Saturday, December 31, 2011

I'm hoping to go to Ecuador for a month, in the summer, with my sister, to serve in an orphanage. We are going to keep journals, go on hikes, get better at Spanish, and serve people until we are the happiest girls in the world.

Life changing experience #23482378491237413.

Tuesday, December 27, 2011

Common Sense I Ignored.

Hang your hopes on a hopeless thing,
And the hopeless thing will fall.
For the hopeless thing wasn't made to hold,
Or even to stand at all.

Give your love to the wandering man,
And the wandering man will leave.
For the wandering man was made to walk,
Not to sit, not to wait, not to grieve.

Bare your soul to a polished stone,
And the stone cannot return.
For a stone wasn't made to love, or to feel;
When you go, know the stone won't yearn.

But hang your heart where your heart belongs,
In the chest of someone true,
And he'll cut his own from his ribcage bones,
And he'll give it back to you.

Friday, December 23, 2011

Everything you need to know is in this poem:

(If you can, read it aloud.)

de Jorge Luis Borges

Después de un tiempo, uno aprende la sutil diferencia entre sostener una mano y encadenar un alma, y uno aprende que el amor no significa acostarse y una compañía no significa seguridad, y uno empieza a aprender,
Que los besos no son contratos y los regalos no son promesas, y uno empieza a aceptar sus derrotas con la cabeza alta y los ojos abiertos, y uno aprende a construir todos sus caminos en el hoy, porque el terreno de mañana es demasiado inseguro para planes, y los futuros tienen una forma de caerse en la mitad.
Y después de un tiempo uno aprende que si es demasiado, hasta el calor del sol quema. Así que uno planta su propio jardín y decora su propia alma, en lugar de esperar a que alguien le traiga flores.
Y uno aprende que realmente puede aguantar, que uno realmente es fuerte, que uno realmente vale, y uno aprende y aprende, y con cada día uno aprende.
Con el tiempo aprendes que estar con alguien porque te ofrece un buen futuro significa que tarde o temprano querrás volver a tu pasado.
Con el tiempo comprendes que sólo quien es capaz de amarte con tus defectos, sin pretender cambiarte, puede brindarte toda la felicidad que deseas.
Con el tiempo te das cuenta de que si estás al lado de esa persona sólo por acompañar tu soledad, irremediablemente acabarás no deseando volver a verla.
Con el tiempo entiendes que los verdaderos amigos son contados, y que el que no lucha por ellos tarde o temprano se verá rodeado sólo de amistades falsas.
Con el tiempo aprendes que las palabras dichas en un momento de ira pueden seguir lastimando a quien heriste, durante toda la vida.
Con el tiempo aprendes que disculpar cualquiera lo hace, pero perdonar es sólo de almas grandes.
Con el tiempo comprendes que si has herido a un amigo duramente, muy probablemente la amistad jamás volverá a ser igual.
Con el tiempo te das cuenta que aunque seas feliz con tus amigos, algún día llorarás por aquellos que dejaste ir.
Con el tiempo te das cuenta de que cada experiencia vivida con cada persona es irrepetible.
Con el tiempo te das cuenta de que el que humilla o desprecia a un ser humano, tarde o temprano sufrirá las mismas humillaciones o desprecios multiplicados al cuadrado.
Con el tiempo aprendes a construir todos tus caminos en el hoy, porque el terreno del mañana es demasiado incierto para hacer planes.
Con el tiempo comprendes que apresurar las cosas o forzarlas a que pasen ocasionará que al final no sean como esperabas.
Con el tiempo te das cuenta de que en realidad lo mejor no era el futuro, sino el momento que estabas viviendo justo en ese instante.
Con el tiempo verás que aunque seas feliz con los que están a tu lado, añorarás terriblemente a los que ayer estaban contigo y ahora se han marchado.
Con el tiempo aprenderás que intentar perdonar o pedir perdón, decir que amas, decir que extrañas, decir que necesitas, decir que quieres ser amigo, ante una tumba, ya no tiene ningún sentido.
Pero desafortunadamente, solo con el tiempo.

(There are no good translations of this available online, it seems. Update: Actually, this one is okay. Update #2: It really isn't.)

Thursday, December 22, 2011

The Umbrella Man

"What it means is, if you have any fact, which you think is really sinister, is really obviously a fact which can only point to some sinister underpinnings- hey, forget it, man. Because you can never, on your own, think up all the non-sinister, perfectly valid explanations for that fact."

Watch it here.

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

This is how I feel about a lot of abstruse poetry lately:

Saturday, December 10, 2011



Because the road has ended
I will stand barefoot on the burning black asphalt
Watching the heat distort the sky and distant mountains
Feeling the sun on my skin
Turning coral with the beams
I will stand with shoeless feet in the stagnant air
And think about fossilizing
Turning to a silent stone
Losing all feeling
But, as I begin to set
As my poured cement body moves less and less
I will begin to feel myself burn
And, by feeling,
Remember my mortality
And the transience of life
Knowing that I cannot petrify
But only rot in the sweltering heat
My feet will lift themselves from the oily asphalt
Digging their toes into the hot white sand
Make new tracks

Friday, December 2, 2011

René Maltête

Not a whit, we defy augury: there’s a special
providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now,
‘tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be
now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the
readiness is all: since no man has aught of what he
leaves, what is’t to leave betimes?

William Shakespeare's Hamlet

Thursday, December 1, 2011

Addison's Walk

I went for a walk at Oxford.
It was misty and bright, silver edged black trees needling the pale sky.
The ground was wet and dark, mud ringing under my feet.
I was alone and tired, limping forward on my swollen ankle,
humming under my breath in the exhaling mist.
I waited at the crossroads and then
crossed a bridge, walked into the trees, and laid out under the sky.

From the bench my back was spread on
I saw the dark branches of trees,
stuck to the grey clouds.

I closed my eyes, patient,
closed them, spread out, back flat, stretched on the high bench,
Cold grey wood against my spine, my legs and ankles--
I closed my eyes and felt the pins and needles
of mist that was almost rain, prickling my nose and eyelids-
I closed my eyes, paling under the whiteness of the sky,
The watercolor made of the cold world,
I closed my eyes and remembered you, fair unfair,

And opened them again.

