busting (riding sheep until a whistle blows). After they gave her a trophy a foot taller than she was, the announcer asked her what she'd do for a brand new BB gun from . . . (some sponsor). She said, "Nothing. I don't want one." He lost words but recovered quickly, "Well, can we give it to your parents then?" "Nope. They don't want it either." "Do you have a brother? I bet he'd like this new BB gun." "No, he wouldn't." I loved the whole night.

Welcome home, Jaren and Charity. I'm going to post a Keith Urban tape to welcome you back to the West (via Australia). In a full count, just how many snakes have you seen so far? This is important information for me if I'm to consider a PhD at Tucson.

Oi, Sharon:

2007-08-02T17:39:00.000-06:00

You aren't answering my phone calls. And I would send you an email, but I enjoy this new public way of speaking at you and for some reason I feel like you might check this page more than your email anyway. And I wanted to post this picture of Johnny Depp. So, I'm coming up tomorrow, Friday, August 2, 2007. I'm going to wear denim cutoffs, sneakers, actually, jeans...not cutoffs...maybe...I'll bring both, and a shirt that will hopefully look inconspicuous at a rodeo. I'm excited to have my computer charger back because my little brother is blaming me for all his problems with our downstairs computer. And I have episodes from the third season of The Office on my dead laptop that I want to watch. Oh, and I'd really like to see you. Does it matter what time I show up? Are you on campus at all tomorrow?

Sharon--Barrel Racing in Rodeo--1963

2007-07-27T21:21:00.000-06:00

1963 Rodeo. This is NOT how it's done. Horse is not looking at barrels. I'm twisting his head off to pull him around. But, . . . oh, the adrenaline high! Very fun. Em, I'll talk to the producer and see if they have a pony for you to try? Never mind. You'd be so hooked, you'd move right in to bull riding; then, we'd carry your bones out in a red wagon.

Backtalk to Gillz's Declaration

2007-07-27T15:18:00.000-06:00

I just wrote you the most wonderful post about why I think Kingsolver wrote a Mormon culture novel without God at its center. And I lost it. I brilliantly and profoundly showed how she's painted our guilt and zealous judging habits so perfectly (Whew. Lots of worthless adjectives in that sentence). And in the end, she makes her audience realize that we can't walk around in our own black pools of guilt or manufacture our own pain, because real honest pain is going to back hand us anyway. And if we carry our shame and our nation's shame around our necks like albatross, we'll drown before the real stuff even gets to us. I had great examples, but since they were both from "R" rated movies, I'm sure I subconsciously deleted it to save your innocence. Dang.

And, yes, major faux pas about Jude Law. It's a good thing you're my most tolerant side kick. Nick Drake is nice because he reminds me of Keats, and Eric Clapton, because he makes me feel safe--An annoying need I have.

Speaking of faux pas, one never asks what to wear to a rodeo, but if one were to ask, then "denim or denim" would be appropriate. I, myself, am wearing black hat (via Bob Dylan), sequined jacket, and red/gold boots.

The last time I sat with non-rodeo people was the night Brian and Emily Pew came along to the Blackfoot fair rodeo. Emily had a fit when the first guy got bucked off his horse before the 8 second buzzer and received "no score," and the next guy pulled a 75. "How fair is that?" she yells, using that wide gesture thing she does with her arm. I looked around to see if any of my father's old cowboy compadres were sitting close as I hung onto her leg to keep her from stomping down to rail on the judges. (I miss that girl. Maybe you should watch the movie 8 Seconds before you come up.) It turned out a fun night, because they really weren't faking their ignorance . . . nor their curiosity--then they left me alone to keep scores as Brian consumed several Tiger Paws with honey butter, cheese covered chips, and swigged gallons of Diet Coke. But, later when they wanted to see the Tiniest Woman in the World, I stood firm "I'm not going in," I said. "No one else is even in there, so you'll be standing right in front of her, and what will you say? 'Geez, lady, you sure got a bum deal in life, but you're at least making money on it?'" When they came out, they did say she looked very sad and wanted to rename it: The Saddest Woman in the World. Fun night though. Good memory.

If you come on Monday, and if we're lucky, some guitar players may group on the street and play some songs. In the mountains, all I want is to sit on a rock by the Snake River, watch the hawks, and let the pines and river spray clean my head out.

Emily's Declaration to Sharon

2007-07-27T13:51:00.001-06:00

I'm coming up Monday night to experience culture with you and then I'm running into the mountains with you on Tuesday and going with you to the rodeo on the 2nd and hanging around until I have to move out of my office in Logan at the end of the week. Possibly not until the next Monday. I'll let you know. And no, I don't have malaria, but I rather felt like I did because I hit the peak of my fever just as I reached the peak of Kingsolver's Poisonwood Bible and that about set me off on a whole new range of nightmares...... That book was worlds better than Bean Trees. And I loved Bean Trees. Are you finished with it yet, Jen? I want to hear what you think about where all the characters ended up.
Also, can we add Hugh Grant to the list? Here is the following reason why I think Hugh Grant should join the list before Sting
Jen, back me up.

"God is great, Sabu; He plays with us." Out of Africa

2007-07-22T06:12:00.000-06:00

Chan, Chan, my man, it’s about time you stepped in here. Redford stays for sure; besides I never notice if men are short or tall--is that a guy thing? JP used to measure all our boys with marks on the wall as if it were some obscene contest. I kid you not. He never measured Meg or granddaughter Jordyn. Is tall more . . . what? I don’t get it. It seemed like JP felt whoever was taller had more intelligence, would marry a princess, and die rich. Plus, Redford's politics are very close to mine, and he’s a mountain person who trains his own horses (OK, I lied about the training part, but he does ride well.). Really, what more is there? And skin? Posh and phew. In the resurrection, no such thing matters. But Pacino is playing a close second--very cute in Author, Author. And in Dog Day Afternoon (is that the film I’m thinking of JG, with “Attica. Attica”), he plays a bank robber who is so confused and helpless that I wanted to take him home and feed him chicken soup. But he had to have his day in the sun and then he dies. (I liked him lots in Bobby Deerfield). He's short also, I think. .. .I’m tired of the man game, anyway. I have great male friends (on this blog even) and that’s enough. I’m going to list my favorite women now.
Hey, Warnick brothers, have you seen the HP movie that sent our friend Jen into Ga Ga land? Crush for sure, Charity. She’s probably knitting Potter a pink sweater to keep him warm as we blog. First, Sweet Jen (SJ), I can't sympathize because I can't stand that age group, who spend half their time loud and obnoxious, and the other half as painfully shy, hiding behind each other—shoving and pushing—and in between all that, they have 1000 toilet jokes and sounds . Second, the whole "waving wand" thing was a little much? No. Sorry. Forgive me. (It’s hard being the only member of this blog who was bored into sleep by HP.) Let me repent. In fact, I was inspired by the tiny cute wands--made me want to hack down a willow branch and carve me a little stick to kill people with also. (I can see SJ from here, stamping her foot and shooting off fire sparks of anger that may seriously injure the baby if she doesn't’t calm down. Ha ha,)
And, Charity, I’m horrified that you have not watched Out of Africa—an art film with color, texture, and African scenery that stopped my breathing—based around Isak Dinesin’s life, and directed & produced by Sydney Pollack. Visual treat; picked up every set and cinematography award that year. Redford and Streepe have been on safari, shooting lions and such, and he is washing her hair and quoting Kipling. It’s pure eroticism. Rent it. I think you’ll like it. Em . . . how’s shooting Alligators in Florida going. Joe found us a cheaper place in Paris that’s still close in. . . . Oh crap. The morning birds are singing again. I need an operation to cut this insomnia out of me. CSI style.

