On Waiting for a Mission Call

I’ve been absent from the blogging world. Not having readers is key in my diminishing motivation, and so is the fact that I have a book (no joke) to write in the next month. But here I am, not really feeling the scholarly spirit, pining away over my prospective future.

            I decided earlier this year that the time had come that I devote my life to my faith. I’ve tried before to dedicate myself to becoming a disciple of Christ, but it’s not all that easy. I’ve been too cynical to really buy into faith, but then I realized that I’ve had it all along. It’s something I can’t really help, and since I’ve given into the promptings of the Spirit, I’ve been the happiest I think I’ll ever be. It’s pretty fantastic. So in gratitude and an effort to completely roll over to doing the work of the Lord, I’ve submitted an application to serve a mission for a year and a half. So far I’ve been waiting a little over a month for a call to come in the mail, and it has yet to come. This is discouraging, but nevertheless it does not detract from the distraction that comes with the anxiety. So here’s a list of things to do while waiting for a mission call.

1)      Write a missionary- I have a friend on a mission now, and despite the fact that he doesn’t write back, I still make it a point to write him. It’s good practice for the day when I lose all freedom to communication.

2)      Celebrate a holiday- Halloween has passed since I submitted my paperwork, and I almost forgot it. While waiting for the mail I forgot to go out and compile a costume, so what I ended up doing was pretty last minute. I almost went as a missionary, but I think that would have been lost without the identifiable tag. So I wore something from a couple of years ago.

3)      Make people think you have your call- Mission calls typically come on Wednesdays, and so Thursdays are great days to tease your coworkers. You can’t really do this every Thursday though, because they do lose interest, but if you wait two weeks and then announce that THIS Wednesday is THE Wednesday, everybody gets excited and starts placing bets, and then it doesn’t feel like you’ve been waiting for eternity. And it’s really fun to pretend that you have a big secret. By the time I do get my call, I’m pretty sure some people will think I’ve had it for a couple of weeks.

4)      Peruse Google Maps- Typically this is an activity best done when you know where you’re going, but it’s also a great way to get to know every nook and cranny on this planet, so you won’t be surprised when you get called to an impoverished or remote part of the globe. As it turns out, much of the planet is remote or impoverished, so I’m already sufficiently disappointed that where I’m probably going is going to be super uncomfortable.

5)      Throw parties- There is a certain ritualistic ceremony that comes with getting a mission call that includes calling all your relatives together to be present when you open the letter foretelling your future. Now my family isn’t particularly close, but I have planned and thrown two parties with my immediate family. No call yet, and I do believe in crying at my own party, but I’ve been able to spend time with my family nonetheless.

6)      Prioritize the people in your life- Now some people I barely know have demanded to be texted as soon as I know. Normally I don’t really think to talk to anybody about my life, and I’m slightly uncomfortable with the idea of letting everyone and their dog know where I’m going, but it’s gotten confusing, and I’ve begun to reevaluate the relationships I have. I have a scrap piece of paper in my pocket that has people listed according to importance and the method by which I will announce my call to them. I have a list of people who will find out in person, over Facebook, over text, and via phone. This list includes everyone from my mother, to my professors, to that one girl I had a class with five years ago and whom I hadn’t seen since until she was my waitress at a restaurant last week.

7)      Don’t do your homework- I’m spending a year and a half somewhere else reading nothing but scripture. The chances of me having to repeat this semester of Greek is pretty high no matter how much I remember.

8)      Facebook more- No internet for a YEAR and a HALF?! I don’t Facebook too much as it is, but I’m soaking in as much as I can of absolutely nothing while I still have the freedom to do so! It also helps to like religiously related things to make it look like you haven’t given up hope, and that you’re still really super serious about your testimony.

9)      Shop, but don’t shop- I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t do any clothes shopping until I got my call. I don’t want to go out and buy a whole bunch of cold weather things only to be called to Tahiti and have to buy more clothes for a warmer climate. I’m not made of money. It’s easy enough to not shop for a month, but I’ve technically been not shopping in my anticipation since July. It’s now November, and whether I like it or not I really do need to buy cold weather clothing. It’s also like my wardrobe has decided to rebel against me, because I’ve had to replace most of those absolutely necessary yet really expensive items like sturdy undergarments (which will go away anyway as soon as I get endowed!) and jeans and tennis shoes (which I won’t be wearing once I’m on the mission). In about a week all my jeans got massive holes in them, and my tennis shoes wore out in the sole. And yet you really want to start shopping for things you probably will need, but don’t want to get now because you don’t want to look too eager.

10)  Plan your post-missionary life- I’m dropping a whole lot of life to do this, and it’s not going to be easy to pick up where I’ve left off, but I’m older and I don’t have much of my twenties left to make up for the time I’ll be gone. So far it looks like I may be applying to BYU at some point, taking my GRE, and figuring out how the dating world works. I’ve also been planning on how to rearrange the décor in my room, since everything will be in storage while I’m gone.

11)  Google different questions and phrases related to ‘mission call’- I feel really proactive wasting time looking at forums in which people talk about their horrible experiences or great experiences or whatever. Sometimes I feel discouraged, sometimes I feel strengthened.

12)  Practice reaction faces and write down reaction one liners for the big day- I’m the type of person who has to script the humor into her life, otherwise nothing funny ever happens, and I actually really like everything to be as hilarious and preposterous as possible. I remember when I got baptized when I was eight. When my dad brought me up out of the water I beamed at the gaggle of supporters watching and exclaimed, “I feel like an astronaut!” I promise my one liners have gotten better.

13)  Stalk the MTC website- They have a virtual tour, which is fun. Sort of. I feel creepy staring at the people in the pictures. That’s why I hate looking at pictures on Facebook.  I’m stalking them, and they don’t know, nor can they do anything about it. I’m a predator!

14)  Cuddle with your dog- You’re going to miss your furry friends most! They can’t talk on the telephone when you call in May and December, and they can’t write to you!

15)  Throw away inappropriate media- I was never the kid who got offended by the music I listened to, but now that everything I listen to will be at the mercy of the scrutiny of my companions (who will undoubtedly be better people than myself), I’m going to have to be super selective of the music and books that I sneak into my bags.

16)  Go do things with your friends that you’ve never done- I’m going paintballing tonight. I’ve never been paintballing. I probably will never get this opportunity again. No, I’m not dying, but in a way I feel like I am. I could paintball when I get home, but everything will be different.

17)  Stand by the mailbox and wait- Worst way to spend your time. Especially if it’s not Wednesday.

18)  Acquaint yourself with mythology- I’m trying above all to think of this as a quest. I love mythology, I love epic quests, and missions definitely seem to fit the bill. They aren’t easy, they aren’t fun, they aren’t vacations, but they’re worthwhile and bring you closer to cosmic understanding. I plan above all to ride off into the sunset like Don Quixote. It’s easier to anticipate such a difficult experience in such a way.

19)  Text your bishop ten times a day- He’s the only way to find out where your papers are and what’s being done with them, and it’s not like he’s not waiting by the mailbox too. Or at least he should be reminded that nothing is more important right now than you getting your call. Okay, so I don’t text him ten times a day, but I feel like the biggest nuisance on the planet.

20)  Blog about things to do while waiting- Because that massive paper for history is going to have to learn to write itself, that book for your discussion next week will have to read itself, and Greek is a dead language that nobody really cares about. The only thing on your mind right now is that dang mission call!

On the Removal of Wisdom Teeth

My intelligence, according to my mother, will prove to be greatly diminished in the coming years as the only anchor I had (in the form of teeth, no less) has been literally ripped from my skull in an act of barbarism. I'm thoroughly convinced that the reason why we extract wisdom teeth is simply to satiate Man's desire to release energy in the form of violence. As it's no longer socially acceptable to kill your neighbor for sport, we've taken to claiming chunks of each other. Dentists, then, are a cult to be avoided; they are a regular gaggle of Shylocks waiting for their pound of flesh.

I'll admit it didn't hurt, but then again, I couldn't get enough Novocaine. My dentist said he'd never used so much on a patient before, and all I could respond with was cradling my arms and swinging them back and forth to indicate that I was a baby (I would have said as much, but I was too swelled to form words with my mouth). Actually, the experience wasn't all that unpleasant, considering the laughing gas. What was unpleasant was having my 'fight or flight' instinct completely countered. I kept thinking on the need to get away. I knew what came next, and I needed to escape in the name of self preservation. “It's not fair! This isn't natural!” I exclaimed, “You can't trump instinct! If we weren't meant to have wisdom teeth, then we wouldn't have them! Let me go!” Now you might imagine that I was tied down to a table, writhing and screaming at the top of my lungs, but actually it came out as a gigglish slur as my arms flopped about the sides of the chair.

The dentist's office was very well furnished and included televisions on the ceiling. As a child, all I can recall were small, sterilized rooms with stimulating or distracting visuals. Though I didn't get anything out of the film I was watching, it was nice to have some other noise to compete against the unpleasant sounds coming from right next to my eardrums. No, I don't remember anything of it, save that they mentioned Marseilles once. I got excited and started slurring to the dentist as he had his little pliers around my tooth.

“'Ahsthei Wahngze (this is the best I can do at typing out how it sounded)! Cahognize' 'ei 'e Gweeks uhn'il 'e 'O-uhns 'ook I' an' calle' I' 'Ah-alia!” I opened my thoughts up for conversation at a most inopportune moment.