Tuesday, November 29, 2011


When I was fourteen I ran away from home,
because my mom and I had an argument in the living room,
in front of the rest of my family.
When I ran out the front door and slammed it behind me,
Hurrying from the porch I used to sweep in first grade,
Running down the driveway where I learned to ride a bike,
Traipsing on the street I wandered day and night,
Taking distorted pictures of street lamps on school nights,

I turned the corners I sometimes rode my bike around on the way to the library,
Stopping to stand in the grass on the corner, next to the stop sign,
Crying, shouting, barefoot and mad,
Dragging my heels through the leaves and grass,
My fingers grazing the ivy of the wall.

I turned the corner again onto the highway,
and coming down the road on the sidewalk,
a police car pulled over, red lights blaring,
and I pretended not to notice,
but the policeman talked to me,
asked me where I was going and where I lived,
and I answered, terrified, until he stopped.

I continued on the sidewalk, cut grass, deciduous trees, 
bougainvillea running along the high wall
of the oldest country club in the Coachella Valley.

When it happens I am surrounded by trees, and the ground is dark.
I see the sidewalk in my memory, pockmarked and pale,
and lying there is the four of diamonds,
one scale from some lost deck of cards.

I look down at the card,
its sharp parallelograms and mirrored 4s dark in the night,
and having recently come home from China,
remember that the number means death there.

It's silly, but at fourteen, that was why I turned around.
At home, Dad had said, "Should we go after her?"
And my only little brother, a lump in his throat, wailed,
"Well, do you want her?"
By the time I turned around,
they were cruising slowly through our neighborhood,
our huge white Suburban moving like a mythical whale in the dark.

After some college boys harassed me about the police harassing me,
After I was walking back, playing card in hand,
My dad rolled the window down and said something funny,
something about coming home.

Six years later, I went for a walk here in London,
maybe just to feel the comfort of being warm when it's cold,
of wearing a coat and breathing out clouds.

I intended to walk down just one street, and at the end of it, to turn around.
I intended to stop when the line of trees stopped, and then to follow them home again.
But I continued into Kensington, and past Hyde Park, and through Hyde Park, and on,

And you're not going to believe me,
But after I passed a bus stop I looked down at the pavement,
Lit by yellow street lamps and crowded by trees and high buildings,
and I saw one card, an eight of clubs, lying alone on the sidewalk,
and again, I don't care what that card means to technical numerology or to the occult, 
but eight is my favorite number, 
and 8 is an infinity symbol turned on its side,
and eight is the number of steps to Nirvana,
and eight is a perfect cube,
and eight is a perfect octave.

I didn't stop and gape at the card on the ground; I picked it up and kept walking,
Carrying the omen with me,
Realizing that my life was, and had been, metaphors and foreshadowing,
building off of each other,

And that I need to start believing the whispers I hear in my mind,
things like "This will be finite, so end it,"
and "you'll be friends with this person,"
and the worst, after days of a strange fever:
"if you get close to him,
he has the power to remove you from what you love."

And because this needs a denouement, my dad is coming to England,
to carry me home, on a silver plane, like a bright fish in the sky,
And home isn't an escape, but a destination.
Home is a refuge and a celebration,
home is a place to hug three sisters and two brothers,
parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins.
Home is a place to make fresh orange juice on Christmas,
a place to play ping-pong with my sister
in the backyard in rolled jeans and sunglasses.

Home isn't a living room or a dark street.
Home isn't someone's sternum and clavicle,
or the touch of his hair on my forehead.

Home is my mom trying to say "I love you," more,
Home is my dad driving me back from the airport in our white suburban,
through the thousand windmills at the base of the San Jacinto mountains.

Home is arriving to the fourteen arms
of the seven people who love me most,
and it is knowing that my brother will always want me back
to be the fifteenth and the sixteenth, 
and the eighth.

Monday, November 28, 2011

How My Life Works:

If it makes me feel like I'm going to throw up, I don't do it.
If I start crying, I keep walking.
If I don't understand something, I go through it again.
If I'm not making sense, I stop talking.
If I walk for too long, I start limping.
If my family can't talk, I'll leave the house for anything.
If I'm waiting for a letter, I send another letter.
If I can't finish one poem, I work on a different poem.
If my fingernails are short, I cut them shorter and they bleed.
If that foot does the thing it's doing and I am therefore limping, I keep walking.
If I cut my hair, I want to cut my hair more.
If I feel sad, I try to sleep.
If I wake up afraid, I lie on my back and breathe.
If I can't breathe, I go outside where the air is thinner.
If I trip over Spanish words, I pay attention to what I'm saying.
If I'm smiling, I try not to remember why I shouldn't be.
If someone makes me a cup of tea, I drink it.
If I hold still, I can like people.
If people are too friendly, I remember that they want to be loved.
If I read a poem out loud, I try not to cry.
If other people are crying, I do not cry.
If there is singing in the hall, I sit on the landing and harmonize.
If the first snow happens, I cloud up the glass on the bus.
If I am in the city, I am like a city, humming, glittering, alive.
If I am leaving the city, I am not you.
If I am not you, then I know who I am.

Saturday, November 26, 2011

Another old poem.

Si una vez no es suficiente, yo te diré otra vez
Porque lo que diré es la verdad
Y la verdad tiene que estar dicho todo el tiempo
Te diré una y otra y otra vez:
Que no tengo el tiempo para esperar, esperando
Esperando para ti y tus conclusiones
Y cuando yo saldré de tus pensamientos
Mis palabras se repiten, repiten, repiten
Como un eco en tu cabeza, detras de las cavas de tus ojos.


If once isn't sufficient, I'll tell you another time
Because what I will tell you is the truth
And the truth has to be spoken all the time
I will tell you once and another and another time:
That I don't have the time to wait, waiting
Waiting for you and your conclusions
And when I leave your thoughts
My words will repeat, repeat, repeat
Like an echo in your head, behind the caves of your eyes.

Old Poem

I found a poem today that I wrote at the end of August last year. I think it's poignant given what's happened since.

8/26/10 2:56 AM

It’s times like these when I wish I had a friend in a foreign country
A friend I could call when he was eating breakfast,
When I can’t sleep and it’s nearing three in the morning.
Over his toast and milk he would tell me not to worry,
That everything was fine on his side of the ocean and mine
That no one was going to break into my house,
That no one was going to break into my heart.
It’s times like these I wish I had a friend who would be awake,
When the world around me is sleeping.
Who would be thinking and moving
When my neighbors are snoring and clutching their pillows
When I am sighing and feeling so alone
So completely alone
It’s times like these-- these middle-of-the-nights--
When it is easy to feel friendless.
When it is easy to recognize that no one,
Not your best friend,
Not your lover,
Not your relatives in town,
Would answer their phone to you at such an ungodly hour.
And that you couldn’t dispute that they hadn’t picked up at 2:56 in the morning.
No one in this town loves you enough to wake up.
No one in this town would talk to you so late over toast.


