futile

Low-hanging clouds settle upon hills, white chocolate and ripe raspberry filling.  Frosting on grass.  Soft light coming in through a window.  Cups of warm liquid and feet bundled into thick socks.  Leaves losing chlorophyll.  A good story, the kind worth getting lost in.  Calico skies.  Early sunsets.  Fogged-up glass.  Wheels on a wet street.  Colors made richer in the gloom. 

This morning I woke up and the world was new.  And I would say that I'm happy.  That's what I would say if anyone asked me.  I'd say that I'm happy in the present, here and now, in that way I often find it difficult to be happy.  But that isn't always the point, is it?

Potential.  Growth.  All of these words I find exhausting and self-righteous and braggy, like the kind of people you might too often find at the gym.  Pain, but the kind that refines.  The kind that you feel after you've done anything worth doing.  Peace.  But the real kind.  That peace of God that "passeth all understanding."

These are the things my mind gravitates back to, between sessions of prime-time television and sleep.

And they all make happy sound futile.  Like a pop song after a summer storm.  Like refined sugar after biting into the season's most perfect nectarine.

transcended space and time

So there's this guy named Neil Young.  You may have heard of him at some point in your life.  Back in the day, he looked like this most of the time:

And he still looks like that now, except just older.  But still awesome.  Anyway, Neil here wrote a song once, along with many others, and it went like this:

My my, hey hey
Rock and roll is here to stay
It's better to burn out
Than to fade away
My my, hey hey.

  

I know, pretty great.   On a related note which I'm getting to in just a moment, there once was another guy named Kurt Cobain.  He spent most of his time looking like this:

And being called "the spokesman of a generation," and singing about feeling stupid and contagious and wearing grungy sweaters and getting featured on M-TV.  Unfortunately, like many of the greats, Kurt didn't do these things for nearly long enough.  He took his own life in 1994, leaving behind a letter which, among other things, contained a quote from a song by Neil Young, which read, 

It's better to burn out than to fade away.

On a still-related note that I'm getting to, I promise, Drew and I went to a Jake Bugg concert last night.  

See?  We even have blurry, low-quality, blocked-by-other-people's-heads photos to prove it.  It was fantastic, and I even danced in spite of this horrendous cold I have right now that is making me wish I could drill a hole in my head to relieve some pressure.  

Anyway, this 19-year-old prodigy (who makes me feel horribly under-accomplished) whose music has been described as, "The sound of rock and roll being newly discovered," no big deal, played a cover during his encore.  It was a Neil Young song, and it went like this:

My my, hey hey
Rock and roll is here to stay
It's better to burn out
Than to fade away
My my, hey hey.

And as I stood there listening, I had what I guess I'll describe as...a moment?  For lack of a better phrase that I can't think of right now and I'm blaming the cold.  

You see, I'm not cool.  I'm not one of those cool people who knows all of Neil Young and Kurt Cobain's songs by heart.  The only reason I knew that Kurt Cobain quoted the Neil Young song that was being played in front of me in his suicide note is because I'm married to Drew.  And Drew is cool and knows these sorts of things and tells them to me.  I didn't even recognize the song at first.  But then I heard it, that line.  It's better to burn out than to fade away.   

And it felt like everyone in the venue had just transcended space and time and Jake Bugg was every person who's ever lived and stood on a stage playing a guitar, just singing something honest.

my brain, lately

-I'm in a pr-etty intense peanut butter phase right now.  I put it on an apple every morning.  I regularly eat peanut butter toast.  You know, where you spread it on that warm bread and it melts into heavenly goodness?  And sometimes I just eat it plain off of a spoon.  But only natural peanut butter.  Not that fake, plastic crap.  And I'm not saying that because I'm all healthy and pretentious.  I like natural peanut butter better because it...actually tastes like peanuts?  Which I thought was the whole point of peanut butter.


-Old friends.  Aren't they weird?  Some of them you can go years without seeing, and it feels as if they never left, while you simultaneously wonder how you ever made it through a day without them.  Other times, it's plain uncomfortable.  You're just standing there, staring at each other, waiting for the conversation to flow the way it used to.  And you're thinking, what happened here?  We used to be tight!   Back when you knew all of their secrets and favorite songs.  But now something is off.  And you'll probably never figure out what.


