My Thoughts on Brittany

My friend Brittany is leaving Provo tomorrow, to go home to California, to wait for 3 months, to then go to Brazil, to serve an 18 month long proselyting mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I realized this past week all of the voids Brittany fills in my life, and how bummed I will be without seeing her at work everyday. I feel like sending this small advert to the Brazilian Missionary Training Center so they know what they're getting.

• If you need someone to shorten a word and make it acceptable to say, Brittany can do it.
• If you need someone to go to/start a dance party with, Brittany will be there.
• Similarly, if you need someone to dance until they literally can't remember what happened while they were dancing, Brittany's your woman.
• If you want to hear a hilarious story and bust your gut, Brittany is on it.
• If you want a job well done on anything detail oriented, Brittany will not let you down.
• If you need a friend, Brittany is willing and able.
• If you need someone who cares and will drop everything to help you, someone who will listen and empathize with you, if you need someone who is a genuinely honest and good person, then look no further than Brittany.

I know missionaries get called for specific reasons, to specific places, and I know Brittany is going to touch people's lives (how can she not? She does that without being a missionary here in Provo!) but I still can't help feeling like Brazil doesn't even realize the gift they're getting for the next year and a half. I can't lie, I'm a little bit jealous.

My whip is a ghost of a former ride.

I’ve drafted a post about my car about 3 separate times now. The problem is that I’ve waited too long to post. I was first hit with the idea to write about Simba (my champagne colored 1998 Toyota Corolla) in the summer when driving up a hill was always in perfect time with a prayer. Actually, the same can be said of my car in any season I drive it in, but it was different in the summer. The windows were rolled down in the summer. My fake Target Ray Bans were sliding down the bridge of my nose in the dry Utah heat. I rested my crooked elbow on the scorching metal of the door frame because even though I was in pain, I looked good. I had one wrist propped casually on the top of my steering wheel, and I was leaning back in my worn, cloth, beige seats. It varied between cool west coast hip-hop pumping through my pitiful speakers or the latest indie band that I had heard about third hand, that probably wasn’t that indie any more. That was always a gamble too, which stereo session in the ‘Rolla would be those speakers last, because they really shouldn’t be handling the volume that the radio was cranked to.

As cars whizzed past me or pulled alongside me at stoplights, freshly washed and waxed, I tried to hold back and only give only half-interested glances at them. Who needs you and your new car, I would yell in my mind, I’m ridin’ slow, homie! One day in particular, it hit me that it was one of the few days I wasn’t in a rush to go anywhere. I wasn’t speeding, I wasn’t praying over my engine, to beg for it to last, because I wasn’t pushing it to get me somewhere in an inhuman speed, let alone a 1998-Toyota-Corolla-with-over-100,000-miles speed. I was enjoying driving slowly, enjoying the sweat on the back of my legs (see this post for more explanation about that) and the cool jams streaming through my car. It wasn’t a lie to convince myself that I appreciated this car and all its quirks; I really do love driving this car with all its quirks. You can’t really knock something that a) was an amazing gift from people that love you, b) hasn’t let you down so far and c) you associate with everyday. Well, maybe you can, but I certainly don’t. Simba, let the good times roll.

In which I post simply to use the phrase "in which"

I just finished this book called Young Romantics which wasn't particularly good. I told my British Literature professor I was reading it (after we just finished discussing the Romantic period in class) to which he responded "The Publishers Weekly review was lukewarm, but it would be hard not to be a good read with the crazy lives of the people featured in it". That's about how the book went. Sub par writing, but those 19th century poets knew how to get down, and therefore I stuck with it to the end.

I give a much heartier recommendation to Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet for ALL readers of this post. Truly fantastic book. Great writing, engaging narrative, very informative of a kind of different perspective about the Japanese internment during WWII (but it is fiction so have no fear, non-fiction avoiders).

Anyway, back to these dead white guys. For as much as everyone rags on the literary canon being filled with dead white guys, I really love these dead white guys. John Keats, in particular (although, he's wasn't a rich dead white guy so I think everyone in general hates him less. And probably because he died so prematurely, that usually gets you off the hook easier than your older dead white guy friends). Unfortunately Young Romantics really didn't talk about Keats that much. But I digress.

