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

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.

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

River runs through Idaho Autumn

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

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

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

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

All Apologies

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

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)

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.

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

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

Mark the Date

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."

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.