-I have this tendency, to get lost in beautiful things.  Which are far more common than people tend to realize.  Especially when you consider all of the insanely beautiful things that the sky does, every single day.  Really.  I am fully convinced that paying attention to the sky on a regular basis makes an individual's life at least 8% more enjoyable.  Lately I've been particularly taken with those few moments between sunset and night.  Where the stars are barely coming out, but there is still the tiniest bit of light coming from the western horizon.  Magic.


-Do you ever forget your age?  When someone asks you for it, you get all mixed up between last year's and this year's and wonder if you're even a person at all.  If it weren't for math I probably would have lost track years ago.  I hate that I just found a practical reason for math to exist.


-There is this line from a Conor Oberst song: "I watch you braid your hair; you're from another time, when the earth wasn't so angry, and God was on our side."  I've always wanted to be that girl.  You know?  The soft, gentle, sweet-natured lady with the loose curls and the classy wardrobe.  Who is typically found in a skirt somewhere, picking flowers and singing.  But I'm much too distracted.  With short, edgy hair cuts.  Busy patterns.  Jeans.  And the fact that part of me also wants to look like Maja Ivarsson.  Contradiction, contradiction.

-I'm definitely PMSing today.  Definitely.  And I know this because every single person I've had to call for work today has hurt my feelings.  Or, I guess I should say, I've gotten my feelings hurt by them.  All I can think of is that line from You've Got Mail.  "It's not personal - it's business."  But I can't fathom that right now.  Because right now, the perfect storm is brewing inside of my body and everything, and I do mean everything, seems as personal as the most awkward medical exam.

stickittodemaneosis.

There are some struggles that I'm convinced will always be a struggle. Some parts of me that will always be a little bit broken.  And I've accepted this.

Because human beings were simply not meant to be happy every moment of the day.

Sometimes it is brave to be happy, but other times it's just impossible.
That's nobody's fault.

I don't think that I'll ever be someone who conversation or human interaction in general comes naturally to.  I lack the charisma and self-assurance.  And I don't mean that in a negative way, I'm just saying it.

I'm not charismatic.  I'm not generally confident.
These are the facts.

I'm neurotic and think in circles until I tangle up.  A select few find it endearing, and know how to unwind me from my own thoughts.
The rest are generally turned off.
Again, just facts.
But charismatic people have always made me nervous.  You know?

Probably not.

It's just that it always proved difficult for me to determine
whether they were being sincerely charming
or simply charming me out of their way.

Because their smiles look the same in either situation.
And I can't understand that.
I have enough trouble smiling for pictures when I don't feel like it.  It never works.  I just look like I'm in pain.

All I'm saying is, I know what you're thinking.
But you and I have a very different definition of fun.
I wish you'd stop acting as if happiness were the point, because it isn't.  It never has been.
The point is being able to face the reality - That things here aren't perfect, and never will be.  That, sometimes, really terrible things happen.

That I'm human and I'm broken, in some ways, and I'll probably never know how to make a room of people laugh.  That it isn't about what's fair, it's about what we were meant to learn.
The point is to be able to accept all of this without throwing your hands in the air and giving up.   

misc.

"Hope on. Journey on. 

Honestly acknowledge your questions and your concerns, 

but first and forever 

fan the flame of your faith, 

because all things are possible 

to them that believe."

-Jeffrey R. Holland

Drew finally came home yesterday, after deserting me*.  Which means I was actually able to get a good night's sleep for the first time in FOREVER.**

It's kind of pathetic, really.  I used to sleep alone every single night of my life and everything went fine.  Now I have to wear one of Drew's shirts and leave lights on, and not even that works.

Before Drew happened, I planned on living all alone in a classy studio apartment...in New York, or somewhere else edgy, until I was at least 28.  When I think about that now, I just laugh. 

Oh, and I didn't end up getting that promotion, in case anyone cares.  I took it harder than I should have, mostly because the news came on the week of the month where I'm incapable of handling most anything emotionally.  You know.

Seriously.  It was so dramatic.  The only thing I can compare it to is the feeling of getting dumped. Where you feel sad and heavy and sorry for yourself all day long.  And you might be able to take your mind off of it here and there, but then you remember.  And it's like you just heard the news for the first time all over again.  And you can't stop talking about it to everyone and anyone who gives you eye contact.  This can go on for any number of days.  And did.  But I'm better now.