Doctor Hamilton, my dentist, took his tools from out of my mouth, “What was that?”

I pointed up at the television screen and repeated what I'd just said, but it still made no sense to him, so he continued with his work. What I'd been trying to say, of course, was “Marseilles France! Colonized by the Greeks until the Romans took it and called it Massalia!” The doctor gave a knowing nod regardless, and continued about his work.

I lulled in and out, trying to stay awake in the case that falling asleep would mean death. I think that's actually why I started reciting the Greek alphabet. Afterwards I couldn't recall the reasoning, but I think that's it. My mom said I was signing out the letters I was reciting, and I started spelling things out, although very poorly. Delta-Rho-Upsilon-Lambda-Tau-Alpha was an unsuccessful attempt at spelling 'drugs' and ending up with 'delta'. 'Drulta' has yet to be defined.

I survived, and I've been sleeping all weekend. So much for getting my reading done. I've been on four different drugs at a time that render me incapable of walking in a straight line. My siblings were convinced that my faceplants on the floor were a bit melodramatic, but I really don't hold meds very well. All in all, a rather simple procedure. I've had worse, and without the numbing it would have topped them all, but I wouldn't mind if I had to do it again. I have some fillings to get before October, so I will be back on the gas very soon.  

On Reacting to Receiving The Extended Edition of 'The Lord of the Rings' on Blu-Ray in the Mail

I have it. I am so excited to finally have it. The whole bleeding trilogy in ALL of its glory is mine, and this is how it's playing out.

About an hour and a half ago I arrived home, and looked all about my front porch. Nothing there. I did, however, at least get the last of the books I ordered on Amazon, so I was pleased enough to let it go for a moment to go inside and open that.

At four thirty five, I'm wondering where on the road my precious is, so I mosey over to Amazon's website to check the tracking information.

"TRACKING: DELIVERED. DON'T EXPECT TO HEAR FROM US AGAIN."

WHAT?! I didn't see it! Someone's stolen it! Some stupid fat hobbit has taken it! Maybe that one from yesterday, yes. We must FIND it, precious, and KILLS it!

Four thirty eight: I open my front door a crack. The eye searches for the precious. IT IS THERE! The hobbits have not stolen it after all! We takes it off the front porch and brings it inside. The package is shredded to pieces as we pull it from its sarcophagus. Oh, it is lovely. There is plastic all over it. TEAR IT! TEAR IT NOW!

Four forty: Oh my goodness, I have to go potty.

We goes potty.

OH MY GOODNESS! MY LOVE! WE HAS IT! IT SMELLS SO PRETTY AND NEW! And it has a map of Middle Earth on the inside flappy thing! TAKE A PICTURE!

Four forty five:  Set it on the shelf to take a picture to text to the world that I HAS THE PRECIOUS! But the stupid window is letting in too much sunlight so you can't clearly see the Blu-Ray symbol on it to signify that this is THE precious. Damn.

Put it on the desk in the front room where there is no direct sunlight. Natural light still looks bad. DAMN.

Go to room, close the blinds, and keep it mildly dark. TOO DARK. Damn damn DAMN!!!!

Lay down on the floor in the hall, turn on a single light, and pose precious for a picture. Good enough. Text to friends.

Four fifty: Find the best place to house the precious. With other movies? No. It is too good to rank with such filth. It must be the center of the WORLD. But then people will think I'm crazy. Okay. Settle on special place on movie shelf, intentionally propping it in a way that looks unintentional like I just threw it on there only I didn't because I LIKE TO LOOK AT IT!

Four fifty one: Decide to watch it now instead of all at once tomorrow.

Four fifty one and thirty seconds: NO! Must resist! Savor the moment! Watch tomorrow!

Four fifty two: Update Facebook status in glee, and start blog to try and keep mind from watching the precious. PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE!

Five twelve: NOT RIGHT NOW IT ISN'T!

On the Films I Will not Allow my Roommate to Mock

Of the films that I own, there are a few that are particularly close to my heart. My roommate Krissy has a habit of making a mockery of films that we watch, whether or not we've seen them before, and while I'm generally alright with poking a bit of fun at movies, there is a pretty definite list of films she's not allowed to mock. This is that list. (As compiled from the movies I personally own in no particular order other than the way they sit my shelves.)

Newsies


Yes, this movie has a lot of silly singing and dancing by the likes of silly little dancing boys, I get that. That's about as funny as it gets for me, however, as it is a testament of juvenile diligence against The Man. I admire that. So just shut up. The punishment for mocking Christian Bale being quite un-Batman like is a dirty glare.

Amazing Grace
Memoirs of a Geisha
The Prestige


I suppose you could almost say that mocking anything with Michael Caine is punishable by death, but this movie wouldn't need him in it to be put on the 'no mockery' list. It's got Christian Bale (who I'd never EVER want to piss off) and Hugh Jackman (who can be totally manly and dance in a tux at the same time) to give it major cred with yours truly, but it's a Nolan flick, and yes, I'm a sucker for Nolan. Making fun of The Prestige will get you a lecture on your under appreciation for the art of illusion.

Gypsy

Let it be mentioned that movies before 1970 generally have the protection placed upon them, unless they are really REALLY bad. Monster flicks are bad. Musicals are not, generally speaking. If it's come out since the movie musical revival it's probably okay to spit on, but music and movies used to go hand in hand and were part of what made Hollywood so appealing in the day. You will probably never make fun of this in my presence, because I watch my musicals on me onesy.

The Lord of the Rings

Nothing else needs to be said but "Death. Lots and lots of death."

The Last of the Mohicans
The Secret Garden
Finding Neverland
Batman Begins
The Dark Knight
Gladiator

Not much needs to be said about this one either, but death does also cross my mind. I mean, I know what's wrong with it historically, but you don't. So really it comes down to the fact that you wouldn't piss me off so much because this movie is awesome and shouldn't be mocked, rather any joke making on your part would only annoy me because you don't know the material or context. You'd only be punishing yourself.

The Jane Austen Book Club
Ever After
The Count of Monte Cristo
Casablanca
Roman Holiday
V for Vendetta
Gone with the Wind


May the wrath of the cinema gods be upon thee for slandering this film. I know I'm not the only one who would be cross with you. Punishable by public ridicule. I will invite the neighbors over to throw pies at you.

Vanity Fair
The Rocketeer
Children of Men
The Last Samurai
Kingdom of Heaven


See Gladiator. For that matter, it should be assumed that most all historical fiction is protected. Unless it is historical fiction that is derived from or inspired by myth, because Hollywood tends to foul those up the most. Troy, for example, is okay to mock because it's a crap movie. Please make fun of Troy. Also feel free to make fun of Pirates of the Caribbean. I really enjoy the first one, but it's asking for it.

The Patriot
The Golden Compass
Girl with a Pearl Earring
Sunshine Cleaning
Valkyrie


It's not a great movie, but I like it. And it's not so much that you shouldn't make fun because I like it, but I'm sort of scared to ever mock Nazis on TV in the case that they hear me and come blazing through the screen to take my soul to eternal Auschwitz or something. So it's not just me. You just really shouldn't mess with Nazis. Unless Quentin Tarantino has given you permission and you're watching Inglourious Basterds.

Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day
Sense and Sensibility
Animated Movies


Animated movies are sort of just one big conglomerate on the list because I know you have respect for them as much as I do. However, this is especially true for traditionally animated movies. This is another mockery punishable by death. By all means, have your fun with CG movies. As long as they aren't Pixar. We don't defecate on Pixar in this house. Don Bluth films are also gold, as well as traditionally musical animations. Feel free to mock anything by Ralph Bakshi, who sucks at life. Take good care to use this privilege! It's the only time you get to make fun of LOTR, because his 1978 production of it is atrocious!

On the Social Pressures of Kindergarten

Upon entering kindergarten I was, for the first time in my life, suddenly immersed in a most diverse society from what I was used to. I was sitting at tables with strangers talking of things that I knew nothing about. Some people were more popular than others for some reason, and they were invited to sit at the special alligator table.

This alligator was a cardboard construct that resembled an alligator (or perhaps a crocodile; the shape was a bit too ambiguous to confidently be defined) lying prostrate across it, the legs dividing the table into six equal parts. To sit near the head was deemed most desirable, while the tail end was little better than sitting at the round table to which I was mostly dismissed.

I liked the round table. I could see everyone else and what they were doing, while the children at the alligator table had to talk in raised voices during snack time to hear each other. I was only once or twice chosen to sit at the table, which is evidence to me that sitting here was most definitely not based on merit. I was not a troublesome child, after all. Actually, in retrospect, it very well may have been intended to separate the nuisances from the rest of us, and then to separate them further from each other by dividing them by walls. The alligator was a simple ruse meant to assure the children that it wasn't actually a punishment. On the contrary, it was definitely a reward. What is this world coming to?

Considering the behaviors and favored topics of discussion amongst these children, it doesn't actually surprise me if that were indeed the case. The very few times I found myself sitting at the table, I was rather shocked to find that this recycled reptile was the center of a very heathen cult.

I remember being seated one day at the belly of the beast. It's left foreleg and hindquarter stood between me and two other girls who were muttering about a most curious subject that no five year old should be subjected to.

"So the alligator came into my room last night," the girl to my right spoke as if ready to launch into gossip. The girl on my left shifted with piqued interest, and my ears couldn't help but perk up. I was settling into self-consciousness and attention starved adolescence just as They planned. These kids thought of themselves as the cream of the crop, and knowing that I was just as deserving, I wanted to be counted among them.