Whew. Hard Choice.

2007-07-20T15:44:00.001-06:00

OK, first, . . . I HATE GRADES. It's a dark-age, perverted form of wrong think left over from Behaviorism. We should have shot all of Pavlov's dogs. So, whom to-choose-for-the-celestial-kingdom is a game I'm playing to avoid pushing the grade send" button to registrar's office. Celestial Kingdom, you say? Yes. I'm never swearing again, so I'll, of course, get to the kingdom first, since I'm in JG's perfected- beyond- belief category. (OK, now I feel like I'm bordering on "light mindedness," because none of this is funny. In fact, life isn't very funny, except in a snicker cynical way, which I don't want to fall in to. Yep. It's clearly a non-funny day.) But, here's the deal--Urban's married presently to Nicole Kidman, but I don't expect that to last beyond his next visit to Rehab. Cusack is mysteriously private, which for now gets my vote. But, Redford's scene washing Streepe's hair in Out of Africa was a sensual A+. Yet Al Pacino in Serpico and J.Depp in . . .Gilbert Grape seem like real human beings. I think it might just be a polygamous affair.

And, I know I haven't seen the other Potter movies, but Harry was a wimp as he hid behind the wall and let his teacher (the guy with the rubber band around his beard?) almost die. Why did he not step in? Why? And I agree that a "dark against light, with Light winning" movie is fare for our children, but . . . .Though I loved the scene in the fortune telling warehouse where all the balls are crashing and breaking--think of the symbolism behind that? Whew. Enough to take my head right off my shoulders. . . .Was one of those fortunes breaking apart mine?Does that mean that my life just fell off a shelf and stopped . . . ? That's what it feels like sometimes.

I saw the worst movie I've ever seen in my entire life last night--It's called the Island, but it had some good actors in it. How could they have agreed to such a stinky plot-driven, car-wrecking, mucus-sucking, sack-ripping horror of a film. I watched it with Meg and her new husband, wishing I was hacking through a trail of knee high cactus, or climbing Mt Everest barefooted and hatless--anywhere but sitting in front of that screen. I swear this movie has six places where I had tingles of sweet gratitude that it was finally ending. But it didn't ever end--a real Chucky movie in disguise. It's the film I'll recommend to anyone I don't like. And I never want to rent a movie again until I die.

Payback

2007-07-19T11:38:00.000-06:00

I seem to have lost my first born child's first set of professional pictures. I have searched my house high and low and I cannot find them. However, as I was going through boxes in my basement, I came across these little gems. The top picture is of the costume party where Em got the awful picture of me (thanks for attempting to rectify that picture Sharon). Joe is the one in the wig and glasses and as I said before, Em is the cheerleader. If I remember correctly she gladly volunteered to take this part when we were divying out assignments, but when the time came for her to present herself in public as a cheerleader, it took quite a lot of coaxing, but she finally sulked out of her room for the party.

This bottom picture is from one of our trips to Vegas. Em always has been a party girl and I will leave it at that.

Moans and Melts into Puddle

2007-07-18T18:27:00.000-06:00

Oh, how I loved the end line "Slinks off shamefacedly," because I ducked my head low, waiting for the barrage after "Oh, where do I begin," JG. Great post. You made me laugh as you slammed out of your usual laconic self.
Em. he's right about Blood Diamond. I could not sit through that one again. I felt shame and disgust over being a part of it also-- It's a gruesome experience, and my "Wow" was in admiration for those who dared make such a film--because I have no doubt it's true--without giving in to fear for their lives.
And Harry Potter? (She moans and melts into a puddle of disdain here.) But, hey, I want you to soften out there toward Keith U., in case I do change my mind. I just can't believe the lack of empathy for someone--such as moi--who is destined to sleep alone for the next thirty years, unless I get lucky and fall in front of a train. I want a chorus of pity and sighs for empty beds, followed by admiration ooooohs and ahhhhs for my discipline and strength. What a day. What a day.

The Future

2007-07-16T17:47:00.001-06:00

the pictures some of you didn't get before:

2007-07-15T15:34:00.000-06:00

Okay, let me know if these show up or not.....

Amends

2007-07-13T21:13:00.000-06:00

Wife and I went out tonight, a rarity these days for scheduling and financial reasons. It was nice to be with her again. To regain an old and lovely vision.
I wanted to share something beautiful. After getting gently and rightfully scolded for my language, I thought it would be a good idea to post something uplifting. What I had in mind were three songs by the Penguin Cafe Orchestra. They're not a new band, which means they have a better than average shot at being good. And they are.

I tried to post the songs via Youtube, but like the band I'm not new either, so my technological savvy wavers. The best I can do is recommend you check them out for yourselves. If you like, listen to them in this order: Perpetual Continuum, Paul's Dance, Salty Bean Fumble. The first is not my favorite, but is a pretty good introduction to the band. The second is for change of pace, and the third is just fun.

The more life I live, I find healing in music, turning to it more and more as one turns to church, to nature. There is a reason old people listen to mellow music. Their own experiential noise is plenty.

Finally, to not leave this post pictorially bare, I will go against my previous statement and show three animal shots.

I gave this buxom toad to the kids two days ago. They took it with them to the babysitter's house, where they lost it.

I love this moth. The frayed wings' edges are from the lizard I caught that nipped off the tips.

You can just see its head, but this is the offending lizard. After seeing it harmlessly bite my finger, Claire insisted we try to get it to bite her nose.

Bloated Lizards and the Missing Greg Fox

2007-07-12T17:57:00.000-06:00

OK, Since Jaren W. just called me a "Ding Dong," I have to post our whole e-mail conversation just to set this record straight. It went something like this: "Hi Jaren and Family, How are you? I wish I could come and help you move because that's going to be so hard in the heat. I'm so sorry you have to go through that. I would love to come and help out your whole family." He answered: "Work today was a boon. Directly into my receptive hands wandered a beautiful, huge orange moth, a slender green katydid, a nearly dead female stag beetle, and a small striped lizard.
Bloated,
JW"

I answered, "A bloated lizard? You must post this! The sense detail is almost overwhelming."

He answered, "You ding dong. The lizard isn't bloated. That was my closing, like sincerely, but in this case I said bloated."

Now, I ask all bloggers on this site how I'm supposed to know he was "bloated"? (Don't answer that.) And do you think this is a heat reaction as he prepares for Grad. school? The Nile Virus? Or hysteria from eating live frogs? (I still love the colors and imagery in his e-mail, in spite of the missing "bloated lizard." That fool can write.)