If you're like me, and your guilty pleasure is acoustic guitar, poetic lyrics and haunting melodies, you should really listen to this guy.  He just released a new album, and I'm obsessed.  It's the perfect rainy day music, but I listen to it every other day too.  It makes Drew want to fall asleep.

I'm getting seriously annoyed with being a grown-up in the Summertime.  In any other season, it's still generally bothersome, but not nearly to this degree.  I need outdoor adventures involving tan lines, swim suits, sunglasses, questionably-colored lake water, boat fuel, and not wearing pants!  Don't you understand?  But I'm just sitting in a chair.  In jeans!

*going on a business trip
**meaning two whole entire days

portugal.

I'm not sure what it is about concerts, for me.  Because, when I really think about it, they're basically torture.  Torture that I pay for.  In tickets and service fees and gas money and beverages bought just to stay alive after I actually make it into the overcrowded, overheated venue. 

Just hear me out.  And don't get me wrong.  Because I love live music.  I love it to the point that I used to refuse to get serious with any dude who wasn't happy to take me to see it.  When Drew and I spent our first Valentine's Day at a MuteMath show?  I knew it was meant to be.  As I said, I really love concerts.  But sometimes I wonder if this love is logical, or if it's even somewhat abusive.

You drive many miles to get to the venue, because when are they ever in a convenient location?  Then there's parking.  If you don't want to pay for parking, you're looking at walking approximately five blocks.  And that's a moderate estimation.  If you don't want to walk, and decide to park, you'll most likely realize that you don't have cash to pay for said parking.  This results in a scramble between you and all of your friends, searching through purses and pockets and underneath seats.  Usually though, you'll have to find an ATM anyway.  This is an ordeal in and of itself.

After you've parked and made the treacherous journey across several busy streets to the venue, you get in line.  I'm convinced that these lines are apart of some sort of alternate universe.  Where people with unnaturally-colored hair and spiky accessories stare at you.  Just stare.  As if they're questioning why you think you deserve to be here, in this line, to see this band, that they have clearly liked for longer than you have because they're wearing a shirt from a tour that happened five years ago.

Now, if you want to be anywhere near the stage at this concert, you'll need to get in line in advance.  How far in advance?  That depends on the popularity of the band you're planning to see.  The time varies anywhere from 1-15 hours.  Also, keep in mind that the doors always open at least half hour after the ticket says they will.  So get comfortable.  Not that this is possible.

Sometimes it's raining, other times you're under direct rays from the sun.  Either way, you'll probably be at least moderately miserable.  In this case, glare at the bouncers.  It doesn't do anything to really fix your situation, but seems to help me.

Once the stars align and all of the bouncers are finally able to see our of their third eyes, they decide to let you into the venue.  That you paid to be able to go into.  Regardless, they still act as if it's some huge service on their part.  They also treat you as if you're a convicted felon, and will pull a knife out on them at any second.  Oh, and your ID is fake.  Even if it's real, they're sure it's fake.  At this point, you are herded like cows through the doors.  If you're lucky, you'll be frisked.  But only on special occasions.

Then comes more waiting.  You like standing, right?  Because you're going to be standing for a long time to come.  The show most likely won't be starting for another hour or so.  And if you try to sit down, one of those pleasant bouncers will come over and let you know that such actions are unacceptable.  Because reasons.

If you're fortunate, there will only be one opening band.  But usually, there are three.  Three half hour sets with 45 minute breaks in-between.  But you want to be in front for the band that you actually came to see, so you stand your ground.  Even while being pushed around by these people.

These people are not your friends.  They are very unhappy that you got to the concert before them, and have a better spot than them.  So, naturally, they spend the rest of the evening making you as uncomfortable as possible.  At least one of them will be extremely inebriated, and fall all over you, the entire time.  Just accept it.  They are never going away.

By this time, It's 11:00 pm.  You've been standing up since about seven, when you got in line to be judged by all of the judgy judges.  You're exhausted and dehydrated.  But you can't go get a water, because 1) Water costs a million dollars, and 2) You'll lose the spot you've worked for all day.  That can't happen.  Then, finally, the lights go off.  The horrible reggae album of Beatle's covers stops blaring in your ears.  It's happening.  The actual band that you actually want to see is actually coming on stage.