  1. Bump n' Grind hike with Mom.
  2. Living room fort with Maren.
  3. Homemade orange juice.
  4. Boat parade in Newport Beach.
  5. Volunteer at CVRM.
  6. Take Dad to Borough Market.
  7. Give twenty things to charity.  (25 down)
  8. Visit Frank Sinatra's grave. (Seriously? I don't think I'm ever going to do this.)(UPDATE: DONE)
  9. Hug my grandparents.
  10. Give good gifts.

Wednesday, November 23, 2011


Jonathan is four years old 
and his sister Colette whispers in my ear,
"I think he loves you as much as our mom."
He wants me to carry him on my shoulders.
He wants me to read him a story and run with him around the house.
He wants to pile pillows on top of me
and listen to their uncle play the guitar for all of us.

When their grandparents wanted to take them to the grocery store,
Colette invited me along and I agreed and ran downstairs to get my coat,
long and tan with buttons. I pulled it over my arms and shoulders
and walked into the front hall, where Jonathan was waiting for me.

"Where is the girl with the long hair?" he said.
"That's me." I replied. "I'm Emily. I just put my coat on."
"You put your coat on?"
"But why is that you?"

You throw on a coat and become a different person.

I thought I knew you so well, understood you so fully.
I thought I'd found a feel for your potential,
that I could predict what you would do in certain situations.

But this situation I saw long before it ever happened,
before you even knew it was going to happen,
and I was all wrong, and I put it away,
completely unprepared when it was realized.

Instead of being ready, I ran, hyperventilating, up the stairs, crying,
Screaming, gasping, like there had been a death, a rape,
I terrified my mother and my friends, I wandered around the city,
stopping and sitting down, 
numbed on each park bench.

I slept for days straight, and when I woke up,
I looked frantically for things that wouldn't remind me I was human.
My life was avoidance and distraction,
calling my mother,
waiting until it was dark enough to sleep again,
wanting to be alone but wanting people
to talk about anything besides the present or home.

Identity is often defined by action,

And in my reaction I changed completely,
realizing who I was and where I was headed,
and that where I was headed might not be where I actually wanted to end up.

Maybe in your action you transformed into other something
Than the person I knew,
The person whose actions I maybe could have predicted,
And by the slight alteration of one dimension, became a different

Throw on a coat and you look like a different person,
Throw down an action and you are a different person, 
A person I don't know and maybe a person I don't hope to know,
And a person I'm afraid to see and a person I might not come home for fear of seeing,
And a person who acted on my reactions, and a person who acted sometimes
like the person I wanted to be in love with.

And the person who I fell in love with,
who you have sometimes been.

Sometimes I talk as if I do not know you,
as if I don't know a thing about your past
and as if I don't remember the version of you I knew so well, so recently.
I talk as if you were the same person as any other person who leaves me behind,
someone I could toss insults at,
someone I'd have the gall to hate.

Part of you is still me,
And part of me sometimes wants to ask,
should you ever reappear in some hall,
"But why is that you?"

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Maren, Holding On

I watched my sister take one step over Skype the other day.

I've been talking to my mother obsessively,
and she sits in front of the screen,
glowing in the bright Californian sun and holding the baby.
I'm somewhere in London, where it's dark at four and cloudy all day,
And I'm in my pajamas until something pulls me out of the house.
So I call her and sit alone in the hall, wearing boxers and a T-shirt,
and she asks me whether I've eaten yet that day.

My sister is ten months old, a smiling miracle.

No, really.

She sits in my mom's lap, mostly wriggling around,
and if I say her name in a high pitch and smile,
She remembers me, (maybe only as the girl in the computer)
And she hits the keys with that one arm she's always waving around,
And she smiles as big as I'm smiling,
Our Scandinavian eyes winking with joy.

She can't smile big enough, so she opens her mouth and laughs.

My mom sometimes walks around the room as she talks to me.
She's warming oatmeal and mixing in applesauce,
coaxing my sister into every biteful of solid food.
She was sitting in a chair a few meters away when my sister took a step.
I think my dad was talking with me at the time,
and he cranked the camera toward my sister.

"She took a step!" said my mom, and I looked at her again.
She was holding my sister under her tiny arms,
where she had just fallen into my mothers' hands and knees.

Maren is afraid of falling.

When my mom walks her around,
(her fists wrapped around my mother's index fingers)
she's started carrying herself on her own,
but when my mom lets go of her, she stops, afraid of falling.

She doesn't know she can do it alone.
She doesn't realize that walking is an act of continuous falling,
That each step is a forward fall being caught by the next foot, and the next,
alternating fall after fall, catch after catch.

What she doesn't realize is that life is a great fall,
a great fall, and a catch,
And every moment after she learns to walk will be about falling and hitting the ground,
hopefully always on her feet.

And this poem wasn't actually going to be about me specifically,
but I fell on my face the other day,
After this boy I was in love with proved he wasn't what I thought he was,
and broke me,

Me who was finally, really in love, for the first time,
Finally there, my face pressed to the concrete, dry heaving on the ground,
Finally realizing why it is that some people are so wary of falling in love,
because falling in love,
most certainly,

And having hit, 
like Maren topples on the kitchen tile sometimes,
I'm terrified and shocked.
I don't want to get up again.

Wouldn't I rather reach, wailing and tearful,
For my mother's arms, safe from everything and anyone?
Wouldn't I rather stay here in bed, down, asleep,
Rocked slowly by the temporal turning of the world?

But what Maren doesn't realize is that life is a fall and a catch,
and what I hadn't realized is that much of what I catch, I eventually get over.

And what my mother knew is that the trick is to let us fall first,
until we learn to stop before head-over-heels hitting ground,
until we learn to catch ourselves with our feet.

Sunday, October 30, 2011


Sunday, September 18, 2011

Ohhhh hey.

I'm in London. Blogging about it at

Tuesday, August 16, 2011


Well guys, it's the worst day I've had in a long time.