"Yeah, and we totally did it," she giggled. Did it? Did what? It didn't seem to matter that I was clueless. The girl on my left also giggled. This was also the cue for the boy on the other side of the alligator to stand and smile over at her from his side. It seems that most everyone at this table was acutely aware of what it  was and what it meant to do it. The boy made suggestive faces at the girl who'd done whatever she'd done, as though she were someone he was suddenly very interested in.

I don't really want to divulge in the fantasies of this peer. No doubt any reader here will know what it was she was talking about, so I'll skip on ahead. From her details I quickly learned what she meant by her story and why it was so delectably entertaining to the other listeners. These children were the pagan worshippers of a perceived animal deity made out of paper. This was my first lesson in both sex and religion, and how they can correlate far more than I had understood. Up until then I was aware of one God, and believed that it was something for my parents to do  that had something to do with the fact that I had a younger brother. The details were very cloudy from there, as it was very VERY bad, and should never EVER be talked about, thought of, or enacted by anyone until they were very VERY old. 

The others proceeded with topping each other's stories. It got very graphic. I began to panic. It was nearing my turn. If I was going to be initiated into this cult and become a disciple of their deity as self consciousness demanded me to want above all else, I had to have the most disgusting tale of debauchery with a member of another species. I couldn't even define 'debauchery' at the time if my life had depended on it. I decided that I didn't care. This was weird, and I was learning too much about things that made no sense whatsoever.

"What did you do?" I was addressed.

"Me? With the alligator?" I looked at the belly in a fright, trying to imagine this as a real animal with godly super powers. "Well," I hesitated, thinking of something truly appalling, "the alligator flew into my room..." It was like the beginning address of a prayer by now, and I was practicing my first, "and I climbed onto his back and he flew out. We went to the moon, and we killed a dragon and took the treasure." I was trying to imagine what would happen if I were left with a magic alligator or a god. I really just could not wrap my head around intimacy. "Then we came back and the alligator said I could keep the treasure, and that we were best friends and then he flew away." Glancing around at the face of the smiling creature, I just couldn't believe that something appearing to be so kind and friendly would ever do the unspeakable things that these children were claiming.

Instead of unanimous groaning, my tale was greeted with silence. The subject was changed after a moment, and I never sat at the alligator table again. Was I ever happy to be reimmersed into the culture of my beloved round table of equality and innocence. I never ever tried to lie my way into a social group ever again.

Which is of course a lie.

Timothy was one of my friends in kindergarten. Timothy had something wrong with his eyes, requiring him to wear glasses. All I knew about glasses was that my dad wore glasses. My dad, in my five year old mind, was a super hero and a grown up. So Timothy was like my dad; mature and dignified. I didn't know that kids could wear glasses, but upon the discovery that they could, I immediately devised my plan to obtaining glasses.

I tried asking for some, to no avail. Apparently I had to have a vision impairment, whatever that means, so I had to try harder. I begged and pleaded. Timothy wore them. Timothy was cool. I wanted to be cool. Didn't my parents want me to be cool too?! No amount of whining would change the fact that I was not going to get glasses. I was defeated. But the war was not over.

In those days it was common to screen children for various things, and I always got a kick out of screenings. Poke and prod me all you wanted, I knew I was physically invincible. Up until puberty, I was perfect. No amount of perfection, however, was going to keep me from my glasses. They brought in an eye specialist. I brought out my amazing acting skills.

The teacher aides filed us out into the hall, where we had to stand several feet away from a chart of letters getting progressively smaller as you read them. In my perfection, I got a perfect score equalling a perfect F. I was proud. The war was mine, and my parents would HAVE to give me glasses now that I had an impairment.

I think they sent my mother a note, and she made an appointment with the doctor. All I remember is the torture. At that age I was sure that this was my punishment for lying, and to this day there is definitely a fair part of me that still believes it was meant to punish me for lying. What was so bad about it? Nothing really, at first. I kept up the fraud through much of the appointment. I lied about everything I read and pretended not see things I was meant to see.

Oh the cleverness of me! This con was going without a hitch until the blasted doctor pulled out the secret weapon. I was placed in a chair and told to lay my head back. An aide held my eyelids open.

"What are you doing now?" I asked innocently.

"We're just going to put some eye drops in to *mumble mumble*," was the response. Okay, so it wasn't a mumble, but I was five and there is no way I'm going to remember whatever it was a doctor told me when I was five.

I don't know what it was that these drops were meant to do, but they did something else altogether. Those blasted drops burned through my eye like staring at the sun too long, and I was sure they were really going to blind me for lying. I shrieked in pain and began to flail my little limbs about in a frenzy. They knew! How did they know I was lying? All I wanted were glasses! Why couldn't I just have my glasses?! This may have been worse than the alligator cult!

Everything spilled out. No con was worth this, and I was done for. I started to confess my sins as the aide held me down for the other eye, "I LIED! I CAN SEE JUST FINE! PLEASE LET ME GO!!!" I could see the blurry outline of my mother standing there as the doctor finished his work. Fine. You win. I deserve this, and you deserve to gloat in your triumph over a five year old liar. Heaven knows it wasn't the last time I'd try to pull the wool on her, and I would grow wiser. Revenge would be sweet indeed, you sadistic matron!

The doctor didn't stop. As I sat there with the burning in my retinas, the grown ups had a chat. I think I may have continued rambling like a madman in the chair, detailing my plans and swearing to never do it again if they would only let me go. I doubt they heard me or cared. Adults do have a way of undermining precocious children. Finally the pain subsided and my mother took me home. Needless to say, I didn't get glasses any time soon, but I would one day don that most coveted diadem of knowledge and power.

It was eighth grade and I was getting headaches from looking at the different colors on the white board. My depth perception was the pits. It was determined that I was near sighted in my right eye and I was given glasses. I only wore them up until half way through college when I realized that none of my professors were really using the white boards, so I stopped wearing them.

Kids, remember this; fitting in is not necessarily worth it. If you can make it through kindergarten, you can make it through anything.

On a Thrifty Trip to Stonehenge

I've been to England twice. The first time was great, but I think the second time was better, namely because I got out more. On my second go I made it to Scotland and Wales, which were far more fantastic than I could have dreamed. The major disappointment was Nottingham, which is unfortunately not quite so quaint as I was expecting. I always tend to skip over the whole 'industrial revolution' bit of English history, though that can't be too much a surprise because I don't really care for history once you get into the high middle ages. Skip on and get to the Renaissance, chop off Charlie's head, pass through Cromwell, and get to Mad King George already, I haven't got all day. By the time we do that though my interest has waned and I'm already nostalgic for the Danes a thousand years before.

One thing I did do twice was hit Stonehenge. I'll probably do it a third time when I go back to concentrate on getting to Hadrian's Wall and the legendary Tintagel, because the really old stuff is where I like it. Go on to Liverpool and take your Beatles tour because The Beatles, like, totally revolutionized music (by dumbing it down from the heyday of Neoclassicism...?), I'm going to go see the Temple of Mithras, which is the oldest existing foundation in London, which is one of the oldest cities in the world. "Yeah... I don't see nothing but a bunch of rocks" you might say. Sure it's just a bunch of rocks in the ground, but that's not the point. The point is that they were arranged. By people. Two thousand years ago. For some reason beyond my own knowledge someone said, "You know what I think would be super cool? It would be super cool to worship this Persian god in this very non-Persian place by us Romans, who are neither Persian nor even from around these parts. Let's build a temple!" And that is how you link two seemingly unrelated cultures in a world where there is no apparent communication between continents let alone countries. Globalization totally happened before the internet, you guys. I promise.

Back to Stonehenge, which is older than Mithras and more impressive to you lot, I'm sure, because you know it. You've heard of it. It's this weirdly mysterious, ethereal place out in the middle of nowhere that was once frequented by aliens, and nobody knows how it got there. Actually, recent excavations have given us clues as to what it was all about and how it really isn't all that mysterious, but I know you're hoping to go there one day to get your solstice on. Well here is how you can do it on a budget.

First, we're going to assume that you're in London, trying to keep to a budget because things are insanely expensive and you're not but a foolish college student selling your soul to the bank to even be here. Oh well, future you can pay after the economy goes bad, you can't find a job, and you realize that you're now an adult with adult problems, right? Right. So first of all, actually, we should go over what you should NOT do.

DO NOT take a bus tour from London. Yes, you might get to go to Bath and Windsor as well as Stonehenge, but if you don't care about those places, or perhaps if you care too much about them (only an hour to ponder the steaming green waters of the old Roman bathhouse?! Puhlease.), remember that you will be stuck for most of the time on a bus with a nice Scottish tour guide, and a lot of old people. My god man, pull yourself together and use your bloody legs! You have two of them, and England isn't exactly a hike. Bus tours are for old people who've forgotten what it's like to be adventurous. Besides that, sixty pounds to race through three audio tours and hang out with said old people is not worth it. This was my first trip.

DO get a student rail pass. STA Travel isn't always the best way to go on air fare, but they do offer deals on rail passes. I think I got one for three hundred US dollars, and it gave me ten days of rail travel anywhere in the UK. I could go anytime as long as all the days were used within a two or three month period. This is the most expensive cost for getting to Stonehenge.