By now, you're probably at least partially delirious.  Your legs are numb and the soles of your feet feel like they're bleeding.  The crowd has started doing this thing where they get into a circle and shove each other in different directions.  After countless efforts at a countless number of shows, I still have found no valid reason for this to be happening.  But it happens.  It happens every time.

Somehow, you're moving around and banging your head and singing along to these songs you've been waiting for all day.  You magically have energy again.  You once were lost but now you're found.  And you don't even care about how tired you'll be at church tomorrow.  Because Portugal. The Man is just that good.

.

-It has come to my attention that one of the only things that gets me out of bed in the morning is the thought that I'll be able to have a Diet Dew within a few short hours. 

-It has also come to my attention that the above statement may be a bit unhealthy.  Mentally and physically. 

-Conversely, I haven't been late to work since I started this luring myself out of bed with thoughts of Diet Dew habit. 

-All I'm saying is we humans do what we have to do.  It isn't always pretty. 

-I'm not really sure if the top I'm wearing today was meant to be a shirt or a dress.  Ever have that?

-There seem to be a number of women who would consider it a dress, at least from what I've seen at nightclubs (not that I know what those are, mom). 

-I personally don't consider any top that you can't comfortably bend over in without biker shorts underneath it to be a "dress."  But what do I know.  I'm wearing what I've decided to call a shress with cutoff jeans right now. 

-It sort of looks like I didn't have time to fully change after ballet practice? 

-Nope, it isn't cute.

-Also, I never took ballet, but I should have because my feet have freakishly high arches.

-Instead, I did marching band.  Which I was clearly too preoccupied with to develop any sense of style at such a crucial style-forming time in my life. 

-I mean, a shress?  Really?

-These listing has become redundant and unnecessary.  And so has this post.

My dad plays in this super cool geezer band.  He's still got it.  Drew jumped in and played a song when we saw them last weekend while my mom and I danced.  It was great fun, in spite of all the drunk middle-aged women around us.  Then again, they provided their fair share of entertainment.

I'm basically writing right now to get my mind off of the present.  You see, I have that second job interview today.  And I just can't seem to calm down.  My jaw is clenching and my legs are jumpy.  I'm freezing but sweating.  Rehearsing what I consider to be "my biggest strengths and weaknesses" in my head over and over again.  

I wish the super moon would come back.  Wish me luck or something.

this week.

I feel that.

So, our old landlord found a new tenant for our old apartment.  That means that we no longer have to pay for the month of July, which is the best news I've gotten in...I don't know.  At least since the cancellation of Jersey Shore.

I lost my bra yesterday.  Somewhere along the way to our workout class, my bra went missing.  I completely forgot about this until this morning, and I was late to work after burrowing through bags of unpacked clothing to find a replacement bra.  I'm still not sure of the exact location of my preferred bra, but will keep you updated.

We put an offer in on another house.  Because the last one fell through.  Which is not a rare case by any means.  As for this house, I kind of love it.  It's quirky and has old-fashioned moldings and windows, a cool spiral staircase, windows on the roof and a reasonably updated kitchen.  But I'm realizing that it's possible for me to fall in love with an extremely wide range of houses.  So, if we don't get it, whatever.  There are always more houses.  So many houses everywhere.

I applied and interviewed for a promotion at work.  Interviews are the worst.  Sitting in a room with a stranger, talking yourself up as if that's ever socially acceptable.  As if you have so much practice talking about how awesome you are.  Nobody likes people who do that.  Except for in job interviews.  Then it's totally fine.  Anyway, I figure it was worth a try.  I also got what they're calling a second interview on Friday.  Second interview?  I feel like I spent all of my bragging juices up on the last one!

Speaking of Jersey Shore, do you know people who seem to wish that their life was like that show?  What I mean by that is, they have problems, or "beef," if you will, with a plethora of individuals.  So many individuals and problems with these individuals that you can't even keep them straight anymore.  And it puts a pretty big damper on any sort of social gathering you might want to plan in the future.  (Such as a housewarming party?  Is that wishful thinking?  Probably.) 