Didn't sleep all last night due to combination of heat/head cold/stress
Woke up at six.
Encountered a gross and bloody human tooth while sanitizing saliva covered hygiene tools at my dad's dental office.
Thought of a new song and forgot most of it.
Went to a department store as per the generous offer of my dad to get me London clothes. Encountered self esteem issues in the dressing room. Bought nothing.
Took a nap, woke up to spider on wrist. Gasped and shook it off in a frenzy.
Depressed. Probably PMSing.
Recorded to covers only to hear they were ruined by static and then to have my family come home and make noise. Also the baby is sleeping. Recording is over.
TASCAM recorder won't hook up to my computer.
I can't upload my cover.
Stressed about London. Stressed about being sick. Stressed about losing my voice. Stressed about covering a bunch of songs I didn't know until a couple days ago.

(This is what a blog is for, right?)

Monday, August 15, 2011

Today I've been going through folders of stuff I wrote in high school. It appears that one day in my freshman computers class I typed some big goals out (answering the prompt "Where do you see yourself in 10 years?) :

"In ten years I will be 24 years old and almost 25. I will be a world famous rock star with solo albums and albums with my best friend Sarah C# Sullivan.   I will have a house in Wick, Great Britain, and I will have an awesome English accent. If I don’t make it in the record world, I will own a music store that will have a giant jar of peppermint sticks that everyone will take all the time. I will be finished with college at Brigham Young University and I will have majored in music. I will have a really shiny black piano in the middle of my living room and I will direct the church choir with my really hot piano-playing husband, who will write songs with me."

There's still time, you guys.

Still time.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

17. Bike picnic.

Yesterday Trevor and I fulfilled our role as "Provo's Favorite Couple," (as named from the stage by #100block denizen and brilliant musician, Cody Rigby) and we went on a cute date.


I'll tell you.

First, we picked up photos at Allen's, and then we went grocery shopping at Harmon's. Some of the items we bought included: tomatoes, ciabatta rolls, 2 Stewart's sodas, peaches, bagels.

Trevor took me home, dropped his car off at his house, and rode back to my place. I made rosemary chicken sandwiches with tomato and lettuce, and we put them, the sodas, some cookies, and our peaches into Trevor's backpack. I ran upstairs, changed into my swimsuit and a T-shirt, and then we walked out.

We rode our bikes down the river trail until we came to a spot that Trevor refers to (in an appropriately hick-ish voice) as "The Swimmin' Hole." After tweeting something cute about how cute we are, we ate our picnic on the edge of the river, and eventually we climbed in.

The river is freezing. FREEZING. Trevor went in first and then I climbed down and put my toes in, and then my calves, and maybe I got my thighs in a little, too. To be honest, we just shivered in the water for a good 20 minutes, gave up, and got out.

We started riding our bikes back to my house when we stopped at a park and took a nap for a little while. When we got up, Trevor noticed that I had a flat tire (which explains why I'd been going so slow/ breathing so hard for the past several hundred feet). We couldn't fix it, so we started walking our bikes. On the way home, we stopped at La Ranchera, a Mexican market, and we got popsicles and two terribly picturesque Mexican cokes, which we put (you guessed it) in my bike basket.

Cute cute cute. We walked and talked about very deep things all the way home.

The end.

Sunday, June 5, 2011



Helped Trevor put together his stands for All My Friends are Monsters.
Set them up at the Provo Town Square parking structure.

Ate the most authentic Chinese in Provo at Rice King.
Photo via How To Provo

Saw Meaghan Smith and Mindy Gledhill at the Rooftop Concert Series.

Gave them both copies of my album.
Talked to friends.
Took stands down.
Watched part of The Royal Tenenbaums.


Slept in. Read books.
Worked on a yearbook zine for Sam (about my new friends).
Worked on a new song.
Rode bike to boyfriend's house.
Watched the rest of The Royal Tenenbaums.
Went home.

Saturday, June 4, 2011

Today I Am:

Writing a poem.
Cleaning my room.
Mourning my sick boyfriend.
Working on a song.
Cooking a butternut squash.
Making a yearbook zine for Sam.
Finding more things to do.

Friday, June 3, 2011

Summer Bucket List Continued. (Additions from friends.)

6. Hike the Y one time.
7. Squaw Peak at night.
8. Lagoon.
9. Cupcakes.
10. Living room fort.
11. House show.
12. High and low tea.
13. Rooftop slumber.
14. Farmer's Market in SLC.
15. One weekend road trip.
16. Write a poem every day for a week.
17. Bike picnic.
18. Make a bonfire.
19. Watch a sunrise.
20. Go stargazing with a guitar and hot chocolate with Celeste.

Click here for the full list and give me a ring if you want to do one of these together!

Thursday, June 2, 2011

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

He takes my picture a lot.

I am dating a photographer, and sometimes my life feels like this:

Photo credit: Justin Hackworth
Even though I'm woefully camera shy, he still manages to make great pictures of me.

I'm going to try to blog for all of June. I'm also going to write a poem today. Did you know I have 48 subscribers? Thank you, Google. Thank you, subscribers. You are nice.

Tuesday, May 31, 2011


I turned twenty last Friday and consequently, I've been thinking about landmark ages lately. I've been growing up more and more officially over the past few years (pictures when they apply).

In 2007, I turned sixteen at a family reunion. (Teenage dream, right?)

Shortly thereafter, the Harry Potter series ended. To understand the gravity of this in relation to my adulthood, you have to know that I read the first three Harry Potter books no less than nine times each, and the next several around four times each. The last one I read only twice. If Harry Potter was grown up, I was grown up. That was it.
My brother went to college. I started worrying about college (which, apparently, I was supposed to have been doing since freshman year.)
I went to prom.

I turned 18, to very little fanfare. (I don't even have a picture.)
I graduated and pulled my first all-nighter at a Disneyland grad night. At 5, before we got back on the bus, my friends and I were passed out on the grass.

I moved to Provo, Utah and started attending college at Brigham Young University. (And met one of my closest friends, Greta Ballif)

I also met Sam, and Mike.

I joined a band.

I turned nineteen.
I got kissed and broken up with.
My tiniest sister, Maren, was born.

I released my first album.

I got kissed by someone nice.
Photo Credit: Justin Hackworth

I turned twenty.
Photo credit: Trevor Christensen

Aaaaaaand this is my first post in about two months. Sorry! I promise there will be more poems/pictures/ideas coming your way. I will be  a good little blogger.