By the way, here's some pure gossip. Kimberly's (Greg Fox's friend) roommate came into the WC today and told us Greg is alive and well and busy, which is very different from turning his back and completely ignoring us, right? Greeeeeeegory, where are yoooooou, Little Brother. We miss you. And a line or two here and there wouldn't kill you.

an interlude of babies and living room tents

2007-07-12T15:03:00.001-06:00

I don't mean to break the rhythm we have going in this blog, or take away from what Sharon's going through. It's just......I found my USB cord for my camera and.....well.....I want to post some pictures. Sorry to break ranks here.

It all started with JW. I thought that Jaren and SweetWife were the only married grown up couple in modern society that would want to put up a tent in their living room with me (at 2 in the morning), but to my extreme amazement, and I'm sure Sharon's as well, I suddenly found myself in another grown married up people's apartment (Jen's) and found myself putting up another tent in another living room. This time in broad daylight.

As if their apartment was far too big, or, perhaps because they needed a little time away from their gangly and irresponsible week-long houseguest who kept eating all their cereal, here is where they remained for the rest of my visit.

Also during my visit to Jen's, we took Olivia to a petting zoo where we ran into a few wildly dressed chickens and birds that Jen (not ME, but JEN) decided represented Sharon very well. While Olivia stared with her mouth open at goats and roosters, Jen pointed out birds that looked like Sharon and I proceeded to take pictures of them, threatening to post them here, which I have done, as you can see. I didn't have too much to say, having ranted and raved all of the past two weeks, but here are some pictures of old friends and their babies that some of you might care to see. Cheers, adios. I'm going for a bike ride.

This is me infilrating good culture into Jen's Olivia while she's still young and malleable. Legos AND wookiees in one solid go.
Notice how Henrietta's hair began with Em's hair and then drifted suddenly and boldly into Brian's, making her look like they dyed the tips. Really really funny and bizarre. Only for a Pew's child would I believe it.
Trev's Carter, 6 mo.
Em and Brian's Henrietta (Esme Gertrude Petunia), 10 mo.
Jen's Libby, 16 mo.

"There are places I remember/ Some have gone and some have changed . . ."

2007-07-11T15:54:00.000-06:00

Oh, Joe, you're right. I forgot. We breathed and walked and ate and slept in the same house! (Whoa, for all you DLMs--Dirty Little Minds--we didn't live there at the same time.) I loved that house with all its little artistic touches left over from your fam.-even the color is the same as my farm house now--the wood floors, pedestal sink, wooden shutters. My first house!
Nothing could have pulled me from that little Birch street heaven except inheriting an instant family of five extra children along with a husband whom I couldn't fit in (or with or around . . . but we won't go there today). Though I'm not complaining about the "instant children" part; how wonderful to inherit three extra sons without the . . . uhhh . . . 3 x 9 equals ? one heck of a lot of pregnant days (See Jaren? That GRE Math is gonna take me down). But I do love my children.
Megan had a dream, and in the dream she owned a big house in another country, but she didn't know where. She walked out the back door and kept walking through pine trees. But before she got through the trees, she heard laughing and singing; then the trees opened up into a grassy place where a little cabin sat by a creek. And she realized that this was her mother's house. The whole meadow was filled with children--all dressed in white--dancing and playing. And in the dream, she couldn't stop smiling.
I said, "Sure, you're making that up, Girl; . . . and was Keith Urban there, by any chance, anywhere?" (or did you see a gallant Scottish man?) But, she swears by this dream. "And, no, Mom, there were no men anywhere. You were the only grown-up [questionable]. You were showing a little boy some fish in a Japanese-like rock pool. And he was laughing and laughing."
And, JW, I believe it was in JG's house that I last slept a full night's sleep. This insomnia is annoying. Grrrrr . . .

"A bee-loud glade"

2007-07-11T01:03:00.000-06:00

"For I shall have some peace there for peace comes dropping slow"

When I flew to Ireland for the first time, I wanted to see Yeat's Isle of Innisfree. I heard that if you could recite the whole poem, the barkeep gave you a large mug of beer--not, of course, that I would ever , . . . you know.

Just the name itself is poetry--"Inn- is- free." But, another director--who shall remain nameless--said we must hurry, didn't have time, Let's race through Ireland quickly, didn't want to see the squalor and poverty. Get to Scotland where we could buy lots of plaid to give away to relatives at Christmas (I don't have relatives who like plaid anything--not even plaid headbands made out of hippies.)

But, we had a Scottish bus driver who never missed the smallest tension on this trip. He loved drama of all kinds, and he whispered to me as I sulked my way onto the bus, "Don't you worry now, Cheron; I be getting you there."

And, he did. That sly hunk of a man drove into a nunnery, praising its antiquity and naming each tree we passed, then, he quickly pulled to the back of the convent and there--right smack in front of us--was the Isle of Innisfree, lying like a huge green seaweed lady, unconnected to either water or land, with the mist barely lifting. We could hear pots and pans rattling in the Convent kitchen, and the director saw he'd been tricked as the Scotsman made a great deal out of checking the back tires. Bless his trickster heart.

"Well, now that we're here," one-who-is-nameless said. "Let's have Sis Papworth (I think that was my name then--I've had so many it's often hard to keep track: tusk tusk.) tell us about William Butler Yeats.

I glowed. I beamed out sunlight. I walked to the shore barely touching the ground. Pure white adrenaline shot through my frontal brain lobe as I began to uncover and thus convert 28 students to Mr. W. B. Yeats, himself. Such excitement over sharing the pocket of my brain where I store Yeats along with Keats and other great poets ( I tend toward those who die young upon the ashes of their talents) can't be described. I have no words for the clean exchange of innocent beauty--in all its abstractness.

I recited the poem and others. I painted his portrait and his life with words. I lowered my voice as I spoke of the epitaph on his grave: "Horseman pass by." When I finished, and slowly emerged from my transcendental (slightly LSD flashback-like) state and looked around, my faith in students who take trips to Europe once again dropped like a dead fish.

But, . . . the Scotsman . . . that bus driving Scot stood still, transfixed, staring at me as of I were an angel from heaven or a mermaid crossed over from the green island. He walked through the students, around the other directors, and took hold of my hand. "That was a thing of beauty, Cheron, and I want to thank thee from the bottom of my heart for such a gift."

That's when I fell in love with all Scottish men. At least, anyway, the ones who don't have four letter, one word vocabularies.

"I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions."

2007-07-09T18:23:00.000-06:00

I don't know why I have to hang onto the people in my life by their hair, screaming like a madwoman--even if they appreciated it, which they don't, I sweat blood when I don't have to.

When I was younger, I was much more brave and selfish. But now I think I'm Mother Teresa. Ugh. Even in the temple, we sit on opposite sides from our ? and it's very clear that we travel our paths alone--individually.

At the same time, I'm lecturing JW about embracing helplessness and riding with the flow, man, I'm loading my 22 Magnum pistol to take out a few incompetent doctors, whom, I'm sure the world would be far better off without.