It's diabolical behavior, this having problems with peeps.  If someone bothers me, I just, you know, walk away from that person.  Just like I would a bush full of bees.  If this person is somewhere that I am, I don't let it ruin my whole entire night/week/LIFE.  And I definitely wouldn't get mad at the person who invited me to this gathering for not considering my current drama-related dilemma that I undeniably brought upon myself.  What is it with these people.  Having problems.  With people.

Anyway.  It feels like Friday, but it's not.  I want to have a brownie, but I don't.  And that's life, I guess.

my husband the pitcher man. my stylish father.

There was a sunset last night.  There was a sunset as we loaded the last of our boxes into cars.  I don't mean that in the way that there are sunsets every night.  I mean there was a sunset last night, that burned pink and orange and dark blue, getting brighter by the minute.

I need a picture of that.  After this box, I'm getting a picture of that sunset.

I never took a picture.  And I'm still thinking about how I regret not taking a picture of that gorgeous sunset that bid us farewell on the last day in our first apartment of our whole entire life together.   As I drove away, I saw it drop behind the horizon.  It sunk down past the cut-out-cardboard silhouette of the mountains, where you can never get anything back once it's gone.

These are the things I do to myself, in my brain.  It's torture.  Because obviously that wasn't the last sunset I'll ever see, and it isn't as if we're moving out of the country or anything.  We live ten minutes away if you take the freeway, and will most likely end up back in American Fork by Fall.  But moving has always been significant for me.

You take down all of your carefully-placed pictures, all of the magnets that held little notes to the fridge.  You take down that card someone wrote you or that potted plant your mom gave you which almost died that one time you went on vacation and forgot about it.  You take it all down, you pack it all up.  You literally move on.

It's the ending of one chapter, the beginning of another.  And it makes me so nostalgic and sentimental I practically drown in the feeling of it all.  Such ridiculous emotional indulgence.  Who knows how I function on a regular basis.

I enter the freeway, end the phone call with Drew about what food he should pick up on the way because we're both just starving.  I'm singing to Radiohead, I think, because the local high school station is on a kick lately, which is fine with me.  One song ends, another begins.  The cat and I are meowing back and forth because she hates car rides and being in her traveling cage and she tries to bite her way out.  I laugh, but admire her determination.

And the kids at that radio station must have been pretty in-tune with the universe last night, because then they played "Home."

Home.  Let me come home.
Home is wherever I'm with you.
Oh, home.  Yes, I am home.
Home is where I'm alone with you.

And, for some reason, that about made up for the whole sunset thing.

Growing up is packing all of your earthly possessions into boxes and wondering how your parents did this so many times.  Growing up is having a landlord who rides around your apartment on a bike, peeking in all of the windows.  It's forgetting what season it is because all you do is sit in a heated and air conditioned office all day.  Growing up is not even getting excited on payday, because BILLS, and knowing that at least half of your paycheck will be gone before you get a chance to calculate where to.

Growing up is acknowledging that you despise of something, and doing it regardless, because nobody else is going to do it for you.  And if they are, then what kind of grown-up are you, anyway?

Growing up also means eating cake at 10:30 pm, right after working out.  And with your bare hands because you already packed all of the eating utensils.  It's having a husband who still thinks you're at least somewhat appealing after you do such repulsive things.

 Sometimes it can be pretty cool, I guess.   Even when your life feels kind of up in the air and that's one of your least-favorite feelings because you have the type of personality that thrives in security.

who knows.

Someday I'm going to have a house that is covered in vines.  Just like this.  I really will.  Watch me.

        "My room and car aren't always clean.  I don't typically put a great 
       amount of effort into 'getting ready' (hair, make up, etc.)  I just figure 
       that the people who love me will love me either way.  Maybe I'm not 
       trying to be beautiful, understood or liked at the moment.  So what?  
       If you don't love me just because my face isn't shining like yours, 
       that's probably more your problem than mine." 

I was just cleaning out my old email address today, and found the above paragraph hidden in my old drafts.  I found it hilarious.  Mostly because not much has changed over the years.  Since, you know...

2007

Unfortunately, my hair will never be this long and beautiful again.  It just doesn't grow like that anymore.  But at least my face is no longer in a perma-stoned expression at all hours of the day.  Just FYI, I was never actually stoned.  Really.