Friday, April 22, 2011

Summer Bucket List, Second Edition.

1. Watch movies: Good-bye Lenin, Baraka, The Royal Tenenbaums.
2. Visit the petting zoo.
4. Record more Love City Covers.
5. Turn 20.

Any suggestions?

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Sarah took my picture.

My sweet friend Sarah Strobel took these pictures of me and my great-grandmother's shirt (one of the best things in my closet).

Girl knows what she's doing.

Also, you should listen to Cody's mix, because he's cool and has great taste in music.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

My first and only prose poem.

We trampled the grass with eight-year-old feet, stalking that bleary-eyed dog of our neighbor’s, wielding bleeding Popsicle torches, traversing green hills (in search of war), tore the heads off blades of grass and suffocated smooth stones in our sticky palms. When we’d looted the sand for coins and ravaged the trees for grapefruit, our pagan sun-god had disappeared and we returned to our only conqueror, who alone had power to knife the dirt from under our fingernails and scald us with steaming water.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

I'm in this band.

When I wrote my Bucket List for a class in Fall 2009, 14 was "Be in a band." I did not expect that this would happen anytime soon. Friends had asked me to join bands in high school and I'd never been particularly interested.

Also during Fall 2009, I met Scott Shepard at Open Mic night. Having enjoyed each other's music, we talked for a minute or two, left, and didn't speak for months.

In January Corey Fox asked me to play at an acoustic showcase. I agreed to, and a little later, he sent me an interesting email, saying that Scott wanted me to play piano with his band at the Velour Valentine's Masquerade. Again, I agreed. When Scott and I practiced for the first time, we worked on music for about an hour, and talked about books for two.

Clearly, it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Velour Valentine's Masquerade, 2/13/2010
Credit: Kaneischa Johnson

We played the Valentine's show together along with my friend Dan on the cello and our friend Claire on the harp. It was a magical night. About a month later, we saw Ciera Black playing with some of her friends at Open Mic and asked her if she wanted to play with us. By March of 2010, Book on Tape Worm as it is today was formed, and 14 was crossed off my bucket list.

Slumber Party 1/12/2011
Credit: Jeff Cornwall

Book on Tape Worm, 3/12/2011

Most recently, we're raising money for a full-length album on Kickstarter. Within the space of 4 days and 14 hours (7:28 on Saturday to 9:58 today), we've raised $5,005 dollars of our $6,000 goal. The influx of support has been so humbling, and we are so grateful to everyone who's helped so far.

If you'd like to support us, check out our video and visit, or write a blog post and get your friends informed! If you do blog, leave me a link in the comments and I'll post it to our Kickstarter page.


Having opened the door we sat down at the table
The light dim in the evening and my eyes dying out as later came sooner
And soon became late at night
Studying face after face I realized carefully
And then quickly-
That every pupil was dark and frightening enough to fall into.

The next day, meeting with a mirror, I rubbed my eyes
And almost tipped into my own.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

On Bernini's David (27)

Lips licked slick and the sun glaring down I squint up,
(First, gripping a smooth and heavy stone in one hand)
And everything happens in instants
I am breathing hard as I run toward a dark mass, shadowy, backlit by brilliance,
Shedding cumbersome armor, dropping a back, losing my sandals,
My body tenses as I skid to a stop before the giant,
I crease my brow, load the sling,
And aim

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

26 (Or, This Is How I Felt Today)

For a week I yawned
And the next I opened my eyes, millimeter after next into one full blink
Almost completely still, I rubbed one eye over the course of a day
My index finger sliding to my tear duct like a snail drying up
(Voiceless and dusty, headache fermenting in my stagnant skull)
After a year my toes touched the floor
Another month and my feet
And I stood, an ancient tree, weathered, still rising from the ground.

Monday, March 14, 2011


Here is a stupid poem I wrote in English on Friday. We had to pick a concept and then the person next to us gave an object. I couldn't think of anything, so I wrote "Love" in droopy cursive letters. Then I got the word paperclip. What? Anyway. Here's what I came up with.

We keep turning curbs together
And we talk and we sit around and we don't talk
And I find you at my front door some of the time
But love is just a paperclip
Short, small, shallow
Nothing new, or unique
Then again, bright, again, then purposeful.
And nonetheless keeping us together.

I'm going to write three more poems right now, and then something in honor of National Blog About Book on Tape Worm Month (NoBloBoTWMo?).

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

Okay, I never update my blog.

I got a bit burnt out, and I owe you people four poems for the end of February. Hold me to it. 

Friday, February 25, 2011


And here you may notice, at the end of the day
That three cups of very hot chocolate,
A good and true friend,
And the end of a project
Will solve everything.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011


Then there was that time in the spring
When I was riding my bike down 5th
(At that point I still didn't recognize anything)
I was riding as fast as I could pedal
Feeling foreign, feeling new
And realizing what seemed at the time
The most important realization I would ever make:
(Being human, being incomplete,
Being young and lost, by virtue of being young.
Being confused, being in love,
Being eighteen and riding a bicycle)

That I am not yet what I am meant to be.

These were the most joyous words I knew.
(I whispered them to the stranger streets)
That I will never be in life what I am meant to be
That all I can do is add miles and years.


There are things I shouldn't have told to people
Things I didn't know were inarticulate
And best left that way
Until I put them crudely into words
And lost their meaning completely

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Posters I Made and Liked:

Guess what? I discovered Helvetica Neue the week before last and now I can't stop using it.

I am especially proud of this typewriter. Credit for the concept to the incomparable Tess Kelly.

P.S. I definitely submitted to the Mayhew Contests and so should you.

Monday, February 21, 2011

On Flying

Flying at night is best.
Look down at all those burning dots
And all the darkness between them-
And maybe it's all floating on a deep, deep body of water
And the lamp-lined streets
Trailing out like warped fingers
Are bridges from house to garden to city to highway
Or maybe each bright car is a gondolier on fire
Later if you're lucky
Notice there are festivals spread out on every island
They have lit all their torches, rejoicing
Some, blinking lanterns, sending signals of joy
To all the neighboring tribes.

Here in the air the flight attendant demonstrates the use of an emergency mask.
Overhead reading lights click on
Or maybe it's only Sudoku puzzles and algebra homework
iPods glowing with Tetris and album covers
And some catastrophe shouting, breaking windows, exploding and burning
On the bluish screen glaring forward and to the right
Then again, to the right, soldiers with angry faces.