Finishing this book made me think about how different the death of our generations stars will be. At first I thought "There won't be any biographies needed because everyone's stories and personal thoughts are on Facebook, Twitter, and blogs". Then I thought "Nah, I'm sure there are still some hidden gems of celebrities lives that will be exposed upon their death, and people will clamor to read their posthumous biographies". Then I realized, "No, the paparazzi and MTV specials have truly exposed all of that already. When famous actors or musicians die now, people will just go to their Facebook profile to memorialize them". I finally settled on the thought that "Actually, there are some crazy celebrities in the media today. I'm sure there will be a heap of unrevealed information about the majority of celebrities after they die. Plus, Snooki has a book sooooo...biographies will never cease to flourish, even in the midst of all this instant access media".

One time it crossed my mind to write a memoir. I think it was after I read A Girl Named Zippy because that was a great book and to my knowledge, that author wasn't famous before that got published. Of course, I don't have the same kind of good 'ol days, small town America stories that she does (and I'm sure that's what ultimately detracted me) but still...it's an interesting thought to say the least.

...I had a point to this. I think it was something along the lines of: I just finished a huge research project about Facebook last week. It was about how Facebook interactions effect relationships offline. I wouldn't imagine there's much of a counter argument to that, but I just wanted to talk to people about Facebook (I have a sickness, this I know) so I went with a definitive project, not really an exploratory one. My end result: the one thing that all of my interviewees had in common was that they strongly disliked when people posted information deemed "too personal" on Facebook (as do I).

A few other people in my class did research projects about dating culture at BYU. One sentence from both presentations was that "blind dating really isn't blind any more". While sometimes I'm grateful for that (although my only blind date was in high school...) it also makes me a little melancholy. I love Facebook, I love blogging, I love Twitter, and checking my e-mail on my phone. But I can honestly say, more than doing all of those things, I love talking to people and getting to know someone and (I can't believe I'm admitting this...) feeling empathy with someone in a conversation to the point that I cry when they cry, or in a less dramatic way, laugh when they laugh. I'll probably never delete my Facebook account, my Twitter account, or this blog, but I truly hope that when I die and am famous and am having my biography written (after I've published my own memoirs of course) that these are just interesting tidbits and that like the 'young romantics' of the early 19th century, someone has to find out about my personal relationships to know who I truly was.

On Inspiration

For whatever reason, I have fallen off the writing bandwagon. I really enjoy writing, particularly on this blog where I can pretend that more people read it than actually do. And yet, I seem to be lacking the motivation to write. I’ve read a number of writing blogs and looked into some self-help writing books but my procrastination wins out as I opt to watch Friends re-runs while only doing my homework at half capacity. When I took my creative writing class last winter, the biggest suggestion from the professor was to just have a time everyday where you must write to fulfill a certain, pre-determined length requirement. To help us with that, he also assigned us go to extra curricular performances on campus to get inspiration from all different art forms. I’ve tried to keep up with the writing regularly regiment to some extent, by trying to post weekly on this blog. However, the inspiration gleaning from art on campus has declined. As I was contemplating this, I realized I didn’t have to just get inspiration from a performance or an art exhibit. Not that those aren’t great resources that I do really enjoy, but I feel inspired by a wider variety of mediums.

Tonight, I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time finding and listening to free beats that a Seattle hip hop DJ likes to share for free on his blog. Iranian DJ, Sabzi is part of the dynamic duo, the Blue Scholars based out of Seattle. This is the first hip hop group I wasn’t ashamed to tell people I liked listening to. The Filipino MC, Geo, infuses his lyrics with calls to action by the sedentary public to move for equality for all people and to be aware and loving of our fellow brothers and sisters. Of course there is some language, but this is about the cleanest, quality rap I’ve found. For as much as I enjoy Geo’s brilliant lyrics, Sabzi’s beats are so freshly original, with enough thumping bass and jazz samples to please all levels of hip hops listeners. Currently I’m listening to an album of beats that Sabzi produced and put out for free on his blog (here) for aspiring MCs. That is some Seattle style loving right there.

