Funny, the way it is

So that last post...I sort of kidding.

But not really.

Everything I said I still believe to be true. You can't plan on awesomeness or magic. And Fingers Crossed and Eyelash Wishes work.

The story behind this is: I did get to attend the event that I was heartbroken for missing. I'll admit it, it was a Parachute concert. And it was worth all of the hype and wishes. I love the feeling of my heartbeat matching the drumbeat and all of my bones shaking with the speakers. I love singing at the top of my lungs, jumping, and watching beautiful men rock.

How did this come to be after all of my life lessons on wishing? I gave up hope.

By midnight on Wednesday I had finally accepted that it wouldn't happen. I held a tiny pity party as I got ready for bed. And of course two eyelashes end up on my finger. I spent one, vainly, on clearing up my skin (I have less faith that this one will work, even wishes can't combat the demons that live in my skin) and the other on a Parachute concert in August. Then I went to bed. And just to follow the oath that I gave at the end of my blog, I fell asleep with my fingers crossed.

Let's just say I got a text at work the next day, Thursday coincidentally. After work I ran home threw some clothes in a bag, grabbed cds, a soda, and a gps, and made a mad dash for Logan. Met Whitni and her friend Sherece and drove to the city of the lake of salt. From then awesomeness ensued. Including seeing Whitni for the first time since Thanksgiving.

Can  we just agree that Parachute oozes sexiness? And believe me I don't use that distinction lightly. Crowd surfing, shred fest solo battle, dirty tank tops, bad haircut, and awesome music.

Oh yeah and I LOVE SAX SOLOS!

...Like Shooting Stars

I believe in Fairytales and Eyelash Wishes. I believe in Fingers Crossed and Fortune Cookies if I like what they have to say.

My Grandpa never believed in Luck. He believed in Fortune. I never quite understood the difference.

More than once I have believed that fingers crossed has worked. It wasn't a feeling of luck or fortune, but almost as if I deserved it because I had wished. Really and truly wished. If someone had asked I would have said lucky, but it was really the feeling of fingers crossed.

And now I think I have discovered, not why, but why not. Fingers crossed does not work if you expect something. If it is expected, likely, or even reasonably possible, one wishes differently. I have taken my new found freedom and filled my summer with great expectations. I need to stop.

I had the good fortune of basically being handed a job, and one that will actually be interesting and impressive. And I am extraordinarily grateful for that. I was able to see my brother, sister-in-law, and nephew--who I did not know if I would see again until Christmas--and now I have found out that I will see them again on the 4th. In Sun Valley. A place more magical than Disney World could ever be.

These have created a wonderful beginning to the summer. But neither of them were planned, not really at least, not by me.

And my first plan has fallen through. I took it for granted. I did not spend enough eyelashes or time with fingers crossed. And truthfully that is all that could have helped. I could not have planned  my way out of--or more accurately, into--this one. My half of the plans were perfectly laid, although it would have cost me more money than I was admitting to myself. It is everyone else's plans that got in the way.

I know I will get a question as to the nature of this plan or failed wish. And I am a tad embarrassed to admit it, although I shouldn't be--anyone who reads this blog already doubtlessly knows of my unabashed love. But alas, there is another chance before this summer ends. A chance that will have better laid plans and far more fingers crossed preceding it. I hope it happens (even though it will cost even more than it would have this time).

According to the dictionary Luck is

"the force that seems to operate for good or ill in a person's life, as in shaping circumstances, events, or opportunities"

And Fortune is to have something

"happen by chance"



I don't know whether I believe in Fortune or Luck or both. Probably both. Sorry Grandpa. But you were always the logical one. Practical. Scientific. I was the one chasing fairies through the branches of your willow.

I believe in Fairytales and Eyelash Wishes. I believe in Fingers Crossed and Fortune Cookies if I like what they have to say.

And I solemnly swear that I will not take them for granted again.

I will wish with all my heart.



Gotta Figure This Out

Kind of the theme song of my life right now. (And just an all-around amazing song)

Only once has this song been truer for me then it is now. The summer before I left for college I all but had a mental breakdown. I didn't know what I wanted; I just knew it wasn't what I had. If anyone asked me about my plans or if I was excited, I had to fight off tears. I was completely lost and scared. I kept writting it off to nerves. Which I'm sure it was because I'm here now and I've been fine.

I've had a great year and made good friends that I wouldn't trade. But the feeling is coming back. I'm already nearing the end of my first year of college. And I'm getting summer-itis. And I'm getting the feeling that summer might not actually help.