It's harder to believe it of these blocked-out cities.
Sitting flat in grids on some plateau I can't see.
Each light is just a repetition of the last and of the next
Row of dots square on graph paper.
And then swallowed by cloud cover.
Maybe further away a silvery row of lights
Pointing out a caravan of sailors.

We are lost inside of a cloud, because some announcement comes on about turbulence.
And every passenger wonders not-so-secretly (looking around wide-eyed and maybe
Clutching the armrests with each lurch)


"Oh God, is this how I die?"

Maren's Lullaby

Here's the lullaby, as finished as it can be for now. I got Madelyn and Melissa to sing on it, and I think putting this together was pretty neat to do as sisters. Madelyn is the lowest voice and Melissa is the inordinately high one. They made up their own harmonies. My favorite part of this song is about a minute in, when some cool harmonies come in and there are a few soaring notes in all the parts. Anyway, the song is the second track on this music player. Happy listening!

Saturday, February 19, 2011

Seeing Maren

When Dad called me in I walked over in the soft light,
And kneeling next to a crib I know I laid in
Peeked through at her for the first time
Sometimes there aren't enough words
The tiniest yawn I've ever seen
(Between quick, sweet breaths)
Coming from this perfect face and nose
And blinked-shut eyes
Her head the size of a fist
And fist the size of a thumb
Her fingernails drips of barely opaque paint
On the ends of blushing curled fingers
She blinked for an instant
The dark globes of her eyes
Maybe having registered a stranger
And then closed.
I crouched before her, transfixed.
There was nothing else.

Thursday, February 17, 2011


The last time was about a year ago,
Watching the tiny lights of my newest hometown
Blinking closer as we landed,
Six months previous I was hunched over writing a poem
While the plane turned out over the sea and then in again at LAX.
And year before that on the Fourth of July
I was walking through Heathrow
Listening to the drawling accents of the women behind me
And I wondered aloud why we were going back to America.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

A VERY corny poem about an adventure I had one time.

I walked away and crumpled in my car
The night the ides of March struck sharp and true
I drove home- the familiar roads, I barely knew
A block away, I slowed to wonder who you are

So why in Paris? Why, at seventeen,
Did I find you, miraculously there,
Know you so well, that from the topmost stair
I called you, and you turned- what did it mean?

Did it mean Fate rules Paris, or the Louvre?
Did it mean I should find the things I miss?
Or God set us in clockwork- maybe this
Is blasphemy- or maybe this is proof

Of graciousness- some grain of hope in love
For seventeen, that day has been enough.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Sometimes it was late
And I was walking outside still seventeen
Into the backyard of the house I grew up in
I would lie in the hammock, looking up
Finding the only constellations I knew
Sometimes humming to myself
Sometimes talking at the sky
Sometimes it was late and I slipped out the back door
And then through the fence and onto the stretch of grass between our houses
And if the sprinklers were on, I was there anyway
Lying in the middle of the belt of green
And waiting for a star to fall
Tracing the paths of planes flying in
And watching satellites drip carefully across the sky

I Like You by Sandol Stoddard Warburg.

I like you and I know why.
I like you because you are a good person to like.
I like you because when I tell you something special, you know it’s special
And you remember it a long, long time.
You say, Remember when you told me something special
And both of us remember

When I think something is important
you think it’s important too
We have good ideas
When I say something funny, you laugh
I think I’m funny and you think I’m funny too
I like you because you know where I’m ticklish
And you don’t tickle me there except just a little tiny bit sometimes
But if you do, then I know where to tickle you too
You know how to be silly
That’s why I like you
Boy are you ever silly
I never met anybody sillier than me till I met you
I like you because you know when it’s time to stop being silly
Maybe day after tomorrow
Maybe never
Too late, it’s a quarter past silly
Sometimes we don’t say a word
We snurkle under fences
We spy secret places
If I am a goofus on the roofus hollering my head off
You are one too
If I pretend I am drowning, you pretend you are saving me
If I am getting ready to pop a paper bag,
then you are getting ready to jump

That’s because you really like me
You really like me, don’t you
And I really like you back
And you like me back and I like you back
And that’s the way we keep on going every day

If you go away, then I go away too
or if I stay home, you send me a postcard
You don’t just say Well see you around sometime, bye
I like you a lot because of that
If I go away, I send you a postcard too
And I like you because if we go away together
And if we are in Grand Central Station
And if I get lost
Then you are the one that is yelling for me

And I like you because when I am feeling sad
You don’t always cheer me up right away
Sometimes it is better to be sad
You can’t stand the others being so googly and gaggly every single minute
You want to think about things
It takes time

I like you because if I am mad at you
Then you are mad at me too
It’s awful when the other person isn’t
They are so nice and hoo-hoo you could just about punch them in the nose

I like you because if I think I am going to throw up
then you are really sorry
You don’t just pretend you are busy looking at the birdies and all that
You say, maybe it was something you ate
You say, the same thing happened to me one time
And the same thing did

If you find two four-leaf clovers, you give me one
If I find four, I give you two
If we only find three, we keep on looking
Sometimes we have good luck, and sometimes we don’t

If I break my arm, and if you break your arm too
Then it’s fun to have a broken arm
I tell you about mine, you tell me about yours
We are both sorry
We write our names and draw pictures
We show everybody and they wish they had a broken arm too

I like you because I don’t know why but
Everything that happens is nicer with you
I can’t remember when I didn’t like you
It must have been lonesome then

I like you because because because
I forget why I like you but I do
So many reasons
On the 4th of July I like you because it’s the 4th of July
On the fifth of July, I like you too
If you and I had some drums and some horns and some horses
If we had some hats and some flags and some fire engines
We could be a HOLIDAY
We could be a CELEBRATION
We could be a WHOLE PARADE
See what I mean?

Even if it was the 999th of July
Even if it was August
Even if it was way down at the bottom of November
Even if it was no place particular in January
I would go on choosing you
And you would go on choosing me
Over and over again
That’s how it would happen every time
I don’t know why
I guess I don’t know why I really like you
Why do I like you
I guess I just like you
I guess I just like you because I like you.