The night before you leave, you'll want to stop at a Tesco Express to pick up a lunch. Grab a £2.50 sandwich, and a £1 bag of rosemary chicken crisps (the English have come up with some fantastic flavors, it's like eating a whole chicken and mashed potato dinner. Willy Wonka really does exist! Further proof? Ham and Dijon flavor. Tastes like vomit. DO NOT EAT THE HAM AND DIJON!!!). If you are really stupid enough to pack a carbonated beverage on a backpacking excursion, take a Fanta. The English know how to do Fanta. However, this is not recommended. Please pack yourself water and stay hydrated!

The next step is to take a train from London to Salisbury. I don't remember what station I left from, but I'm willing to bet it was King's Cross. King's Cross is by no means the only train station to travel out of, but it's one of the more exciting ones. I mean, that's where Platform 9 3/4 is, and I spent a good five minutes trying to run through the blasted barrier to get through. Stupid Yank.

Once you get to Salisbury, you have to find the bus station. It's not near the train station, sorry, so you'll have to walk. In fact I don't remember at all where it was, but I do remember running into Salisbury cathedral. If you aren't sick of cathedrals yet, take a gander, because this one is super special. Just like all the other ones are also super special. Even I get cathedral'd out, and I am the one who gets excited about the semiotics of arch types.

Once you find the bus station, go in and ask the stodgy looking clerk for a ticket to Amesbury. KNOW THIS BEFOREHAND! If you so much as mention Stonehenge, he will look at you like a stupid tourist and try to sell you a thirty pound (about sixty US dollars) tour bus trip. We've discussed tour buses. DO NOT WANT. If you forget the name 'Amesbury', don't. Just don't. Seriously. If you say "I'd like to get to Stonehenge at the cheapest rate; how much to the closest town," he will respond in his nasally accent that the closest you can get to Stonehenge is Cairo, and that you might as well go the pyramids. Whatever, stodgy bus man, I'm a bleeding American. While your great great great grandpa was moping about with his sheep in the rain, mine was fighting off natives and growing crops in a freaking desert with salt water. I'm a freaking survivalist, and I KNOW how to play thrifty! (So you shouldn't say this because you're a cocky American, and everyone hates cocky Americans.)

Stodgy bus man will eventually cave to your request and admit that Amesbury is the closest you can get to Stonehenge. Then he'll tell you that it's ten miles walking from there (lies, it's two and a half), and that you have to brave a highway. Knowing that in your feeble American mind, you're thinking of wide lanes with careless sports cars and semi trucks, he will smirk at you as you contemplate the potentially lethal crossing. Then when you ask if there's a walk way over or under the highway, he'll start selling the bus tour again. Scowl at him and demand the £5.00 round trip bus fare to Amesbury. The bus leaves every half hour.


Thirty minutes later, you'll arrive in Amesbury and everything will be closed, though this may be because you've gone on a Sunday. I don't quite remember. There are, blessedly, signs that will guide you to Stonehenge. The walk is pleasant, and the view is gorgeous. There are farm animals to say hello to, because you don't typically see sheep in suburbia, so take it in. This is what England is all about, after all, right?


Then comes the highway. There are semi trucks and lots of cars, but who are we kidding? This isn't LA and everyone knows that European cars are wimpy little clown mobiles. You'll survive. Just scream as you run across the four lanes. It makes it all the more exciting. There is an island in the middle where the road that runs by Stonehenge turns off the highway, so it's more like taking two lanes at a time.


Congratulations! You have made it! The henge is right there on the other side of the fence. If you REALLY want to walk around it, then pay the £7.50 to go walk around it with an audio tour, but this is not necessary. You can get just as close to Stonehenge as the fools who pay, the only difference is that they get about two feet closer and are inside the chain link fence. You can't walk up to it, and really, it's a circle of rocks in a symmetrical formation. What you see on one side is what you see on the other, and you've already done enough research on it because you're an Anglophilic history buff. Take your pictures, eat your lunch, and run back across the highway. Hop the bus back to Salisbury and the train back to London. You've just done Stonehenge in the most exciting way possible. 

On Living Quixotically

I get to thinking about life quite a bit lately, seeing as I have some spare time. Sort of. I must admit that in some ways it's getting far more complicated lately than I like. I often feel as though it's nearing that time again where I fall off the face of the planet and start again. Why? Oh, because I do this every couple of years. I grew up moving around, and that's how I like it. Packing up and leaving is very easy for me to do because it offers up the opportunity to start a new adventure.

Alas, there is no removal of self from this current situation for the foreseeable future and I'm afraid that I'm beginning to wonder if I can survive it. I'm pretty sure I can, but having to stick it through has forced me to reevaluate the way I interact with my world. I have to be more social, for example, instead of taking my perch as observer. There is no being anonymous in my own life anymore. I also have to live by what is quickly becoming a motto for myself, which is to find the adventure in monotony. Surprisingly, that's fairly simple to do with a decent enough imagination, and it is in galumphing through fantasy that makes reality bearable.

Now, I'm not partial to Spanish literature. There's really no getting me to cross the English Channel, so I haven't read Cervantes, but I definitely feel that this is the year of Don Quixote for me. I only have Peter O'Toole and Sophia Loren in 1972's Man of La Mancha to go off of, and the story as told in the musical is certainly one I feel I can relate to. I've been mulling the music around in my head, and I find it inspiring. Perhaps I'll come 'round and read the book because I certainly would like to. For now, I'll have to be satisfied with 'The Impossible Dream' as not written by Cervantes, but by Mitch Leigh and Joe Darion.

To dream the impossible dream
To fight the unbeatable foe
To bear with unbearable sorrow
To run where the brave dare not go

To right the unrightable wrong
To love pure and chaste from afar
To try when your arms are too weary
To reach the unreachable star

This is my quest
To follow that star
No matter how hopeless
No matter how far
To fight for the right
Without question or pause
To be willing to march into Hell
For a heavenly cause
And I know that if I'll only be true
To this glorious quest
That my heart will lie peaceful and calm
When I'm laid to my rest

And the world will be better for this
That one man, scorned and covered with scars
Still he strove with his last ounce of courage
To reach the unreachable star

Typically this wouldn't apply to me. Having an easy way out has made it difficult for me to face tasks. I'm a creature of convenience, not one of hit or miss. It's never made sense to me to not succeed at something, and if that star is too high, I reach for one closer. I'm done with that. I'm sick and tired of being reasonable and going after the logical choice. I've always longed for adventure and quests, and this is where I take my leave of reality; by mounting my steed and riding off into who knows what. Perhaps I am delusional, and perhaps I will fail, but what does failure matter when reward is given not by the number of successes, but by my undying devotion to trying? That's what I believe, and it's about time that I applied that belief to my life.

In some ways I worry that this is the immature way to go, that living by trial and error is better left to young children just getting their feet wet. I feel that by the time you get to be an adult, you should be doing what I've already been doing. I feel as though I'm growing in the opposite direction. I've seen reality, I know how to survive well. I was the child who stuck to the rules and was beaten severely for it. I'm the charlatan artist who never experimented with different mediums in fear of inadequacy. I took for Word the wrong opinions and held myself back in fear that I wasn't good enough. I'm a very competitive person who must have perfection at the first go.

But what use is the competition if I'm only picking the battles I know I can win? That's not competition, that calculation and cheating. Looking back on things, what if I had applied to more than just one school? What if I had, against all odds, been accepted to a top fifty university? I might be better off, I might be worse off. That is an adventure I can't have, and I won't dwell on it, but I can choose to take those risks now. I'm reaching for things I may not ever be able to touch. I refuse to settle anymore. This is it. This is the leap. I'm dead scared and downright terrified, but I'm going to do it.

Firstly, I will seize the opportunity to make the most of my education in this life. I will go see and do what I feel must be done in order to fully understand what it is I'm studying. It's all very well to read books, but I'm a believer in going to history. It may not be in my best interest financially to go globe trotting or laying down the money for things I can't afford, but I trust in myself to find a way. I'm already an expert survivor, and I'm too smart to fall into a debtor's prison.

Secondly, I will bear a broken heart. This is especially hard for me. Emotions get in the way, and I don't like them. They're bloody distracting and only serve to get you in trouble. Even being upbeat and positive is dangerous. I'm prone to suffer from depression, and it has robbed me of much of my life. I've vowed to never again go through that. I won't break that vow, for there is a difference between suffering and bearing a burden. I invite Life to throw what it will at me, for my knees will not buckle.

Thirdly, I will trust in my God no matter the doubts I may have. I have wasted too much time in trying to seek Him out through scientific proof or philosophic validity. Proof doesn't matter. That's not what faith is about. So what if there is no God? So what if there is no eternal reward? At least I may die knowing I've lived life to the fullest in pursuit of something better.

So here I set myself up for financial insecurity, psychological instability, and delusional expectations. I am a fool, but only as much as anyone else. For all the mature adults in the world, how many mature adults don't suffer from at least one of these? I think there may be a difference. Where others fall into these problems despite their best efforts to avoid them, I'm going to take them head on. If it's just a windmill, then it won't be as difficult to defeat as an actual giant with an intelligence of its own, will it? For the sake of adventure, I'd still rather take it on as a giant.