I read a lot of other amateur writers blogs to get inspiration. Recently, I’ve been reading a lot of Wil Wheaton’s blog (yes, from Star Trek, but now all grown up). His writing is so simple and honest, it’s refreshing to read. He also constantly talks about how in love with his wife and children he is, and it’s always fun to read some warmhearted sentiments from celebrities. I also read a lot of this guy (although, he doesn't update frequently) because a) the title of his blog is PERFECT and b) because another writer friend recommended him to me. He is truly hilarious and sometimes, when I write long boring posts about getting inspiration to write, his posts remind me how to be funny. As always, my favorite blogger by far is Anna, if for no other reason than introducing me to Billy Collins. But really, there are more reasons than that, too many to name really. Just read, and enjoy.

I’m not sure if this is true of all Seattle, or just the people I knew in high school, but there are a lot of excellent photographers that inspire me to try to create something meaningful. Although it’s a tight niche, I love looking at Jeremy Leffel's wedding photos. It is beautiful how he can take something that is so traditionally predictable and put these pictures into a modern, new perspective. I suppose it shouldn't shock me so much, it's what good photography is, but whatever. Once upon a time, I ran around with Jaki Portolese in grade school, and she inspired me to get into photography a little myself. I eventually stopped insulting photography by trying to be a photographer, but I thoroughly enjoy looking at Jaki’s work and it’s two-fold beauty (the photograph and the great wardrobes her models are always in).

So, here’s to writing. I’m trying, I’ll keep trying, and I’ll keep trying to find inspriation. In the meantime, bear with me. Since I’m trying really hard to keep my deadline of 4 posts a month, this week will include beaucoup updates, but I know my die hard fans are really jones-ing for my words constantly in their life. Amirite, amirite!?

Token writer's block post

I am aching for an idea. An ephemeral, intangible, and therefore invaluable good. I wish I could say that something, anything has popped into my brain and I have been able to run with it, but this is the only canvas I paint the whole truth on. Betraying this medium with that kind of falsehood would be unpardonable. The problem started out small; I couldn’t think of a good blog post idea. When my scope of writing widened (with thoughts like "why shouldn’t I start a novel?") so did my chasm devoid of thought and inspiration. Three fresh drafts about thinking about nothing are sitting on my hard drive now. Because I thought it was a problem of distractions, I downloaded a free program called FocusWriter that shows no other inch of my screen and doesn’t allow pop ups from other running programs. Turns out, it has been more of a distraction to my homework and other reading endeavors than preventing distractions so I can conceive a noteworthy subject to write about. What can I say, I love new toys more than anything.

For a long time, I thought I didn’t have an idea because couldn’t think of a interesting enough topic, all I could keep thinking about was stories from my own life (few and far between as they are). I read The Help by Kathryn Stockett (I give you all a personal recommendation to read it) and thought “see, that is a good idea, race issues in the south in the 60s”. Then I read the end notes from the author and realized that was her life in the south, in the 60s. So it is okay to write a whole work of fiction based on your life...I hope this is a sample of the helpful hints I’ll learn next semester in my class titled “Writing Fiction”. So I turned my attention into crafting my life into something worth reading, more importantly, something worth writing. My mind is blank. My page remains blank. My social calendar remains blank. Unfortunately, it’s hard to pull a good story out of a complete lack of activity.

I read a book titled I Am Not a Serial Killer by Dan Wells (from Orem, how exciting) yesterday. I didn’t love his style, even after I acknowledged it was a piece of teen fiction. I didn’t love his idea (supernatural serial killer...). I didn’t even love his protagonist but his character moved and breathed and grew and now I’ve placed a hold request for the next book in the series. After I finished it, I thought “obviously Dan Wells didn’t live in small town struck with a string of serial killings that were solved by a 15 year old. Yet he’s stretched it into something, why can’t I do the same?” Answer: I have no idea. Maybe this means when my million dollar idea (or at least a thousand word idea) hits it will be something truly spectacular. Hopefully it means I can get back on the bandwagon of producing something readable once a week for this blog, or I might start getting into real trouble... sans a serial killer, of course.