14. Read aloud with a little irony.

Welcome to your first car accident.
You are nineteen.
It is Valentine's Day.
You are delivering Valentines,
driving in the town where you will someday attend university.
You are nineteen and wearing a pink shirt and heels.
You turn a corner in the dark,
Muttering something to yourself,
When another car's lights jump past you,
And the turn sharpens, and you lose control for an instant
With a scrape like a knife on burnt toast
You take the mirror clean off of the car next to you

In shock you pull your car backwards
Into what isn't even a parking space
In shock you climb out to assess the damage
You pick up the dismembered mirror, feet away on the asphalt
You lay it carefully on the windshield
Searching for a piece of paper in your car, all you can find are Valentines, love notes
And so flipping one over, you scribble a note of apology
Black ink running from a found pen
Your name, your telephone number

You drive home half-astonished
And your brother mutters things about fixing the car
Looking at it thoughtfully.
You are nineteen.
Your parents were just beginning to trust you.
You hand your brother the Valentine you made for him
And he leaves with the car.

Monday, February 14, 2011


I was drifting to sleep in my bed
When I realized I'd rather be dead
Than miss writing tonight
So I flipped on the light
And wrote this lame limerick instead.

Saturday, February 12, 2011


I fell in love with a human sigh
For his quiet voice and his tired eye
Though soon I lost the thrill
Yet I thought of him still
For the wind in the night whispered just like his cry.

This is what Freshman year was like.

I walked fourteen into Geography embarrassed enough
(Wearing the same tan sweater I just put on-
Today, in my sophomore year at university.)
“That’s a good color on you, Emily,” said Mr. Areu,
who always addressed me by name.
“Bet you’ve got your eye on some boy.”
A pause.
“He’s probably a senior.”
And with a chuckle to himself, he turned away as I
slid red-faced and bleary-eyed into my plastic chair.

Thursday, February 10, 2011


The other night I was walking
Letting the cold air numb my fingers and face
Listening for the rustling of stubborn leaves frozen to trees
The apples brown and shriveled, topped with snow
The other night I was walking with my hands crammed in my pockets
The tips of my ears frozen
And I breathed into my palms
And rubbed all the heat I could muster into the thin cartilage of my nose and ears
Passing a streetlamp, I noticed my hands
And a cut, stretching across two of my right fingers,
(Ring and middle)
That I did not remember.
This has happened before.
                     And then I start wondering, imagining this:
An acquaintance
                     A stranger holding a penknife,
Looking for something to say
                     edges around a corner,
Will notice hands and say
                      Spying elbows, knees, fingertips, ankles,
How did that happen?
                      Scraping and scratching knuckles and skin.
This is the first time I have ever noticed my hand, or it’s two-fingered cut.
                      I blame a thorny bush or the sharp corner of a table or a cement ledge.
I don’t know, I respond. And I do not.
                      But from behind a tree I pass every day
I imagine the scene in my mind’s eye.
                      The knife darts out to gnaw a line across my fingers.
                      Oblivious to the hand and knife,
                      I feel hardly anything, and what I feel I assume is a jutting branch.

And later I notice and I watch the red edges smart, wondering where it came from.
It’s something to look at.


I promise I wrote the ninth poem. I'm not going to post it here, because it's personal and would offend some of my family.


Tuesday, February 8, 2011



Dear Scott, I haven’t
Received your poem tonight
yet- but here is mine.
Forgive the length; I have to
write a short story for class.

Monday, February 7, 2011

Building on 2nd.

Last year we used to say this house was haunted
Before he and I knew the names of the streets, we got lost in what is now our town-
Or at least my town.
We used to look up at the eerie windows and the creaking staircase
Trailing from the back of the building
We saw its widow’s walk, we saw its chipped paint and old door
And the dark hall and narrow stairwell
Behind the bruised number etched into the glass
And even when he left I walked past that house
(from the library, from downtown, from down the street)
And noted a thin white stump, jutting from the ground like a human limb

Tonight there was snow and there was a train whistling
Whistling so loud I could harmonize under my breath
Taking the sound as the tonic and walking past house after house
Avoiding the usual streets, I turned down this one and ran into it
Creaking and gray and darker with night it leaned down at me and the sidewalk
I glanced into its shadowy back windows and then back at my feet
And looking up again, noticed a light, glowing from an upper room
Saying, Someone lives here, and it isn’t a ghost, and it isn’t a murderer,

But be glad it isn’t you.

Turning the corner,
I couldn’t help but turn my head to see the silhouette of the long staircase.
A mother stepped from the door of the next house and called a name
And I hurried home.

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Walking to Church in Paris

We walked the bright sidewalk on our way to the Métro
Passing a café overflowing with tables, strangers in sunglasses
Crumbling pastries and drinking tiny white cups of espresso
They saw us through their beards and hats and brown jackets
Watched me in my white blouse and tweed skirt
And my sister and her polka-dotted dress
Waiting for the crosswalk, we glanced both ways for hurried buses
Flailing taxis, confusing foreign drivers
And strode across the road
Meeting the white pavement on the other side
We turned toward the tiles of the underground
And started down the stairs,
Stuck with old black gum,
Littered with cigarette butts,
A crumpled napkin blowing east
Shirtless, mad and bearded, someone brown and weathered
Climbing the short staircase we were just coming down
"Jolies filles Françaises,"
He half-muttered, half-shouted at me, and SLAP
And my arm was pink,
And I held my breath,
And I hurried down.

Day 5.

In the next room there is glass breaking
There is a horn blaring outside my window
And a fluorescent light above me
There is speckled carpet and tan shoes
There is a letter on my desk and a letter in reply
There is a book and another book and a card stamped with my name
And a trail of coins leading to an alarm clock
And when does a finger become a finger again?
When it isn’t purple anymore?
When the fingernail falls off?
When the surface of the nail is growing back smooth and pink?
And even I can’t tell that something dark and blue crept up beneath it
The night after the day I crushed it in the door.

Friday, February 4, 2011

Important Things:

Today my newest little sister was born. She is pink and beautiful and literally reminds me of a flower. She doesn't have a name yet.

In other news, my excuse for a poem today:

I'm too tired to write
something, much less something good.
Here's a lame haiku.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

On the Beach at Night.