In the musical, the character of Cervantes puts it nicely: "I've been a soldier and a slave. I've seen my comrades die in battle or die more slowly under the lash in Africa. I've held them in my arms at the final moment. These were men who saw life as it is, yet they died despairing. No glory, no brave last words, only their eyes, filled with confusion, questioning 'Why?' I don't think they were wondering why they were dying, but why they had ever lived. When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? To surrender dreams-this may be madness; to seek treasure where there is only trash. Too much sanity may be madness! But maddest of all-to see life as it is and not as it should be."

Seeing life as it is never makes it better, nor does it make it any worse. Instinct will kick in, and even the worst can be overcome. "This is my quest, to follow that star. No matter how hopeless, no matter far... To be willing to march into Hell for a heavenly cause..."

Why, hello Cerberus.

On Artistically Liberating History

I'll admit to being an overachiever. I'm about to embark in some heavy duty class work in order to get a master's and another bachelor's degree within the next few years. Crazy, yes, but it'll be worth it.

So before I hit the books again in the fall, I'm... hitting the books. I've gone ahead and requested the book list for my classes from the bookstore and have borrowed most of them from the library to read over the summer. The plan is to have them all read so all I have to do during the semester is review. Considering I have some twelve books for two classes alone, this isn't a bad idea as far as I can tell.

Right now I'm reading Livy's "Rome and Italy", and is he ever the comedian. Alright, so Livy isn't actually funny intentionally, but some of his stories are downright hilarious. Of course, most people probably wouldn't see the humor for what it was, considering the fact that history is all boring windbag chum stuff. This isn't true of course, and I think what I most want out of teaching history is the chance to get a smile out of the boring same old same old.

Take for instance this story that got me in a fit on the bus. While you have to take Livy with a grain of salt for his tendencies for make believe, his artistic liberties are still too dry for today's standard, so this is my own telling.

The year was 311 BCE, or BC if you like. Rome was facing war. Woo. Who cares about stupid old wars, aye? And trust me, there were a few to read about. Now see, I personally like war stories, but it seems that war is the number one complaint I hear from people. It's not interesting. It's just a bunch of battles. They're all the same. These are the common excuses. How many war stories have you read though where they include all the minor details? I once read a fictionalized account of the siege of Malta where the author included the instances of defecation in the middle of battle.

Example (my own): Cesar felled the Turk in one blow across the face. His bowels moved in response to the burst of energy, and he squat down to relieve himself. As he sat vulnerable another heathen raised his sword to strike, and Cesar reacted by scooping up his waste and flung it in his enemy's eyes. This bought Cesar the time he needed to release the remainder of his rations and thrust his sword up under the bearded fiend's armor.

Yes, I'm serious. That was how every battle was played out in this book, which gave me a whole new appreciation for war and how funny it might actually be. So the next time you have to read yet another account of Gettysburg, just think of all the awkward farts you could insert with the screaming and cannon fire.

Anyway, back to Livy. As I said, it was 311 BCE and Rome was at war. For some reason the censors thought that the most pressing matter to deal with was the fact that those pesky pipe-players were eating in the temple of Jupiter like they always had. Instead of counting things like people because, you know, people get lost all the time and need to be counted, some stupid musicians were doing what Romans do best which is doing what they'd been doing for years and had to be stopped. The nerve!

So the pipe-players (whom I imagine sound much like Noel Fielding does as Richmond in The IT Crowd) say, "Well that's right uncouth of you. We'll just leave then, shall we? Rome is cramping our style anyway, we need to find a new muse. Cheers." They turn tail and walk out the city, leaving the Romans behind to feel the breeze blow through their skulls. After talking to Darkness once again and again and not quite being inspired like Simon and Garfunkel, the Romans started wailing and gnashing their teeth.

"Where are our musicians?" they cried, their fingers tugging at their horribly bleached hair that no doubt was full of fecal shampoo matter (see my blog on cosmetics), "How can we have music without players? I've had 'Friday' stuck in my head since last Thursday, the day before last Friday, and if only someone would play it I might be free of it!" Alas, there was no one left in the city to play the tune, and the citizens were left frantically trying to pick a seat to sit in at the Circus Maximus. Women were suddenly sitting with their husbands, and slaves were sitting in the front seats... it was a mess.

Meanwhile, in the town of Tibur, the pipe-players were finding the inspiration to write new music. Suddenly free of censorship (haha), they were indulging in new harmonies and writing racy lyrics. Too racy even for their Roman patrons who were notorious for their erotic cakes and... other things of that nature. Oh yes, those pipe-players were having a grant old time until news came to the Tiburtines that Rome wanted their pipers to come back. The Tiburtines, not wanting to anger the Romans who were... well... THE FREAKING ROMANS, promised that they'd do their best.

Flavus Venterus, the chief of the Tiburtines, dared to approach the pipe-players who had been so long removed from Rome that they had abandoned Roman modes of grooming and were now braiding each other's hair as though they were barbarians.

"Um, hello, lovely hair you have there. The flowers are a nice touch," he said, shaking in his sandals appropriately. These were still Romans, and his name was Flavus Venterus, "We, um, just wanted to know how long you'd be staying? In Tibur?"

Spurius Leninus, an ancestor of the number one D-bag of music John Lennon, was the leader of these first hippies. He showed no sign of having heard Flavus for a few moments before he finally responded, "When winter comes in summer, when there's no love forever, when lies become the truth..." His eyes focused now on Flavus. "Oh no, those are crap lyrics, aren't they? Yeah. Well... we don't plan on leaving. You've got some nice grass here. Smooth doobie."

"So no chance of leaving then?" Flavus Venterus felt a warm liquid running down his shins as his muscles relaxed in disappointment (hey, this is a battle of a kind, and every detail counts).

"Yeah, sorry, mate," Spurius strummed defiantly at the strings of his instrument, and added a new retort, "Peace out." With that the conversation was over, and Flavus Venterus had a growing pest control problem on his hands.

Now the best way to make friends, they say, is to have booze. Lots and lots of it, because people like to be inebriated and vulnerable for the selection of nature to come around and deny them another day. Why more drunks don't die off because of the mere stupidity of their actions under the influence of alcohol is beyond me, but it's a tried and tested fact that people with booze have friends. As it turns out, it's also a great way to use and abuse people. Which is what Flavus planned to do.

So of course the Tiburtines have a lot of wine, just in case they need to make nice with the Romans, aye? Why not throw a bash for the pipe-players as though to make nice, but actually make prank instead? Musicians love getting pissed, and didn't these guys know it. They were smoking the park lawn like there was something to be had in burning plant matter next to your face. So they threw a big party, just for Spurius and Co, and had all the wine these guys could drink. Drink they did, and drunk they got. Perfect. For good measure the Tiburtines kicked the pipers in their heads to make sure they were really good and pissed.

The next step was to get these drunks out, but how? Well, all that healthy vegan diet crap had made the pipers little more that skin and bones, so they were easy to lift. Flavus had his men carry the sleeping musicians to carts, where they were flung into piles like dead bodies. The carts were driven directly to Rome, which couldn't have been all that far away then, considering that the next morning in the middle of the Forum Spurius and his buddies woke feeling groggy and in want of some Advil. Taking a look around them, the musicians noted that in the crowd surrounding the carts, creepily watching the snoozers, several of the best hair dressers in all of Rome were grinning with shiny shears in their hands.

The censor who had banished them, Appius Claudius (who happens to be the only person not made up in this story), raised his hand in accusation, and spoke in proper ye olde fashion, "These men do wreak of filth and are thus to be cleansed and reinstated as the official flutists of Rome and are never to leave here again. So let it be written... by Livy... in three hundred years time, so let it be done." Everybody was in a Cecil B DeMille picture in those days.

The Romans were so happy to have music again, that they revoked the ban on picnicking in the temple of Jupiter, and allowed the pipers to play whatever they wanted. Suddenly cakes were more erotic and teenagers more foul mouthed. Parents blamed it on the music, but secretly liked it themselves. The pipers were allowed to wear whatever they wanted and promptly experimented with sequins and platform sandals. The censors, though, thought that the leather body suits were a bit too much and reduced their dress privileges to fancy togas three days out of the year. The crisis was over.

Then suddenly Rome was at war again. Men from all over lined up and took turns poking at each other with pointy bits of metal, as they often do in war. Nobody pooped or peed or flung poo, as you wouldn't expect in any old boring war, and things ended rather uneventfully. Soldiers told their stories and improved their wounds and bored children to death talking about how they'd lost their heads but were miraculously able to recount the tale today because they didn't really. Yep. That's war for you; boring old war.

Spurius, by the way, inspired anew by these sluggish endeavors, wrote several anti-war ballads and won an Orpheus for best performing artist. This got to his head, and he started to preach his word, demanding praise and tribute. His life ended quickly when he was stabbed to death by an adoring fan who took the whole idol worship thing too seriously and went crazy. They say his killer had a copy of "The Dogs Say Goodnight" by Judius Salinjius, and the publication was banned forever. The End.

On Cosmetics: Then and Now

I went to a salon yesterday. Now for me this was somewhat of a momentous occasion because I don't really like salons. There's just something unnerving about a complete stranger getting their fingers on my hair for an hour. It's not that I don't trust them, I just don't like the proximity. I mean, this is going to last an hour at least, and this is someone I don't know. It's not as though I'm going into a store where all I have to say to the cashier is 'hi' and 'thank you'. No, my issue with salons is the magnified social implications thereof. I have to talk to this person.

Okay, so it's not hard to talk to them. The hard part is the conversing. I just don't converse. I don't care to. I don't care who you are or where you're from, and if I talk about myself you'll only think I'm weird anyway. Just... cut my hair and be done, okay? Cheers.