Can we help each other in our various pain? I've come to the conclusion that we can--but only by just being there. Jaren calls within seconds of my phone conversation with an idiot doctor (I'm really not being unkind--he is a true Idiot) and calms me down. JG drops into my office as I'm about to leave for the mountains with Beau, lets me complain, reminds me I'm strong; and yes I'm a little worried, but I'm hoping fishing and pine trees will do what we thought the medical profession could do. And why not? Mountain air has often restored my own sanity to at least a level that allows me to function.

But, as Didion says, "We deceive ourselves on all counts. It's always I." Who is this mountain trip really for?

I love my friends.

Zen and the Art of ? . . . Breathing. (G for gusher)

2007-07-05T20:14:00.000-06:00

My good friend, Emily, just asked me for validation; she's having a hard time, a confusing time. And when she gets confused, she gets aaaaaaanngry. But, instead of offering support, I yelled at her. Well, not really yelled, but I basically said, I can't validate you; I have to save all my validations for myself right now. Selfishness can squeeze you up like a blow snake squeezes the life out of a rabbit. Though validations may be pretty much a waste of time, since Em knows I love her, and life happens to you anyway. This is a complicated little piece of eternity, isn't it? Some days I'm just glad I'm breathing.

Yesterday, at the parade, someone bought me a snake hat made out of balloons. Bright red and orange. The snake's tongue stuck out two feet from my head and bopped up and down when I walked.

I knew if I strolled around Porter Park wearing this balloon hat and danced in the parade (because no one else was dancing, but Meg pulled me back and wouldn't allow it, since I just turned 60, she said, she said) and if I screamed at the bull riding at the rodeo later, then ooood and wowed the stupid fireworks, I might forget that we had just dragged Beau to a doctor. And they put in in the Behavioral Center.

Quite a trip. Quite a trip. Sorry, but I'm going to gush all the emotion--no, actually only 1/100th of the emotion from the night before, so it's out of me, so I can kick it along the sidewalk, or throw it into the river, or flush it all down the toilet. Beware J.J.J. Beware.

Meg and I pace, while Beau sits with his arms crossed, still determined he doesn't need to be here. As soon as this Rexburg doctor opens the door, I ask one of the silliest questions ever. "Are you LDS?" I throw at him before he even sits down on his stupid round stool. "Because we've been praying our heads off that a doctor somewhere, somehow will listen to us, hear us, because they're not listening: we've been to five Emergency rooms over the last six months, and we don't know what to do. We think my son's in the beginning stages of schizophrenia."

And Beau sits back--leaning his head against the window, and after months of fighting, he--finally--lets me talk.

And so I told Mr. Robot (who holds the keys to locked down units, where, maybe, Beau might get the right diagnosis?) about some of the voices: one told Beau to meet her at a restaurant in San Francisco. "Go in and order, Beau; I'll be right there to pay for it." The waiter shows him to a booth by the windows, when the voice in his head says, "Beau, I can't come in the door. It's too dangerous." And Beau looks up to see two men in gray suits getting out of a BMW in the financial district of SF. "But, don't worry, Beau. The man at the end of the counter, wearing the blue shirt, is going to pay for your food." Beau approaches the man and whispers: "Are you the one who's going to pay for the meal?" The man keeps eating, looking down at his plate. Then, Beau tells me over the phone, "But, I realize, Mom, he can't look up at me, or he's going to tip them off."

"WHO THE HELL IS THEM, Beau?" Long pauses--as I realize I've got to calm down. I've got to get him home because these nightmare dayscapes are cycling closer together now. But I'm screaming into the phone, trying to reach through and grab his mind as its flying in pieces all over SF, like James' brownies hitting the fan. But, it's not like he knows who these voices are either. "They're angry, and they hate me." This is only one story I tell Mr. Doctor.

Meg and I try to explain madness to this white suited robot, who looks so normal (please excuse bitterness) that he's probably planning which fly to tie onto his pole tomorrow, or maybe he's going over his sacrament talk on home teaching, while I keep reaching, trying--with all the words I've ever had in me--to paint the hell Beau is living in, how he burned his arm twice last night with a cigarette to take away the pain in his head. In fact, now I'm standing between him and Beau, saying, "He's not a cutter, you see; it's just that the pain gets so bad he has to redirect it--make it come from some other place than from his head. Do you understand?"--already I know he doesn't. How could he?

If I'm not careful--using these stupid inadequate words, words trying to explain insanity--another dimension most people don't know about, care about, can't understand, unless they've walked the path. They can't hear these words. What are the words? Where are they? This will be the book I write. I will find the words to explain the landscape of insanity; I swear I will do it--but, If I'm not careful, the thought crosses my mind, this guy will take me to the neurological center along with Beau. But, who the hell cares? I believe mothers have excuses for hysteria.

Finally, this doctor--healer of men--looks at Beau, who's busy listening to two women argue in his head.

One says she's from Tennessee, but Beau knows she's lying. "She's really from Texas, Mom; why does she swear she's from Tennessee?" And I want to grab his head like Dinero grabs the sides of Christopher Walkin's head in Deer Hunter, to keep his brains from falling out all over the floor. But instead I'm screaming again, "Who the heck cares where they live, Beau? They're in your head right now, so It doesn't much matter. Tell them to shut up and back off, so you can hear me. I'M THE MOTHER." These coping methods make me realize I'll certainly make Mother of the Year next month, and God has me already lined up to join the ranks of Compassionate Nurses in the next life.

But I can't explain the landscape in Beau's head to this man, who finally gets Beau's attention. "Do you concur with what your mother's said, young man?" Really. I'm not kidding. That's exactly what he said, like I'd just told him Beau's finger hurts, and I think he needs a band-aide.

Then we see Beau, in great shame, drop his head, and say yes. And Meg and I want to pick him up like a little child and protect him from all evil, but instead we melt with relief and go home to crawl into fetal positions until we can grasp that we may be losing him.

So, we go to the parade. I've had no sleep the night before because I watched him fight imaginary, full blown people, who hate his guts, who tell him not to talk to anyone, who scream at him until he bashes his head against the tree outside the back door to make them stop. But, it's the next day now--the 4th of July. I turn over on the couch to get away from the cat and fall off on the floor, which wakes me up; I hear ducks and grab the rest of the bread to feed them--and suddenly, before I know it--I'm really awake, and I need this Rexburg, small town, ridiculous parade, where the winning float is from Grease Monkey. My grand daughter is marching. And Meg's new husband, Ben, who has never seen a Podunk, country parade is hilariously baffled by all the tractors. ("But, they're 1959 tractors, Ben. Get it?" "Hmmm . . . no, not exactly," he says. He's giving it a good try. "They're, well . . . tractors.") He's puzzled by the kids in polished Chevy SUVs, throwing candy ("Ben, those are the student body officers of Sugar Salem. Get it?"); Then military display scares both of us. Ahhh, yes, we're supporting the fighting men, but do we have to do it with tanks and other war machines, which have been made for one purpose--to kill other human beings?