And, yes, I said "old" email address.  Because we all created an email account when we were approximately 10-13 years old that we kept until it became much too embarrassing for us to do so anymore.  (Mine had to do with The Lord of the Rings, of course.)  Then we switched to Gmail, and use the old address to received additional free months of Netflix access and for giving to non-profit organizations when they ask if you want a newsletter and you feel like you'd be rude if you didn't say yes.  You know what I mean.  Don't even.  

-Roxberry.  Se-ver-al times a week.  Because HEAT.  Summertime makes me spend a stupid amount of money on cold fruity beverages and I don't even feel bad because I work full-time and that means I can afford to allow myself one superfluous habit.  The trouble is, I allow myself a great amount more than one.

-Brownies.  Mint ones.  Because I've been giving into the demands of PMS since 2003.

This was nonsense.

I saw a lady dance yesterday
She was easily swayed
I cannot be tossed and turned 

in this way
I'm not your tiny dancer

-LM

 

Because words are failing me.  Because my lips are dry, my skin is itchy and my allergies are back after a week in a kinder, more humid climate.  Because my thoughts refuse to organize and have been insisting on this diabolical behavior for too long now.  

Because these days are starting to blur into one in a way that I find unsettling.  Because I keep jumping back and forth between plans and I just can't seem to get a grip.  Because I'm missing people, and never know how to handle that.  Because I get myself down, and then feel guilty for it, which gets me even more down, if that's even a thing.  Because I'm still not sure how to measure my both precious and insignificant existence.

But Laura Marling's new album is out.  And I have this husband who takes my hand and tells me he loves me with words on a daily basis like he knows I need.  So I'm planning on burying myself for a while, into these good things.  And not even I know what I mean by that.

"You came here to tell me something I already know. Dark before the dawn is the darkest I can go. The calm before the storm is what leaves me here to breathe. So breathe. Us of constant banging, throwing fists against the wall. Screaming at the earth for what it's done to one and all. I came here to tell you something you already know. Just Breathe. Breathe."

-L.M.

It really doesn't matter.

Sometimes I get to thinking about what I'm capable of.  About that ever-itching word, potential.  I've always disliked it, because it made me tired.  It's an exhausting word.  But sometimes I wonder about what I could have done, if I had woken up earlier.  Not literally, just in a general sort of way.  Though literally waking up earlier most likely would have helped me out as well.

You see, I spent the first 18 years of my life walking around in a stupor.

What makes me any different from the people I admire?  I have hands, just like them.  Only, they use their hands to write beautiful music and inspiring books. They use their hands to perform life-saving surgeries or to pull themselves up to the summit of...Mount Kilimanjaro or something ridiculous like that.  I use mine for browsing the internet at my desk job and driving straight back home at the end of the day.

I have a mind, just like them.  A perfectly good and capable mind.  Only, they use theirs to carry out plans to make miracles happen.  I mostly just dream of the weekend.  That time when I get to sit at home instead of sitting at work.

But I've got taxes to pay and a mortgage to gain.  So it looks like I'll be here a while.

Last night, we saw Deep Sea Diver and Telekinesis.  I would recommend them both, if you're at all concerned about that.

Like I said, it doesn't matter.  I'm being silly.  It's fine.

pieces of the weekend.

New phone, yay.  Ate more Rubios' avacado corn fish tacos and a Coca-Cola.  Yum.  Satisfied craving for movie with Mud, and I wonder why I only like Matthew Mcconaughey as a dirty, southern fugitive.  What happened to a good story.  Slept in.  Finally worked out on my work-out ball and looked ridiculous.  Watched way too much Grey's Anatomy and didn't even care.  Laundry, laundry, JCW'S, YUM. Primary lesson.  Played with kitty.  Back to primary lesson.  Ate Flipz, yum.  Gave Drew a mani-pedi.  More Grey's Anatomy.  Rented movie from VUDU.  VUDU makes me angry.  Wrote angry email.  Sleep sleep sleep.  Church.  Parent's house.  Best grilled chicken ever ever.  Sobe mixed with Diet Dew is a revelation, YUM.  Warm bath.  Got a "Very Probable" on a Social Anxiety Disorder test.  Wasn't really surprised.  Pre-sleep snuggles.  Back to the grind.  Clock in 9am.  Feel free to leave your soul at the door.  Welcome to Monday.