Socializing in a salon is not what this post is about though, so before I set off on a tirade of how much I hate socialization (because it's been a thorn in my side all week), let me get back to the topic at hand.

As I'm wont to do with a lot of silences, awkward and otherwise, my mind wanders. I've just mentioned this a couple of days ago actually. I keep myself pretty well entertained, and it didn't take long at the salon to find myself at another silence, watching the stylist in the mirror. He colored my hair first, of course. I only mention this for any males reading who wouldn't know this. Always dye your hair first, lads!

I was sort of entranced. I haven't had a professional color since the fiasco with blue hair sometime between middle school and high school. I didn't go all out blue, just some streaks, but they faded pretty instantaneously leaving me with chunks of blonde instead. It was this instance that I was thinking about as he applied the gunk to my scalp. From here I made a giant mental leap to bleaching hair which took me to the Romans. This never seems to fail, does it?

See, as agonizing as burning chemicals in your mane is today, I'd hate to have been a patrician lady doing the same to her hair in days of yore. For example, there is one recipe that calls for leeches and vinegar. Let it sit, put it in, let it sit a bit longer and... enjoy your darkened leech gut look! Prostitutes were required to bleach their hair, and this practice is probably the reason why blondes today get so much slack for promiscuity. Still, some things weren't so bad. If you were wealthy enough you could sprinkle gold flakes into your locks for an added shine. This is perhaps the most inspired use of gold that I've ever heard of. Makes a nice little souvenir of your memories of assassinating the emperor, just don't forget your haircutting shears, okay?

Cosmetics across the board were fantastically disgusting, and are one of the few reasons why I'm glad I live now rather than then. I suppose the only difference today may be the use of long (Latin) words to signify the ingredients that are sometimes no different to what the ancients used. What we don't know can't hurt us, right?

Actually no. Take, for instance, the desire to have fair skin. For some reason, light people want to be dark, and dark people want to be light. Personally I like my pasty white complexion. I'm looking forward to good skin into my old age, unlike compulsive tanners who turn to leather like a dead cow. Oooh. Burn..... literally. So the Greeks and Romans liked to plaster themselves white using lead. Given that lead, as we've learned in recent centuries, is bad and poisonous, it is of my opinion that this practice of smearing one's face with lead is how women became Bedlam crazy in the first place. Eventually it seeped into genes, and every last female on this planet is now a walking explosive.

Lastly, skin care was just as hokey and lucrative as any major enterprise. I remember being in Bath, England taking a tour of the ruins. On my handy tour headset, the pleasant voice of a British woman detailed to me the horrors of hair removal. Up until this past century women have endured hours of plucking. Yes, every last hair was ripped from under your arms, your legs, and other places by a slave. I've tried plucking hair off my ankles. I couldn't endure one single follicle freeing. I don't think I could do it for a thousand dollars.

Let's not forget to mention lotions and skin care products. Where we like to use extracts from plants, Romans were fond of animal excrement. No, that is not an auto-correct failure of 'extract'. Dung, urine, among other things that come out of an animal, were all used to cake your face in hopes of preserving youth. Unfortunately I don't think any word can cover up that 'placenta' in the list of ingredients on your bottle of Roman formula body butter because that's already Latin. So yeah, that is really what you think it is.

In context, I'm sure none of this bothered women of the day. Things have changed, and we've managed to get through the years of fashionably blackened teeth to wind up here in a safer time and place. Still, given these practices, it's a wonder cosmetics have survived and thrive as they do. We still spend hundreds of dollars a year to look like somebody else, and we pay for this without skipping a beat. After two hours of awkward silence, I walked out feeling different and a little better, but also with a renewed determination to not spend a week's worth of wages on my hair (and a bottle of the greatest shampoo on the market!) like that again.

On Imagination

Imagination. I don't know that I have it. At least sometimes I'm not sure if I do, and I go into a crises and wonder what went wrong in my life to make me such a monotony. Perhaps the mere fact that I worry about this means that I'm just fine with an overly healthy imagination, and here is some evidence of that.

I'm the eldest child, and there is a good gap of time before I ever had someone to play with. My brother wasn't interesting until I was about seven, and so I spent most of my afternoons alone. I didn't live in a neighborhood with kids my own age. I remember complaining to my parents about how we always moved somewhere where the only other kids were toddlers and not my own age. We'd go to company Christmas parties, and I was the only six year old in the room. No five year olds, four year olds, seven, eight, or nine. I was a lone ranger in a baby corral watching stupid movies like Space Jam and wondering why I couldn't be at home reading.  It didn't help that my earliest years worthy of mention were spent in Germany where cable was really expensive and I missed out on television.

Actually Germany was awesome, but I was a lonely kid. As soon as I knew how to read, I was reading everything. I stopped to read signs that my small mind couldn't comprehend, but my brain could nevertheless compute. My mom had to have me on a leash. Not because I ran away, but because I got distracted by words. Otherwise I was a very mindful child. You can easily get lost in castles and forests, and I wasn't in the habit of carrying pebbles or breadcrumbs with me on Volksmarsches or palace tours.

In my loneliness, I reached out to myself. I remember sitting for hours as a kid, staring at myself in the mirror of my bureau and talking about heaven knows what. I can't recall anything of what I talked about, but I'm pretty sure this is how I developed my talent for accents. My favorite films always had accented characters, and since that made up the majority of my socialization at such a impressionable age, it's no wonder I talk in accents easily. I remember having trouble saying certain words with an American accent and my parents would correct me. "It's 'baaaaahld' not 'bulld'," they would would say. So while most kids have to go to speech classes to get rid of a lisp, I was being conditioned to not use an English accent. Anyway, so I would talk to myself in the mirror. My mom would come in and scowl, warning me that if I continued talking to myself she would take me to an asylum for the mentally deranged because only crazy people talk to themselves. I wouldn't stop, and she threw a sheet over the mirror. That was okay. I had a brass lamp that my dad brought me from Saudi Arabia, and I just talked to the genie inside instead.

I didn't have many toys either. I remember my favorite toys were Lincoln Logs, but they only had those at school, and all I got were Barbies. Not just any Barbies either. I had to play with my mom's old Barbies, and they didn't come with a Barbie Dream House with elevator and swimming pool. I had a camper and some camp furniture and the midsection of an airplane. Whatever. I made furniture out of paper, and Barbie lived in a post-apocalyptic era where abandoned airplanes made perfect houses. This period of turmoil was completed by frequent earthquakes in which everything had to be upside down, and depending on how my tossing of furniture around the room went, Barbie sustained injuries based on how the furniture landed on her. Of course she never died.

Barbie was boring though. What's the fun in making a little person live a regular person sort of life, when I'm the one who wants the adventure? When my brother got old enough, my dad built him a big wooden bunk bed. Thinking back, I have no idea why he did that because it was just the two of us for a long time, and I had my own room. By the time my youngest brother came along, the bunk bed was gone. It was a fantastic ship though. I would pack my brass tea set in my favorite little red suitcase with my baby blanket, and together my brother and I would sneak up onto the top bunk, 'stowing away' for adventure on a ship. We sat. And sat. Sometimes I would have cigars for us to smoke because that's what ragamuffin orphans do on long voyages, and then I would prepare dinner out of the sorriest scraps of nothing you'd never seen. Then we sat some more and I would relate what was happening to my habitually quiet brother until I got the idea that we should play with his car carpet instead.

Car carpets were the best. Every car had a 'house' or a parking spot, and they would zoom around the twisted roads until one day the semi truck elders (elders because they were big and therefore were the most grown up) said that the time had come to leave because the world was ending or something. What a harrowing journey! Our apartment in Kaiserslautern was based off a central hallway, and it was down this hallway that our pilgrimage took place. Inch by inch, we would push our little cars along. Some wouldn't make it. These were more often than not our least favorite cars, and they would flip over dead, abandoned by the others. We each had about fifty cars to line up single file and it took hours to get from my room to the living room. I remember the cars with doors that opened had the ability to fly, and with this super power they would scout the area. Yes, this somehow kept me entertained, and my quiet brother went along with it. I can't imagine now, having had the experience of driving, that anyone would actually be able to survive a traffic jam of that magnitude if it were scaled up. It would most definitely result in countless suicides.

When we moved from Washington state to California, I fell asleep somewhere between Medford Oregon and Mt. Shasta. I was probably eleven, and the first thing I remember when I woke up was a cartoon. I was literally in a cartoon. The cows were a stark black and white, grazing on neon green hills under a cloudless electric blue sky. I was freaking out, rubbing my eyes in disbelief. Little did I know that I would be venturing out through those hills quite a bit over the next few years, and whenever we did cross over Vasco Road between home and civilization, I would get excited at the prospects of certain death. "LOOK!" I'd shriek at my brother, "DINOSAURS! We're going to be eaten! DRIVE FASTER, DAD!" I was like this into my teens. Only by the time I actually was a teenager, I had a better mind to keep my mouth shut, and I would rather imagine roaming those hills with a pack and a trusty sword. I wasn't ever in the car. I was walking out in that wind blowing ferociously through the grass, a most important quest at hand. Secrecy was of the utmost importance, and I had to fight off many foes.

