Tuesday, June 30, 2009

it's not shy it's fatal

I don't dance in public, because my moves look alarmingly similar to this.
But I enjoy dancing. I hear music and I want to move. An ancient and primal instinct, alive and well in my uncoordinated body. I keep the urge under control for the sake of innocent Bystanders and my own dignity. A shoulder shrug or a toe tap is usually the extent of my expression. Usually, not always. Not a single cloud dares show its face in the summer morning sky as I run through the upper Provo hills. I look over the tree-filled valley, and am filled with...awesomeness. And the song blasting through the buds in my ear is spectacular. I can't help it. I start to move with a bit of spunk. A skippy sort of jog. And my arms. They want to move. They raise. a little. A little more. They're swinging in the air above my head. Peridoically i turn around, assuring a clear coast. And then I move my lips to the lyrics. I'm a dancing fool in the most foolish way. It feels so good.

Maybe I did it to have something to blog about. I've been guilty of that before. But really, I believe it was a moment of blissful insanity.

Thursday, June 25, 2009

hold me

I was 5 years old, covered in chicken pox. It was a painful existence, the itch occupying all my thoughts despite the should be distractions, Disney movies, puzzles, etc. Mom and dad brought soothing lotion into my chamber sorrow, and turned on the television. I feel like it was Mtv. It's not a reflection of their poor parenting, instead of their hipness. On the screen was a man unlike any other I had seen. And the song...oh the song! I was mesmerized. The itch vanished as I stared at the awesome spectacle. Baby it don't matter if you're black or white. It was a pivotal moment. It solidified my anti-racist stance. If a man this awesome says it doesn't matter, bygeorge it doesn't matter. Also, it was the moment I fell in love with music. The beat, the pop, the squeals. A while later Free Willy only strengthened my adoration. Sure he seemed to fall apart toward the end there. Sure he looked like his own wax figurine. Sure the news coverage of his death is making me giggle a bit. But I have to give credit where credit is due. I wish I was outside the Apollo Theater, where I wouldn't stop dancing til I had enough.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Monday, June 22, 2009

mine gap

There are women at pools who look as though they were meant to wear a swim suit. Gracefully they stride along the poolside, charming all in their wake, perfectly proportioned, perfectly tanned. I am not one of them. My objective when buying a swimsuit is maximum coverage. And even when wearing the purchase, it's a test of endurance...how long I can stand wearing it before giving way to insecurities and changing back into jeans. Today I decided to tough it out. I put on my extra long tankini, full coverage bottoms, and skirt to cover those troublesome upper thighs, and headed to the park, book in hand. I would gracefully glide to the perfect sunny spot, lay on the soft lawn, and perch my book in just the right position in which i can not only read comfortably but also look smashing. I would do that if I didn't keep tripping over my flip-flops and if my oversized skirt didn't keep falling off my bum and if the grass wasn't so itchy requiring a change of position every 30 seconds and if the sun wasn't directly overhead making every reading position blinding and if my arm didn't keep falling asleep.

Friday, June 19, 2009

Go Ahead

Feed the fish

Monday, June 15, 2009

and a wheelbarrow

I just watched a woman eat a piece of cake and drink a slimfast.

I've been waking up early as of late. Highly out of character. Oddly, I've found it ridiculously productive in the wee hours of the morn. The downside: it's now 12:45 and I'm lethargic. So in this pseudo-siesta I've done some exploring on the world wide web and I stumbled upon my blog, the blog of an earlier era. Ok, guys, here's the thing- I used to be much funnier. I also seemed to live a much more exciting life. And have a better vocabulary. Really.

Monday, June 8, 2009


When in the middle of the somewhat tumultuous decision making process about serving a mission, I was forced to come to terms with the sacrifices I would make, those things I would leave behind. I considered school, marriage, holidays, car, career, etc. I accepted these losses, left for a year and a half, and come home to find that really, I had not missed much. HOWEVER, months later, I've made an alarming discovery. I once had a skill. A skill that could wow any spectator. A skill that came naturally. A skill that I flaunted at every possible opportunity, and there were many. I was absurdly good at Guitar Hero. I was the Hero of Guitar. I was the reigning champion at any party. Worshiped by opponents. Strumming Freebird on expert as though I was born to. Now, I'm stripped of all ability. Awkwardly I hold the plastic guitar, hitting the colored buttons half a beat behind, the wrong fret, and held too short or too long. Apparently mastery over a simulated rendition of Nirvana's Heart Shaped Box is not a blessing of heaven brought forth by sacrifice.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

alright. alright. alright alright alright. hey.

efy? y here? y now? At the end of every class I'm met with a swarm of cologned adolescents, in the halls, around the bookstore, Brigham Square, there is no refuge from the storm of florescent shirts and lanyards. but I do like watching, and listening, to the budding romances. The week of infatutaed bliss, the exchanging of emails and digits, one last hand hold, and then approximately 6 weeks of "URAQT" and "How will we make this work with me in Alaska and you in Springville?". And then, extinguished flame, hoping for another QT next summer.

There's a cat stuck in a tree outside my condo. I want to help but don't know how. Google says she'll come down eventually, but I would really like to call the fire department and watched a man in a red hat save old Mrs. Brown's kitten while a crowd of bystanders applauds.