But we wander over to the park and eat mangoes dipped in hot sauce and lime. (They don't taste the same without the tequila--from my much younger days, of course, but I don't care.) We eat corn on the cob slathered with mayonnaise then sprinkled with Parmesan cheese and hot sauce. We eat something from every booth--lots of hot sauce and we get sick. We watch the old Rexburg carousal and listen to the worst music I've ever heard, and get sick, but it's a good day. It's sunny and people are--not exactly happy, but more relaxed, or . . . at least not angry or too irritated. And because we have no, absolutely none, zero expectations, it's a good day. Then I go take pictures of some baby colts in a field along the highway, until the rodeo starts. And it's all good because I love rodeos and fireworks and love to watch the people watching all of it (as long as I have space between us.) And everything lifts for awhile, so I can breathe. These are the days when just breathing is very good. It's enough.

Those Smooth Summer Days

2007-07-05T19:16:00.000-06:00

Okay, This is our friend, Jen. Cute. Funny. Compassionate. And always leading the way.

And here is real Em--a side she hides. And how she's feeling today.

Remember this? Joe fished the river-- in and around our brilliant, sun-laced conversations. Poor boy. He was shy then. Really. It's true.

Also, here's Em's Utah shirt:

For the Record, Part Deux

2007-07-04T19:28:00.001-06:00

Was going through some old albums yesterday and found this snapshot of Jen. For those of you who read this blog and do not know who "Jen" is that keeps posting on here, this is what she looks like (on a good day). Cheers, Jen Russell Terrier Parkin!

For the Record

2007-07-02T14:16:00.001-06:00

The Visit

2007-07-01T19:58:00.000-06:00

The best way to describe my life is this: one continual round of getting the shaft. This past week, while Wife lazed away the days, vacationing in Idaho, I was stuck at home rinsing the fecal stench from my hands after changing the 3,000th diaper--yes, the kids stayed with me.
A couple pictures from the get-together of the three wise women.

P.S. After posting the photo of Claire with the oversized beetle, complete with ungainly serrating mandibles, I've gotten a few questions about my parenting skills (everyone loves backseat drivers). So, to comply, here's a picture that we took tonight of Claire with a much more docile critter. Just your garden variety locust. I'd never had the chance to examine one closely before. I'm tempted to think our pioneer ancestors were a little prejudiced. They're not too bad looking--locusts, that is. This will be the last of the bug shots for awhile, unless something really impressive comes along.

Midnight River Sounds

2007-07-01T10:02:00.000-06:00

Jen, yours and Em's last post made me cry. Beautiful. Really. Thanks. (And, Em. I'm still in a Feng shui-stage.)

Our Healing Place. I still think clothes hangers were the perfect reward for you all painting the kitchen. I was proud of my practicality, when my first grab was for ping pong balls to symbolize our group. Did Aaron Davis really put together the bookcase? and Joe G. fix the garage door opener? Or was I dreaming?

Actually, I spent a long time dreaming (nightmares) in those days before the river slowly cleaned out the dead places, making room for some peace. What is it about certain places? I think they're gifts from God. At the risk of grossing out Jaren, James and Joe (J.J.J. hang on guys: G for gush), I remember ripping out my heart at night and taking hours under the stars--a trillion stars--to wash it in river water, but the next morning I woke up again to the same unbearable pain, and I'd plead and scream at the universe to make it stop--Can God take away sharp memories that cut up our insides like broken glass? Yes, I believe yes, but only in His time and in His way.

Like Rachel in the wilderness, I wandered around under the trees in numb circles, looking for my children, for my family, for the strong arms of my temple sealed husband, for his voice, for his bed. I told God no one can stand this--especially not me--the weakest of the weak. "You are a cruel Monster," I'd shriek at him like a madwoman, "not to offer to take my heart to your throne and send it back alive and whole again, because I know you can do this, if you wanted to." . . . Instead, He gave me this endless river, and I'd lie in the grass and listen until the sharpness eased into hurt, then longing, then numbness, then slowly I became the grass, and one morning I heard fifteen different bird calls. Then a doe and twin fawns came into the backyard to stay around all one summer, and two bald eagles landed often in the trees. I saw I wasn't cast into outer darkness but walked with a hundred thousand living creatures, and they were all good. No sin. If a hawk dove for a fish, it was because he was hungry. And God had created and organized all this (only Man screwed up the scenario) and had given it to me for awhile. And He is a Master artist. And I still remember the morning I woke up to realize I was still breathing--I hadn't died--and didn't want to. And I've stopped envying people in coffins, because sometimes my heart is so light, it floats with the river and bird songs. And sometimes it's not--but I didn't die.

In my P. blessing is a line I hate: "When things in your life become difficult--almost unbearable--the Lord will raise up friends . . . ." That "unbearable" word scared me (still does). But He has done what He promised. All of you (and more) are my soul mates. You have--each in a different way--blessed me and lifted me when I could not walk or even sit up. Just like Chan did a couple of weeks ago, you help me like I'm your broken sister, instead of your older mother. And I thank you. I don't know how else to say that feeling. It sounds so trite, but I thank all of you for being with me in the pre-existence and dropping in once in awhile down here. I love you, and I love the Lord, and now I'm so sorry I shot the beavers and chased the raccoon with a flashlight. (Geez, Jen, way to open floodgates.)

Places

2007-06-30T06:05:00.000-06:00

I haven’t actually written anything besides Craigslist ads or emails for I don’t know how long (I know a gasp from all you super devoted writers). I don’t have any diversion towards it or anything, I just haven’t made time for it. I do, however, write in my head, mostly as I go to bed at night. I have started many novels, written various emails or thought of what could go on my blog next. Last night’s writing was for Sharon’s blog though and I felt inspired to actually put it down on paper.

When I saw the picture of the river, my heart sank a little. Upper Darby, Pennsylvania is fine, but I don’t love it the way that I LOVE southeast Idaho, especially Sharon’s house. I know what you all are thinking. We all love Sharon’s, but I think that my generation of Writing Center folk, especially a few of us, have special claim on her Idahoan paradise. We were there when she first moved in. We were there for her first Christmas. In fact, I decorated her house while she was gone because she absolutely refused to let me decorate while she was there (she didn’t want it decorated at all…but I’m stubborn). I was one of the first to live at Sharon’s and I know I was definitely one of the first to clean Sharon’s. I picked out the colors for her deck (saving us all from an ugly gray) and for her kitchen, and along with Trevor, Emily and Serena, signed my name in cranberry colored paint behind her refrigerator in an effort to become immortal according to the house.

I’m not exactly sure what the purpose of this post is, other than to maybe say that there is something special, maybe even a little bit magical, about that house. We have all loved it for so many reasons. So I guess this is to say, Sharon, if the rumor mill is true and you are thinking of selling (again), just know that your house has healed and helped more than just you. We all love your house and we have all needed the sanctuary that it provides at sometime or another.

Oh and if you do sell, make sure to tell the new owners that there is a pretty good chance that there will be hippie kids coming in and out looking for you, probably for as long as the house is there.