To be perfectly honest? I'm in my mid twenties, and that's still what I'm doing. I try to hide it, I guess, when I'm trying to be an adult. I'm never actually here though. If you ever catch my eyes glazing over as I talk and should my sentences start slowing down and make no sense, I'm gone. I feel bad for the customers who catch me in these moments. I'm not slow or stupid, I'm just living a parallel life on another plane of existence.

On Playing Hooky

I walked out the door this morning with the intent of doing whatever I wanted. I'm done with the semester and I happened to have the day off, so why not? I put the phone on silent and ignored all texts, including the ones about my grandmother being in the hospital because I don't exactly know how to handle that anyway.

I was greeted by a message on the sidewalk. As it turns out, sidewalks talked to me all day to the point that I was talking back. "This could be a black hole," it said, pointing out the fact that there was a hole in the cement. I didn't respond. I was slightly taken aback by this statement. This COULD be a black hole, and what then? What should I do? This said black maybe hole was in front of my house and might suck me inside out during the night. I walked on. It wasn't until later when I was walking from school to Temple Square along the Avenues that the conversation really took off. More on that in just a second.

As it turns out, my school is really far away from downtown, and it was an awesome walk. There's a lot to see on South Temple and I definitely want to spend a day touring things like the Governor's Mansion and the Masonic Temple. I found an apartment called 'The Franciscan' and grinned upon observing that it was a rather brown building. I wonder if anyone else sees that as appropriate? I found steps leading up to a patch of grass where I assume a house once stood. I also noted that one house was advertising for 'tentnants', and I laughed in spite of myself.

But as I was saying, the sidewalk and I had a conversation. It started when I crossed South Temple and skipped over to the west side of Q Street. "QueST," the sidewalk said, "an epic journey; a plot device." I ignored this as well, but the sidewalk persisted. "PeST, an undesired presence. OuST, a river in Brittany..." It was here that the messages stopped and I was forced to finish them myself:

NeST: the residence of a bird or perhaps a gorilla.

MyST: a horribly confusing game from the 90s that distracted my dad for hours.

LoST: where I may end up today.

KoST: a more Greek way of saying 'cost'.

JeST: kidding!

IST: cheating in German because I'd otherwise be stumped.

HaSTy: hobbits are too...

GiST: more or less the bulk of everything I'm telling you.

FiST: in your face.

EuSTon: Tube station in London.

DuST: the tiny particles in His Dark Materials that are really angels... or something. I should reread those books.

CuSTard: my grandpa once made a custard and brought it for dessert and I didn't like it because it was too eggy. I feel really bad for not liking it because I really miss my grandpas.

BuST: I've finally got one for my front room. In fact I have two, and they happen to be Apollo and Diana. This must be fate.

AuguSTus: let's be honest, of course I'm going to see "A ST" and associate it with the Caesar of caesars because everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, relates back to the Graeco-Romans.

By the end of the Avenues, I was done with my game and cheerfully strolling towards Temple Square. The flowers are gorgeous this time of year, and I was not disappointed. I chose a spot on the wall where my feet wouldn't touch the ground. What I don't like about being tall is having my feet always touching the ground whenever I sit on a bench. More than many things I just want to be able to swing my legs back and forth childishly. I sat and pondered the meaning of family in the Church and how it relates to my life. I noticed two families taking pictures on the grounds after their weddings, and my heart sunk a bit. I probably won't ever marry, but if I did I would have no family there. I have family. It's not as though they aren't there, but relations aren't ideal, and the last thing I would want at an occasion like my own wedding would be contention. My mother has already expressed that she would not be caught dead at an event at which my grandmother was present, and that includes my wedding. At this point in time anyway I feel so unattached from my kin that I don't think I plan on telling anyone whether or not I do marry.

It didn't take long for a pair of sister missionaries to approach me. We talked for awhile about this and that. It was a nice conversation. I brought up mythology and how it relates to Mormon doctrine and I probably sounded crazy. Okay. Then I was reminded that I needed to buy a May Ensign for the conference talks, but they didn't have any at Deseret Book. Drat. So off I jolly went to take the train to Ogden.

I really like trains. No kidding. I LOVE trains. I don't know that I'll ever take a plane again unless it's absolutely necessary. I don't get to go north all that often, but today felt like a good day to do so, and I've always wanted to take Front Runner, though I can't imagine any reason to ever go north of Salt Lake. All it is is more shopping and residences, right? I mean... Lagoon? Really?

Right now they're still snow capped, and they even more impressive in Ogden. They seem to bolt up from the valley; their walls reminded me of a recurring dream I have of travelling up a glacier encrusted mountain pass to a hidden valley high above the atmosphere. There's a river and a village with elves living there. I'll find it one day.

I got to Ogden and walked around a bit before my legs gave out and demanded an extended rest or they would kill me. I can't really imagine how, but that's what they threatened. I turned around and walked back to the train station. It took me passed backyards full of junk. We have too much stuff. We let it pile up and then dump it, and guess what? It still sits there. I can't believe it. But what was even more astounding than the junk in people's yards were the number of houses. I mean, we have billions of people on this planet, and we keep building houses for them. Entire neighborhoods pop up from nowhere, and we can build cities in decades rather than centuries. The Romans had quality, but they have nothing on our efficiency. We are bloody brilliant at industry, and while I might prefer quality I can't help but admire the genius behind efficiency. Humans are amazing.

Days off are the best.

Tom Bombadil, The Odyssey, and Immortality

I have quite the pile of to-do blogs growing. This is one of four that I've reserved titles for but have yet to begin writing. It's the end of the semester, and I've been very busy writing papers and studying. Or at least calling whatever it is I do 'studying'. I can start off just fine with reading relevant information, but then I wind up either reading Wikipedia entries on the monarchs of any given country or an article on Cracked about the '6 Most Unlikely Victories in History' or something.

Anyway, I'm going out of the order that I should be in, and for that I apologize. I have an idea for a essay pertaining to 'The Hobbit', but this will be written first as it requires less research.

One day last week (or rather many weeks ago, as it's taken me this long to getting around to this entry again) my professor concluded a lecture on The Odyssey with a question to ponder. As we all know (Save for one of my coworkers who has managed to go his entire life without being exposed to classic mythology. I don't care if he's Pakistani, everyone in the westernized world knows The Odyssey.), Odysseus find himself living with a beautiful goddess on her island for seven years. Calypso falls in love with Odysseus and asks him to stay with her, but he vows to leave one day and return to his wife in Ithaca. Calypso tries to counter him, offering immortality and agelessness. Agelessness is important, as the Greeks were very well aware that immortality did make one young eternally. So the question we had to ponder was whether or not we would take the offer.

Of course, my answer was that I wouldn't. Who could live an endless life doing nothing but laze around basking in one's immortality? It would get boring. Having decided that it was the wisest choice, I left it at that and carried on. I'm rather fond of the idea of mortality and a silly question like that is easy, right?

Wrong. Two days later, as I sat comfortably on my regular everyday route that I would likely have to ride everyday for the rest of time were I immortal and living the same old hohum life, I found myself reading the account in The Fellowship of the Ring where the quartet meet Tom Bombadil. I've met Tom before. Even before I'd ever read 'The Hobbit' or 'The Lord of the Rings', I'd always pretended to see such a man as he from the corner of my eye. A bearded little nuisance just waiting to influence me to distraction. And did I ever get distracted. That's beside the point.

What I noticed about Tom this go around is that he's immortal. Alright, so this was a given and not so much a revelation, but I couldn't help but think back to the lecture and the question. Is immortality all that it's cracked up to be? In a reality where maturity is key to survival, I've long since abandoned the passing fancy of magical beings tickling my imagination. Nope, this kid is a grown up, and unfortunately I have been one for a very long time. I'm ready to work myself to death, producing money to pay for my living until I keel over. So what's the point? Immortality is impossible and silly and a waste of time.

Time. That's it. It was in reading through the chapter, watching Tom's character that I realized that the answer is not that immortality is NOT desirable. On the contrary, it's absolutely everything we should be working toward. The problem we have with immortality is this misconception that immortality is just as stuck in time as mortality is. If we live forever, day in and day out with an awareness that we are subject to time, then of course immortality is undesirable!

Take a look at the way Tom lives. He goes about his days doing whatever the Duck he pleases. He sings to trees and talks in rhyme and juggles magic rings made of evil as though they aren't capable of destroying the world. Why? Time is fleeting. Time is not forever. Immortality is. As the minutes die, your life doesn't have to end. Wasting time is a perception placed upon us by the Council of Lame Old People Who Regret Life.

Okay, so that might come across as being very immature to say, and believe me, I'm not one to waste time. I have goals to meet and things to do, but you know what? I have to spend time and waste time to get there. As long as you're putting yourself to good use, what's the issue? How are you bored? When I find myself stuck on a bus getting from point A to point B, I'm not wasting time. I take in the scenery, ponder existence, take a short trip to a far off place. I don't consider that a waste of time at all.

In organizing my overwhelmingly still unorganized thoughts on this, I imagined a day in the life of Tom Bombadil, as an immortal who doesn't care to think about time. He wakes up (assuming that one not bound by time actually sleeps) in the morning, blinks once or twice and thinks "Wow, I'm aware of myself. I'm alive! What is this flat surface above my head? I'll call it a foor (It was a roof yesterday and probably will be tomorrow, so why not?)! Good smells!" At which he promptly jigs his way downstairs to the kitchen where Goldberry has a fantastic feast prepared for his morning consumption. Following breakfast, Tom spends the day observing and relearning the nature about him. Perhaps he remembers them, perhaps he doesn't. The point is that he maintains the perspective that everything is new and can be appreciated accordingly.