I'm unsure about my classes and living arrangements for next year. I'm stressed about a massive research project that I have no desire to do. I'm thoroughly convinced that no one will hire me this summer. I want to be home and I want to be in Sun Valley. I want a job, but I don't want to miss out on the things I actually want to do. I want to go on grand adventures and then sit on my couch at home and read about grand adventures. I don't want ot sit in basements or living rooms wondering what to do. I've lost interest in school. The only classes I actually enjoy are creative writing and salsa, and even those are a struggle because they are in the evening. I don't really enjoy my lit class, even though it was my favorite class last term and the professor is as good as ever. Maybe it's what we are reading, or the looming research project, or the 8:30 am time slot. But still.

I've been spending my weekends reading, but now I've run out of cheesey fun books. I want to write, but the ideas are disjointed and fragmented. I listen to the same songs on repeat. I want to get into shape, but the motivation is never enough to get me to the gym.

It kind of feels like I'm on the edge and any moment the fall into the dark uncertainty will be here. (Melodramatic, right?) I feel like I'm stressed about things that aren't quite here yet, but I'm not really doing anything to make it better. There are things I'm looking forward to, but they don't seem quite real; just out of reach. I was amazed the other day at how great some positive feedback from my workshopping group in creative writting made me feel. I guess I'm realizing that I don't want the worlds of research and academia--an idea I'm probably reflecting in part from my brother, who is trying to figure out where to go next. I'm not at the turning point he is, but it kind of feels like I will be before I'm ready.

So I'm going to back to dreaming in color--of my grand adventures that I will make happen, even if it isn't as soon or as magical as I would like to believe. I'm not unhappy, but I keep looking forward to what is coming, for better or worse. I'm not content with content.

Soundtrack for this blog post:
Erin McCarley- Gotta Figure This Out,  Pitter Pat (anything else by her. Listen to her, she is great and this is my mindset right now)
Matt Nathanson- Car Crash

It's true I love technology

...But it seems to far more fickle about our relationship.

It has long been a rule that if some important project is due, something will malfunction. It's usually the printer. Printers are vindictive and hateful things, for seemingly no reason. This is an accepted fact in 308.

However, this time the printer is not the culprit. It's everything else. (Okay, well the printer definitely hasn't become more friendly, but it hasn't gotten worse...yet.)

A week or two ago I thought my iPod dock had broken, which meant no speakers and no charger. Oh well, I can deal, borrow someone else's charger, life continues. About a day later the battery died. I didn't bother for a couple days. Then the worst happened.

The Beast was dead.

It wouldn't charge. Evil warning messages of doom kept popping up. It was not a good time. I refused to admit that my friend of six years was leaving me.

Then two days ago my computer got a virus. From Pandora. I mean, really? That isn't exactly a sketchy or back-alley site. So my computer spent a solid 26 hours in the care of ResNet and is now recovered (obviously).

But during our time apart, I panicked in the silence. (No computer and no iPod meant no music, unless Jeana was in the room. I don't do well with silence.) I discovered that my speakers did in fact work and that The Beast would play. Needless to say there was some dancing about the room. I thought the cosmos had taken pity on me.

Close, but no cigar. The Beast is not dead, but I am afraid it is fighting a losing battle for its sanity. I was able to listen to the Gabe Dixon Band and a few more songs before it spasmed and went into insta-shuffle mode. Basically, it just scrolls through the songs without ever playing anything.

I am a bit distressed. I love my brick and don't want to get one of these new-fangled iPods. I want my Beast. Luckily the computer and I are back together. And I have a new found appreciation for personal electronics and a realization of how much I depend on them. It's unhealthy, but that's our world.

Driving down the 101

California.

Yes, I've been back from spring break for a week and a half already, but I've been thinking about my family a lot and how important they are to me. People have a lot of reasons for going to California for spring break. I have exactly three: Jeff, Sarah, and Adam.

Even though I spent a few nights on a couch and countless hours in a mini-van in the rain, it was well worth it. I realized once I was back at school that if I hadn't gone to California for break I don't know when I would have seen them. I'm a poor college student and they are in grad school with a kid. None of us really have the means to state-hop often. I also got to see my mom and talk her ear off on the plane ride from Salt Lake to San Jose (after accidentally getting on a plane to Long Beach--the adventures started early). We saw the Hearst Castle, Cannery Row, Hollywood, ate at Bubba Gump's, and even had to turn back when we came upon a highway destroyed by a mudslide. And of course played Settlers of Catan. It was purely lovely. All of it. And I already miss them.

The one downside was that I didn't get to see my dad. He called me the day I got back to school with some sad news and I've talked to him at least twice since and although this is far more than average, it's been really nice. And I know that more than anything he needs family right now.

His side of the family has been gathering, for less than favorable reasons, but it makes me want to be home even more. I want to hug my grandma, chase my eight year old twin cousins, eat the take-out my uncle brings back, and try to get attention from my dog as she stalks grandma around the house. I want to sit on the orangey-red carpet with my back against the couch as everyone talks, laughs, and cries. I want to re-stack the books on the too full bookcases and dust off the graduation pictures of my dad and his siblings. This isn't my home, but in a way it is.