Rocky Raccoon

2007-06-29T13:01:00.000-06:00

Hey, is that James Best out there? I hope so, 'cause I miss you lots.
And, yes, JG, Chan is Tanner and Berrett's (msp) brother. We LOVE the Warnicks. Tanner is the side picture. They're part of our pre-existent crowd, I'm sure of it. No, really, I'm serious. Otherwise how do we explain these deep, no-maintenance relationships we all have. In fact, if I push real hard against my brain cells, I can see Tanner singing one of Jame's or Jaren's poems, while Joe beats the black drums as Em, Greg, I dance around and through the fire with full hippie headbands (headbands made from snake skin for hippies, you cynical idiots.) Chandler is watching over all of us to keep the snakes away (or stuff them in his back pocket. That child is one snake-lover. But, I forgive him because of his deep sincere and constant honesty). Jen has cooked the frogs for our dinner in a special lime sauce; Emily Pew is late; Jaren, Josh, and James (the JJJ's)are already again by the river writing, writing, writing until the smell of crisp frog covered with bacon and lime juice brings them running. And the Lord approves and smiles. Then, we are all itching to get down here to our polluted earth-life ASAP. I must have been out of my mind to say I'd come down first and meet up with y'all during my PTSD from earlier nuclear bombs exploding in and around my humble domain.
Raccoons? I found a huge Rainbow Trout last night on the lawn by my canoe and threw it back in the river. I thought JG had been out fishing earlier and left it for my dinner, until I realized I'd interrupted a raccoon. Patch (my small dog, who thinks he's a St. Bernard) ran after him through the Sleeping Beauty-like hedge around my house (as in briers, cockle-burs, and rotted cottonwood trees; I build it up to keep the world away). I flashed a light and saw his eyes--red, lined with white--pure cold hatred. I called Patch back from sure-death but . . . wow. I've never seen a raccoon in my many midnight walks under the moon. Sigh, moments of pure remorse. I'm sorry, dear raccoon. Next time you flip your trout dinner on my lawn, I'll bring you ice cream for desert.

One Green and Speckled Frog

2007-06-27T17:21:00.000-06:00

As promised, here are the pictures of Emily's latest feeding frenzy.

In the first picture, my stepson Triston is showing Emily his prized frog. They have been together for a very long time. It is his best friend.

In the background is Emily's date Dane who, earlier that day, was walking down the street with a bag of groceries when he was accosted by Emily and forced to accompany her for the evening. Shown here, he is praying: "I don't know what I did to offend Thee . . . ." The rest is just garbled pleadings.

In the second picture, after back-handing Triston and playing a game of bobbing for Lumpy, Emily is making short work of the frog. Triston is crying in his bedroom with a pillowcase over his head and Dane is hiding under the table, quivering and moist. It took 45 minutes and a plate of sugar cookies before he came out again.

On the bright side, before the frog was downed, its skin excreted a fine toxic foam into Emily's mouth. She was pretty sick there for a while, vomiting blood and bits of rubber hose. Doing okay now. The only thing remaining is a voice like Tom Waits' and a mouthful of plantar warts.

Needless to say, it took a nearly a week before Dane got up the courage to ask her out again.

The third picture (Claire with elephant stag beetle) illustrates the power of bad examples.

On a different note, for those of you who are in Idaho:

The Sierra Leone Refugee All-Stars are playing in Boise and Hailey this week. Boise-28th. Hailey-29th.

I just learned about this band. All the members are refugees who were forced from their homes in that country's bloody revolution from 1999-2004. The murders and mutilations that occured there are very similar to what is happening in Uganda and Sudan right now, only on a smaller scale.

There is a remarkable documentary film about this band that I saw on PBS late last night if you're interested. Also, here's a link to their myspace page where you can hear a song or two. In addition to their pacifist message they've got a funky beat that I can really bug out to. Check it.

Guardian Angels (Rating. G for gush.)

2007-06-26T23:14:00.000-06:00

Many times, God can't get through to me, though I know He wants to, because I'm looking backward or forward or to the side instead of toward Him. I dabble in smallness, because it's easier. I miss God--even long to feel Him close by, and I miss that unearthly peace, but I'm unwilling to go to His throne because sometimes He asks a lot (anyone know what I mean?). But, sometimes I think He misses me, and He sends a real live angel to talk directly to my face, to remind me of what I want, and where I intend to go. This time he came in one of the Warnick brother's bodies--as in Chandler, the Chan, Sandman.

He shows up at a party a couple of weeks ago, though he's supposed to be catching snakes in the Utah dessert with Em. He's first there and last to leave. He sat on my stairs, spewing out whole profound inspiration about the Atonement that showed me a way to melt this hard cannon ball in my throat, and--not-to-over-do-it--I saw light for the first time in a loooong time. My eyes were bugging out. I don't understand the Atonement--it's so . . . big. But he showed me how to "use" it anyway. Bravo, Chan. Where did you get those words? How do you know those things? Yet, he actually thinks he's in "spiritual shambles." How ironic. And where's his errant brother, Tanner? Probably skinning rattlers in Arizona to make hippie headbands?

Goats, Em? And my two cent memories

2007-06-26T01:34:00.000-06:00

Joe, I may sell to go after a PhD with Em and Jaren (though I haven't discussed this with them yet.) For now my beautiful daughter, Meg, and her ex-Jehovah Witness, ex-heroin addict husband (long story)-- who's getting baptised in three weeks--will be cutting the grass and feeding the ducks while I'm gone. If I do sell, I promise I'll call you, so you can come fishing again. But I won't be moving into a town--ever. I get sick when too many people are thinking all at the same time around me, and I'm sure I could never sleep closed in with a lot of people filling up the air with their own dreams. And what if they were dreaming silly dreams? I hate stupid dreams. I've had peace here and much healing; it may be too difficult to move. . . . or it may have served its purpose.

Em. I cannot believe you put goats on my blog; if my cowboy dad sees it, he'll freak. He already thinks you're weird from the deck party when you shoved a whole hamburger in your mouth, slobbering tomatoes while Trevor filmed it. . . .

My memory, Jaren? I had a goat once. We were leaving the Blackfoot fair, walking by the petting zoo, when a guard stopped us because a Shetland was birthing a colt. Twilight, warm air, holding my husband's hand, watching a miracle--whew. A pygmy goat kept rubbing up against my leg; she hid behind me because the Shetland was screaming (horse screams are different from human; painful, but cleaner, more pure--can't explain; no words for it). I knelt by the goat to keep her from being scared, and my son, Turner, shook his head and said, "Don't even think about it, Mom." Yep. She rode home in the back of the car with T. After a couple of days, she thought she was a dog and would run down the lane to meet the kids, chase any car that drove in, bunt cats with her head. One time I let her in the house when Dad was there, and he said "Oh sh--!" Put on his hat and left. (Do you know why cowboys hate sheep and goats? Because they eat the grass clear down almost to the roots, so it won't grow fast enough for cattle to range on it. But now who the h--- cares, except old old cowboys, because most of our cattle belong to BIG ranches and rodeo stock, and the government owns most of the range. My, My, I forgot how I hate the big government.) Anyway, I couldn't wait 'til summer when I could really play with this goat. But Taylor came in from feeding the horses one day to tell me he'd found blood and hair along the snow path. "I'll go find her," he said. All of us, including grandchildren, threw on coats. If she was dead, I needed to see it. If I don't face crap like that, it stays on, floating around in my head, hanging around to drop on my Prufrock plate at the oddest times, and the plate's already too full. We checked out the fox den, but something had been after them also. The grand kids found her. We saw them across the field, standing still and staring at the ground. A coyote from the river maybe or huge dogs (several; many tracks) had ripped open her stomach to get at the food I'd fed her the night before. Later Brayten (5 yrs then) said, "I wish I hadn't seen her." Parker (10) said, "Geez, stop talking about it, Brayten." Brayten spun around and yelled at him, "Shut up, Parker. I gotta talk about it." (I've always admired that kind of courage.) Then he asked me if I thought the goat went to heaven. I said, "Heck yeah, I've got so many animals in heaven that there's barely going to be room for us--dogs, cats, horses, frogs, turtles, fish, canaries, but no snakes-- the Lord's probably already given them our ranch up there to run around on. That goat is probably sleeping in your room right now." . . . Geez, what a stupid thing to say, especially when I wanted to leave, go to the barn and kick some hay, swear every swear word I know--which are many. Well, that was a darn sad memory. Sorry. Biker chick's fault. (How funny, Jaren.) She started it.