So while it might have sucked to live forever on an island with Calypso, and though I agree with Odysseus' decision to leave, I don't agree at all that immortality is going to be an eternal snooze fest. To think that way is to think with your feet on the ground. If immortality is impossible, then stop thinking about it like it is probability.

Which brings me to my last point, and I mentioned it earlier, immortality is what we should be aiming for. It's been a topic of philosophy since, oh, forever. What do we do with it? Is there an afterlife? My question in response is whether it matters? I've stated I believe in an afterlife. I'd like to imagine that this afterlife will be spent doing whatever I like and emulating a life like Tom Bombadil's. Odysseus' immortality would have been spent in a mortal state of mind, and I don't want to do that. But even if they're no afterlife, what is immortality? Memory. Memory transcends time and space and goes forever. Even if forgotten, the mere fact that memory was ever remembered is a testament to its endurance. So what if there's nothing? If I end up as nothing but memory, I will have succeeded in living a life worth the remembrance. Win for me. Take that, Cronus!

So... that was a dump of thought. Sorry if it made no sense. I'm having a pretty excitable day today.

On the Rock of Faith

There's something I really don't understand, and it's the root of the problem for me when it comes to Catholics. I'd rather sooner call them Petrians instead of Christians. What I don't get is why they choose to follow a... a... stupid head like Peter instead of following Christ.

I'm reading, as part of my homework tonight, the declaration of excommunication for Henry IV by Pope Gregory VII, and at the end he says, "...I bind him thus as commissioned by thee, that the nations may know and be convinced that thou art Peter and that upon thy rock the son of the living God has built his Church and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it." (As cited in Sources of 'The Making of the West', edited by Katharine Lualdi, pg. 195) He's writing this declaration to Peter. Not Christ, not God, but Peter. This rock to which he refers is mentioned in Matthew 16:15-18 (KJV):

15 He saith unto them, But whom say ye that I am?
16 And Simon Peter answered and said, Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God.
17 And Jesus answered and said unto him, Blessed art thou, Simon Bar-jona: for the flesh and blood hath not revealed it unto thee, but my Father which is in heaven.
18 And I say also unto thee, That thou art Peter and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.

Okay, so there it is. Christ calls on Peter to be the foundation of His church. That doesn't change the fact that Peter isn't actually the one in charge. It's like... a coach. I don't use sports analogies very often, but to me this reads less like 'Build a church and have people pray to you and excommunicate in your name' and more like 'I have this group of people who are going to need a leader to keep up the good work.' Peter isn't the one to be prayed to, Christ is still the foundation, Peter may just be a cornerstone. Or, and here's the sports analogy I just mentioned, Christ owns a basketball team and Peter coaches. Respect the coach, but essentially it's Christ who owns you, right?

So why pray to Peter? Why worship saints at all? If there's one thing the Byzantines got right, it's iconoclasm. God commanded that we have no other gods before Him. Christ said follow him. What are saints but other people who, while reputable and good examples, are little more than... well... other people. They're just as susceptible to sin as we are. Augustine thrived in debauchery for a long time, for crying out loud. While I love reading Augustine, it's not his example that I want to follow most. These relics and symbols that Catholics cling to are idolatrous and go against everything Christ stood for. You want idols? I hear the cult of Demeter is recruiting in Greece...

Besides that, Peter was a fool. In the chapter before, he asks Christ to explain a parable (Matt. 15:15-20). I can just imagine Christ's frustration written all over his face as if to say, "You've been hanging around with me for how long, and you still don't get it? Are you even listening?!" If Peter doesn't get it, how can we expect him to be a good leader, especially if it's all guesswork on his part after Christ leaves? This guy is less and less a candidate for church leadership by the minute. His saving grace is that he loves Christ and is a worthy disciple, if not also a little slow.

Let's get back to Matthew 16. In the footnotes of my Bible, it makes mention of the wordplay so characteristic of Christ's way of teaching. 'Peter' is derived from the Greek word 'petros' which means 'small rock'. Okay, so Peter is a rock, that's clear enough, but let's back up a second and take in the whole passage, because the grammar doesn't match up. He (Christ) says "thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church". My NIV translation also has that grammatic stylization, "... you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church". Christ is clearly not saying "and on you I will build my church". So what's the second rock he is refering to? If we know Christ's style of teaching, it's always allegorical and through parallels. If He meant Peter to be the second rock, he would have said so.

In verse seventeen, the second rock is revealed. It's the response given to Peter's testimony of the Christ. "... For flesh and blood hath not revealed it unto thee, but my Father which is in heaven." That is the rock. It's Rock's rock. It's his testimony which will act as the foundation for the church and indeed for the faith of all Christians. Christ isn't giving over the glory to Peter. He can't be both coach and owner of the team. The rock is the revelation from God, by the Holy Ghost, that Christ is the savior.

So then, shouldn't our faith be built on the rock of testimony rather than the organization of a church? Not if you're Catholic apparently. Based on how I see Catholics live, it is by the politics of their church rather than their own personal faith in God anyway. There seems to be more emphasis on ritual than on living by pure faith and testimony. A sad way to go about existence, if you ask me.

On a Bad Week

This is the week that kicks off my less than pleasant April. It comes without fail every year, and I'm still at a loss as to why April is the way it is. Is it more difficult than, say, November because there is no festive pause to allow a deep breath before the plunge? This is my theory anyway. April is always the worst month in my year.

So why so glum? I'm passing my classes, all of which I enjoy for the most part. It may be the anticipation of final papers and exams. In the next three weeks I have to explain Zoroastrianism in first century Iran in a paper addressed to an idiot audience. I must compare the philosophies of Alexander the Great, Cicero, and Charlemagne on power and greatness. Lastly I will analyze early modern literature from a feminist perspective, which will be the most difficult because my tyrannous professor is a flaming feminist who specializes in Latin American literature and I am decidedly non/post feminist with a preference for pre-20th century British literature and a bias against anything from the Americas. That will be the difficulty and currently sits as the source of my woes. Or not...

Trixie has announced her departure. Already, and too long in coming. There are twenty two days left to endure her inconsiderations and predisposition to phoniness. I don't know if I'll make it and I'm not sure she will either. She, above all, is what makes me the most unhappy. Arrgh.

On Monday I come home to discover her car in the drive. Funny, she said she'd be out of town all week. I was counting on her being out of town. It would've been a glorious week without her or her boyfriend in the house and I could relax. Didn't work that way though. I've concluded that the reason why I am so frustrated lately is because her very presence demands a certain amount of walking on eggshells. If there's anyone I can't tolerate it's a phony. Unfortunately we all must be phonies to a degree, and when I come home it's with the expectation that I can relax and be myself and not have to cater to anyone's self perception. Now I'm on edge all the time in the case that she decides to appear and demand me to be in 'customer service' mode.

The stress from the day (It was a bad day at work with angry customers) was escalated when I discovered that the dishes (MY dishes that I don't use because she uses them and doesn't wash them) were all dirty and that her boyfriend had brought a posse to hang out. Bro is here every day, and it kills me. Her sister has also taken to arriving in the ungodly hours of the morning to spend the night. Every night. I had a fit like a two year old. I threw the garbage can across the room as I tried to jerk the bag out because it was full and 'someone' hadn't bothered to take it out. I was overanxious and aggravated to the point that I knew I could not get any studying done.

Tuesday was hard because I had foolishly taken an extra shift, losing precious time to the whims of retail. I don't regret volunteering to take the shift. If it had been anyone other than my very good friend Gage asking for someone to cover it, I would not have taken it. This does not make it any less foolish of me, but I'm glad to be of service. I only regret making him buy me a sandwich since I had no time that day to grab anything from the start of my original shift at 7:45 am to the end of his at 7:15 pm. I don't typically- no, I NEVER ask for compensation for a service like that, and I feel as though I cheated him.

Wednesday was a blur. All I really remember of the day was riding the bus home and trying to make plans for the weekend only to be reminded that it's that time of year. Not only are my friends too busy with the end of term, but I really am as well and shouldn't be wasting my time on socialization. Living in a house with an intellectual black hole, however, is making the isolation unbearably difficult to cope with. I have several ideas I want to talk out, and all Tonks wants to do is pounce on spiders until they're D-E-D dead.

Despite it all; despite the unwanted April snowstorms and the load of research and writing to be done, I can't say I'm disappointed. Krissy, my roommate, has been a trooper the whole time. When I lost control and threw the rubbish bin, she calmed me down and took me to a coffee shop to study. It was nice to be a patron rather than a caterer, and I was able to get through my homework better than I would have at home. We shared a large piece of red velvet cake and had some hot drinks. On Thursday we went to In-N-Out for dinner and stopped at IKEA to pick up some furniture. Even after the accumulation of crap in the course of four days, spending an hour trying to pack a large desk into her over-packed SUV was a joy rather than a hindrance. It looks fantastic in the living room.

What it comes down to, and I will have to write another blog on this later, is that I'm happy. Even with the stress, I've been able to stand back and say that I'd have it no other way. I'm working towards something, and in the end all I have is myself to satisfy me. I think I'm doing a damned good job at being me and I can defeat April. I can defeat Trixie's stupidity. I can defeat these end of term assignments. Why? Because I'm bleeding brilliant, and I know what I'm going to do with the time that is given to me; keep at it and stand above time.