My mom was a librarian.

I'm writing a paper for my British literature class about John Keats. I can't read his writing, or even about his life without feeling moved to make my own pathetic attempt. Is there a less cliché way to capture the notion that he stirs my soul?

This is the first time this semester I've gone among the books in the library. I forget with every absence from this sacred place, how much I adore libraries. It's more than just books. There is something that also, to further the cliché , moves me when I'm surrounded by dusty tomes resting on shelves from floor to ceiling. I can hear the shoes slapping, pages scraping, pens scratching, chairs creaking and tenants whispering, but it is still silent, overwhelmingly silent. Reverently silent. My own body responds the hallowed ground. I breathe more slowly, more deeply, more quietly. Every step I take is measured and cautious, so as to not disturb what hundreds of thousands of authors have created for my special use and appreciation.

Have you ever thought about that? Every book in a library was written for you. I think if books had the run of the place they would jump off shelves and into laps, admonishing non-readers for their incredibly foolish oversight for not reading "The Masks of Keats" (or whatever it may be) sooner. Books are powerful, make no mistake. I can walk straight through a library without being much affected but the moment I pause and take a closer look, I'm in trouble. Touching a faded spine or sometimes just being sandwiched between two rows chalk full of books gets me. The very essence of the pages presses itself onto me. I feel it on the back of my neck, the inside of my elbows, and in that narrow space on the top of your foot, where your shoe doesn't quite touch. The only option left is to pick up a book and set up camp in the middle of the aisle, because doing anything less at this point, is a travesty.

Crohnie McCrohnsalot

EDIT: I will one day revisit this topic...in a more eloquent manner.

Oh hey, I have Crohn's disease (warning: there are some pictures, a few of which are not for the squeamish). That might sound casual but that's kind of how I live with it. Every eight weeks or so my symptoms flare and I think "oh yeah..." This isn't to say Crohn's isn't a big deal, I mean look at those pictures...it can be a huge deal (e.g. stomach/colon/intestine removal, extreme diet change, bag for a stomach, etc). But I've been lucky, what can I say. I had great doctors that found it, found what drugs worked for me, health insurance to cover it, and I've been good for 4 and 1/2 years, ish.

I used to get infusions of Remicade (my personal miracle drug) every 12 weeks and the last month before my treatment I would start feeling terrible. When I couldn't stay awake during class, or even get to my morning classes on time, or would be late for work, (fatigue from Crohn's is a big kick in the teeth for me), or would regret eating because I knew eventually I'd have to go to the bathroom, I'd get frustrated that I'd acted so nonchalant the eight weeks prior. Then I realized the disease was nonchalant for the eight weeks prior, there wasn't really anything I could do about it. I wasn't about to wish for a more extreme case of Crohn's (I'm not that masochistic) so there was maybe the most troubling part of my illness: that I couldn't claim it all the time, because most of the time, there was nothing to claim.

But then, I actually got to talk to a doctor who made my treatments more frequent and now my bleed-through might be a few days, (which still suck, but it's better than a month) but nothing too extreme. Today I got my infusion at a new place, and it was good. The nurse was really nice, I was in a room by myself, the IV didn't start itching or hurting, and I just studied French for 2 hours.

So now you're saying "Laurie, get to the point." I guess I can't stop thinking about how lucky I am. Sometimes I almost feel guilty, people hear I have Crohn's and start gushing about my life, trying to alter potlucks around my "eating habits", and I have to clear my throat and say "actually, aside from the ridiculous financial aspect of this garbage, I'm 98% fine. Sometimes if I eat too much candy/ice cream/soda, it bothers my stomach, whereas before it didn't. ...Sorry." (seriously, I never got sick from excessive junk food before Crohn's...it was a mind blowing gift). I'm sure there will be complications later in my life (there just has to be...I'm just going to bank on it) and I should count all financial garbage (I keep saying garbage so I don't swear about it...garbage) as sickness enough.

But when I Google Crohn's out of morbid curiosity, and I see people with massive scars and attached to bags and listing their restricted diets, I just close my internet browser and sit outside for awhile.