But I must warn you, I do write whatever sits on the end of my tongue, which may be sentimental, cheese, kitch, and sometimes some darn nice sentences, sooooo my friends . . . I need some sleep, or I'll stay home again to play with my dog tomorrow and soon get fired from my job. Oh darn.

Parenting

2007-06-24T20:29:00.001-06:00

Oh Em, it will be EXACTLY like you said. See:

Since Jaren got us started.......

2007-06-23T22:02:00.000-06:00

Okay, because we're talking first memories and core events in life, I'll take a minute to drop my two cents since I'm sitting in one of my best friend's (Jen R. Parkin's) computer-room/guest-quarters at midnight PA time and.....I'm not very sleepy. And Sharon knows we've shared many core moments, she and Jen and I. And with Serena who slips like the wind in and out of our lives leaving random myspace comments or knocking on office doors without leaving notes. And with Trev, whom Jen and I are off to see on Tuesday for a picnic on the Jersey shore where Jen can see the Statue of Liberty for the first time. How horrible I sometimes think it is that I saw Paris before Jen. But I don't think I saw Jen's Paris. That's hers. And I sent her a Moulin Rouge postcard. Which I can now confirm is hanging on her refrigerator. This makes me happy.

Anyway, today Jen and Aaron and I took their baby Olivia (who is really adorable...I always worry that kids will either HATE me or else they'll be really ugly and I'll have to fake wanting to kiss them on the cheeks. Olivia LOVES me, or at least loves girls, and she is the cutest kid I have seen since pictures of myself at 16 months--haha, Jen!), anyway we took her to these raspberry days outside of Philly....hayrides with berry picking-and-eating and places to feed goats and chickens and people dressed up as Dora and Elmo (who needed to be guided along by the hand so they wouldn't trample the toddling children who kept dancing around underfoot). All in all the experience was interesting because I remember Jen from her wild single days--packing her up inside a suitcase because she was petite enough to fit, midnight movies at the FHE brothers' houses on a school night, eggnog shakes at the HogYog, throwing lightbulbs onto Porters' parking lot with Aaron Davis and running around a cemetery afterward (actually, that was pretty unlike Jen that night....we caught her in a rare mood).....Jen the Wife and Mom is still definitely the same old Jen, but a more refined, protecting, intuitive Jen. A Jen who carries crackers with her along with twelve other various and assorted items of which she will use every single one whenever Olivia sneezes, calls out, beckons, or grins. Books, tissues, juice, etc. I'm impressed. And intimidated.

I feel jealous definitely. And scared definitely. I mean, this is a lot of responsibility. And we all know Jen was always better prepared for it than me. Jen practically raised me as her own while we lived together, when I asked her to. Or when I let her. She never could get me to clean my room. The point of this whole blathering post is that one of my very first memories is feeding goats at the Hogle Zoo when I was maybe three. I remember their tongues and I remember tentatively holding out my palm between the iron grate and being nervous and excited when a baby goat...possibly even a faun, not even a goat....batted his big eyes at me and licked up the pellets with his gray tongue and big floppy lips. And I guess this does make me a bit eager to experience this again with my own kids. No, I won't even guess. I do feel this way. I do envy Jen a bit that in a few years she'll take Olivia to the library and read huge hardback childrens' books with her and take stale bread to feed the ducks. I admit this is a hugely romantic portrayal of parenting, so before Sharon and Jared pipe up and tell me to get over this single woman's portrayal of motherhood (which I KNOW I know nothing about).....I recognize the late nights with stomach flus and broken bones and just the sheer monotonous fussiness and changing of diapers that will never ever end. But even those things I want to relive with these little people, I think. Even if I get a little girl someday like myself, paranoid and anxious until she breaks out in a rash on her stomach and I have to buy her worry stones that we both know don't really work. I like to think that maybe I'll remember how it was, and tell her I know how it is. But I also get scared I'll forget. Or I'll have a child I don't know or understand. A child with problems I never had, and I'll have to sit her down in silence and maybe even anger, staring her down with no empathy, and waning patience.

Well, in any case, EVERY kid of mine is going to love feeding the goats. We'll always have that.

Dying, Death equels leaving, left

2007-06-21T01:27:00.000-06:00

"My first memory is of pain" writes Jaren in a beautiful post--truly a pleasure to read, a treat, like getting off a plane to feel warm Arizona air in the middle of winter.

I can't remember my first memory because my mind doesn't work backward anymore--in a chronological order. It's arranged more like a complicated spider's web. And each new sensation floats rather than attaches, while each new experience stays at the back of my neck until I'm ready to inspect it, pick it apart to know the danger before it explodes; consequently, my neck feels stretched to the point of breaking. Because what's the point of moving a new experience in to center stage, white space until I've named the core ones and placed them in a clean "well-lighted room"--nailed them to the floor, so I can see them, handle them, paint them any color I want? I think I've spent most of my life shell-shocked from my own anger at how the universe twists and turns so flippantly. Most events happen much too soon--before I am ready. What would it take for me to stand open-armed at the forefront of my life again? Or is this "naming of parts" an old woman feeling the movement toward her own death? It's an awfully morbid thought to see all of us marching toward our own graves, yet it's not like we can say "No, I'd prefer not to." We just move along toward . . . understanding? I don't think so. Compassion? I hope so because that would make it all worth while.
Jaren catches much with his openng line.

A memory

2007-06-16T19:31:00.000-06:00

We were all still alive then. It was the late 1970’s and my family was on vacation. My parents ponied up the cash for the record-high gas, piled their six kids in a maroon Chevrolet suburban, and drove from Rexburg, Idaho, still reeling from the flood caused by the burst Teton Dam, across the shimmering deserts of Utah and Nevada, to Disneyland, the greatest place in the world. I was three years old and that trip is my first memory.

I don’t remember the fifteen hour drive. Having been a few places with my own kids, I could be persuaded that it sucked mightily for my parents.