My grandparents moved into this house when my dad was a little boy. They got new carpet in the seventies. I know all of the little trinkets and toys and the blue-green shag carpet in the "Memory Room"--it was my favorite place to stay when I was little.

The memories from this house are usually pretty similar, but I guess that's what makes it feel like part of home. When I think of home I first think of my family, my dog, and my house, but the next image is almost always one of my grandma's family room with the suit of armor and the whole family ready to greet whoever comes in next.

I want it to be me.

I guess this post didn't really end up being about California. But it never really was. It's the people. The people who make long car rides and KFC chicken better. The people who are family and home.

hundreds of pages, pages, pages forwards, more words.

"was it you who spoke the words that things would happen but not to me"

There are different types of books- non-fiction, fiction, literary, popular, kids, teen, adult- but the the dividing lines for me tend to bridge some of these gaps. There are good books, books that I nearly can't make it through because they don't capture my interest, and books that capture me completely. These are the books that I can't put down. The books that I don't want to end, but I can't stop reading. The books that I have to remind myself to eat while reading. The ones that my fingers itch to re-open. The ones that I re-read again and again. The ones that leave the pit in my stomach, to the point wherre I am physically hungry for the story.

These rare few aren't even always literary masterpieces. The writting might not always be the most eloquent or noteworthy. But that doesn't mean they aren't either. Dostovesky made me fall in love with a murderer. McEwan made me hope for a romance based on what was basically a one night stand. Rowling made magic real. Dessen used flaws to show the perfect. Collins made a horrific world that I still wanted to belong to. I wanted to be Hermione and Katniss and Macy and Anna and Liesel. And I fell in love with Peeta, Etienne, Wes, Raskolnikov, Razmuikhin, Jacob, Robbie, and Arthur. I wanted to be in their worlds, no matter how messed up they were.

This is why I want ot write. If I can't actually go to Panem, Hogwarts, Narnia, or a French boarding school, then I want ot create my own worlds. I can guaruntee they won't be as beautifully detailed as McEwan or as psycholoogical as Dostovesky- and not for lack of trying- but they will probably be more of the YA persuassion. Hopefully I won't ever sink to a Stephanie Meyers level either though. If nothing else I want to write these stories for me. To get them out of my head, but not lost. I realize that this is the most likely senario. It is the most practical. But that isn't really my scene either.

The stories never leave my head. They distract me and send me into wild daydreams. They are based off of every book, song, movie, and real life I've ever experienced. I could probably name at least one song that directly inspired a story in my head. Or multiple. I had to stop doing homework one day to begin a story inspired by Ryan Adams "Come Pick Me Up" because it was distracting me from what I was actually trying ot accomplish. These stories transport me, but that is because I know where they lead. I know the world they are in and the characters that populate them. I know the characters better than myself and yet they still surprise me. But what I want to know is if they would have the power to take other people somewhere else. If they could be a sanctuary and escape. If they could make the decript beautiful and the flawed perfect.

That's all I want. And it is too much to ask.

"more words than I have ever heard and I feel so alive"

Winter Winds

I went for a walk in the rain today. I had somewhere to go, but I took my time on the way back. Even with my hood up the tips of my hair was dripping and the front of my pants were soaked. I love to walk through the cemetery and I've always wanted to take pictures of the crumbling stones and trees that stand like pillars holding up the canopy over the path. Today, in the rain, I did. I almost wanted to spin around and dance in it once I was sufficiently drenched before I realized that even in the rain there would be plenty of witnesses to my madness.

I've walked down this path in sunshine, in mist, at night, with friends, in heels, and today in the pouring rain. I remember the first Sunday I realized the trees looked like the architecture of an ancient building and that night in my reading discovered that Charles Baudelaire had once seen the same thing I had. He had seen living pillars. He had felt words that were dim and confused. But his words, even when translated into a different language, did not seem dim or confused. I saw the image perfectly. I wanted to write my own to make someone else see. But I didn't try. I knew it wouldn't go quite right.

The winds remind me of home. I didn't realize they were absent until I heard them in the oak outside my window one afternoon. I always used to complain about the constant bluster, but now it delights me when my hair is picked up and tossed around by the breeze. I miss falling asleep to the white noise of a wind storm.

I haven't been home in three months and I won't for another three. And even then it may not be for long. I get to see family soon and I've never been one to turn down the chance to see somewhere new, but I kind of want to go home. Either way I wouldn't see my dad and by going to California I get to see my brother and his family. I won't have to deal with dreary Idaho March either. But I kind of envy my friend who is going back to Idaho to see his family for the first time in three months also. I miss my dog. And my bed. And being home.