Most nights there we would walk down to the dock together,
Dipping our feet in the dark water, strewn with light
We would squint across the bay, pairs of red and green lights swimming down in the water,
Rows of gold lights dripping toward our toes
On the peninsula we saw the ferris wheel, like a dream
Turning and glittering, the boats drifting before us, one or two at a time
And the dance hall, brightest of all
The roof covered in electric bulbs,
Boats crowded around it while the moon spilled white and close
And always I asked you for the same stories,
There was the one about the lilac water,
About the dances in the hall across from us,
About the things you used to do and the people you used to know.
Huddled in a slick green jacket and cross-legged on the dock floor,
I looked up at you and then out at the water until we walked back.
Later it was gardens and shops,
Later it was restaurants and museums,
Later it was streets, hotels, French windows and New York leaves,
Later it was souvenirs and postcards,
Later it was letters,
Later I was only coming home, instead of leaving
(for a little while)
And I would hold you longest of anyone,
And love you more than all the rest,
And last summer at the dock I swear-
I swear I saw something bright and blue and wondering,
Swimming in tiny circles,
And the next night and all the nights after, it was gone.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Wet magenta jewels sticking to our fingers
We sat salty on the back of the golf cart
Barefoot and sandy, a shared pomegranate cupped in our hands
Spitting the brown juiceless seeds on the disappearing road

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Come, cordial and not poison.

I stand transfixed in an apothecary’s shop
Slick bottles of all colors,
Clear green, deep blue, frosted pink
Porcelain jars patterned with Delft
Tarnished copper pots and their lids, lined up meticulously
From smallest on.
Tiny thimbles glittering in a row,
So little substance in their hold
That any good they did would be over in a week,
Or even in an hour.
One hour of sweet taste, of bright cheeks and ready smiles,
And the next, illness restored.
Back again to slow shuddering and languor.

Peering through the glass, hands cupped around eyes,
I notice labels.
Each the same size,
Written in the same careful cursive, dated, numbered
And yet-
All named alike, stamped with the same arbitrary name,
Which must, at this point, seem a panacea.

In a rush, I choose the first bottle, and
Dropping a handful of brass at the counter,
Break from the shop.
Laughing in the streets, I swallow the bottle
(silver and bright)
the taste of mint slidingdownmythroat
I am brightness, sweetness, inside and out
I am feeling I am noise I am joy

And in a minute I am myself again
Unmoved, unmoving, gray, cold
The bell rings as I walk through the apothecary door
And complaint reaches my tongue
When the apothecary, glasses bright, holds out another bottle
Labeled the same, it is red and lacquered, and,
On looking inside, the substance is different
Ignoring the label, I swallow it, brilliant summer on my tongue until it ends
And I am gray again.
“This,” says he, and I taste butterscotch and nuts,
Labeled, the same, ending, the same.
And “this,” and the squinting flavor of sugared lime
“This,” and “this,” and nutmeg, and ginger,
And I taste and smile and frown and gray,
Tasting each time something new,
Waiting for the taste of something dreamed.

And the sun falls low.

Sunday, January 30, 2011

#16. Visit A Zoo.

Yesterday I visited the Hogle Zoo with some of my favorite people in the world.

By the way, NightNight: Another reason I'm glad Scott and I are friends.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

A Grain of Salt

Disclaimer: I wrote this for my English class and edited it a bit for blogging purposes. Also, the transitions are choppy and/or nonexistent.

The Provo Tabernacle burned down last month- but only on the inside. Since the outer facade was made of brick, both it and the turrets of the building were preserved. On the morning it burned down, friends of mine posted pictures, taken at some ungodly hour, on facebook and blogs. The tabernacle was in flames in the tell-tale pinkish grey of early morning. It looked and seemed surreal at first. There were people at the time who said that the destruction of the Tabernacle was a blow to their testimonies. Others noted the preservation of a painting of Christ and thought that was a sign from Heavenly Father. It’s easy to make metaphors out of life events, and to take the connections one makes in a few seconds seriously.

“I’d have taken it as a sign from the man upstairs,” said Scott, “if it didn’t have swears in it.” He saw a train scarred with graffiti last week and the first legible line he noticed was, “F--- fake hos,” followed by the name of his most recent ex-girlfriend. Would God cuss at us to get a message across? What if it worked? Would he burn down a beloved, albeit old, building?

Or would he send us revelation via fortune cookie? “Change is in your future.” “You will soon happen upon a great deal of money.” Book on Tape Worm went out for Chinese last weekend and we got four fortune cookies each, opening all of them together. Our eyes widened and squinted as we read and pretended to believe each pseudo-sage message. We saved them in our wallets. Maybe we'll refer back to them someday, connecting their prophecies to then-past events.

I smashed my finger in the door in late September, and then Skyler asked me out. For the brief time we dated, my middle right finger was purple and swollen. When we broke up, my fingernail fell off. I pretended it was a sign. I also pretended that the jack-o-lantern I threw away in November was his head. I pretended that when the glass jar and candle I hung outside fell down and shattered, it was a metaphor for letting him go.

I’ve lost the bracelet he gave me. That might actually mean something.

My dad came to visit me back in December and he and I drove down University Avenue, just past Center Street, and parked next to the City Hall. He snapped some pictures of the Tabernacle, flanked with firetrucks. We walked to the top of the parking garage next door to get a better view, talking about philosophy because that’s how my dad is. I realized later that even the Tabernacle could be a metaphor- but for clearing out old things and building new ones. I used that metaphor to build me. I thought, “Sometimes we have to be burned down inside in order to be remodeled into something better. Everything will be okay in the end.” The Tabernacle is being remodeled, from the looks of my last drive-by.

Most people’s astrological signs changed a week or two ago, right? Consulting the newest star charts, I discovered that I was no longer a Gemini, but a Taurus. I felt vague disappointment, even a loss of identity. Then the astrologers told us this change only applied to those born after 1999 or some arbitrary date. We breathed a sigh of relief- as if our futures would be any different if we kept the same star signs.

How much clout can a sign hold? What makes something a sign to which people? Even though I hope God sometimes sends signs to people, I think it’s important to use discernment in naming a heavenly message. If I create a sign that saves or ruins me, grant God the credit for letting me make the connection, or give me the blame for taking it too far.

I like pretending that I live in a book and that some author (like Emma Thompson in Stranger than Fiction, although hopefully less morbid) is making allusions and writing beautiful imagery into my life, but I think I know better than to take her too seriously. I am the only narrator I know of, and my awareness of the metaphors around me may even be irrelevant. I believe that regardless of the author, I am the text. I’ll take my metaphors with a grain of salt.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

It's a party in here!

Dear friends,
Welcome to my 301st post.
I spose the last post should have been the party, but I didn't realize it was the 300th.
Regardless, it's a party on the blog now. Let's dance.

Images found via, Rhythm Junkie, and

Your pal,