What the hotel looked like is lost to me, though there is a vague notion that it was quite close to the theme park because it seems as though it wasn’t necessary to drive. It may even have been called Disneyland Hotel. I don’t even remember much of the park to be quite honest, but one thing about the trip is very clear. Two things, actually.

We had spent the day on the roller coasters, the teacups with their endless chiming of “It’s a Small World, After All”, shaking hands with and taking pictures of the whole cast of oversized celebrities, Mickey, Donald, Goofy, et al. I’m sure it was grand.

Here’s where it comes into focus. It was night, probably around 9 or 10 o’clock. Other than my younger brother Joshua, who was only one year old, the kids were headed to the pool. Mom and Dad stayed with Joshua in the room. It may seem like a bad idea to send children that young to swim unaccompanied by adults, but we were all precocious swimmers—I was swimming at two.

I remember the sidewalk to the pool was lit with a greenish hued lamp, the same color, incidentally, as illuminated pool water. Johnny, the oldest at thirteen, had his towel rolled lengthwise and he had it around the back of his neck, holding the two ends with his hands at his sides. He looked so cool, walking with his towel like that. So of course I copied him. As I was rolling my towel, trying to keep up with the others, I tripped and fell.

It couldn't be as bad as I remember, but memory tells me I scraped the hell out of my knees. I wailed.

Thinking about it now, I was probably upset as much by my failure to imitate my older brother as I was by the pain. Either way, I sat there and I screamed in the night. Because of my little injury, we all had to go back to the hotel room. None of us swam. My siblings were slightly pissed. I don’t blame them. I couldn’t stop crying. I don’t remember who held me, my mom or my dad. I cried myself to sleep.

It’s interesting to me that my very first memory is one of pain.

The second memory is from the next day. It’s of riding “The Matterhorn Bobsled” with my dad. Fashioned after the real Matterhorn in Switzerland, the roller coaster ascends to the top of an artificial mountain. After peaking, the bobsled flies down, looping in and out of tunnels that cut through the mountain. In one of the tunnels is a giant Abominable Snowman with glowing red eyes. He scared me to death. I loved it. Dad and I rode it again and again. We spent the day on that ride, just us.

Years later, I understood what he had done for me. I didn’t know it at the time, but my dad had an intense fear of heights. He also got motion sickness. It turns out that he absolutely hated roller coasters. In all our subsequent trips to amusement parks, I can’t remember him ever going on any rides. He joked that he didn’t feel comfortable sitting on park benches without a seatbelt. He just watched the rest of us and waited for us to get off before walking us to the next ride. I can only imagine the physical misery he put himself through to ride that bobsled with me.

I get a little sentimental this time of year. In a couple of months it will have been three years since he died. It is a huge and silent reality that so many have gone that way. I’ve looked in every room of my soul for the answers. If they’re there, I’m not yet equipped with the ability to understand them. I've talked very little about it, have written less. The whole thing is pushing at me these days.

At the beginning of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance Phaedrus says, “Truth comes knocking at the door, and you say, ‘Go away, I’m looking for the truth.’ The ghost may have something there.

Whether it's familiarity that's blinding me or something else, I don't know. I do know that we all search for something. Here's to looking.

I was worried about ending here because I was afraid it would come off as overly sentimental. But I figured out how to say it: My first memory is of pain. My second one isn't.

News from KY

2007-06-11T17:30:00.000-06:00

I'm young at this, so I'll pick it up as I go. Sharon, thanks for the invite. I sincerely hope you post often.

To start: You didn't finish the Dylan story (as it pertains to rejection). After he said "I don't believe you," he turned to the band and said "play it ******* loud." He not only played exactly what he wanted, but he did it more insistently.

Second, O'Brien is genius. True, he may be burning out in his present job, but as far as natural quick humor, he has few peers. And his hair: it speaks for itself.

Third, Emily is amazing. When she first came to visit, the kids were mauling her and I asked Wife during the distraction if she could remember if she and Emily had met. Wife said "Are you kidding? I'd remember meeting someone that beautiful." True. We had such a good time. The babies loved her unreserved and immediate. Wife and I loved her too, which is why we made her take the frog out of her purse and clamp it between her gums while we snapped degrading photos--I'll share them as soon as I get them off the camera. Then we pulled the old sleep deprivation (to illustrate our affection), allowing a hair under two hours' sleep in a muggy tent in our living room. And finally, at dawn's crack, we unceremoniously booted her out the door, stumbling and bleary-eyed, without breakfast or shower, and bid farewell forever. On the whole, it was grand.

The pictures:

As most children do, Emilia, Claire, and Joshua (with respect to their positioning on this page) thrill when exploring the outdoor world. We try to get them out as often as possible, letting them see and feel and smell. Their eagerness to experience the world makes new the familiar for me. It also points, a little ominously, toward the lessons down the road.

I was looking at these pictures of them in this field behind our apartment. Spotting the grass are thousands of dandelions in various stages of growth. I pop the tops off for the kids and they scream whoop. Inevitably, they search out the dandelions that are gone to seed, the translucent pappus with parachute stalks too tempting to resist. They pick them and blow them and watch the wind float the attendant flotsam till the sun disappears it all. Where they land is unseen, yet of course they do land somewhere, and soon the taproot tendrils the soil.

The whole of it is this, the dread fear of every parent--when mine are grown and gone, where will they land? For atmospheric currents are not too remote from those of life, they are complex and ever changing. Ending up where you want requires starting out right.

To God: Let me learn the winds. So that when I let go. . . .

The Conan Post

2007-06-10T21:44:00.000-06:00

Sharon, it's Emily. THIS is why we like Conan O'Brien. Actually, no, first, let me guide you through it. Yes, he is kind of an idiot. But also brilliant. Studied English at Harvard. He's endearing. And I despise Access Hollywood but they did pull Conan and Andy Richter back together for an interview....which is the following clip. Watch for Conan's brief allusions to Jaws. And for his self-deprecation. And his floppy hair. This is why we love him. And his Chuck Norris lever. He's like the strange uncle I never had. Also, Jaren agrees with me that Conan is cool. And he doesn't know how to use Blogger but I think we can teach him. Also, we put frogs in our mouths. You would have killed us.

Late nights

2007-06-08T21:34:00.000-06:00

I really hate Conon O'Brien (Sp). I mean what is that stupid, hair-flopping dance he does in the beginning of his show? I'm embarrassed for him. Doesn't he know he looks like an idiot? Who's his audience? Never mind. I don't want to know. It'd scare me. Last night I felt like Jewel's "Alice in Wonderland": Trying to figure out my life/ My youth scattered along the highway.
Or maybe more like her "A Good Day": Self, why are you awake again?/ It's 1:00 am/ . . . As it is I might/ watch TV because it's nice/ to see people more messed up than me/ . . . But it's going be all right/ No matter what they say/It's gonna be a good day/The point of it all/is if I should fall/But it's gonna be a good day/. . . as long as we laugh out loud/. . . It's gonna be okay/ . . .Get back in bed/ Turn off the TV/. . .un oh. I'm awake again/ It's 1:00 am/ such a sight--starring/ Well, at least the stars are bright.