From a letter:

PPS: Funny story about your music - All of us elders that serve in the Epsom Ward were in the car one day, and 'Somewhere' was playing in the background on shuffle. Elder Peach, my district leader, was talking about his teaching appointment that day, which was scheduled to take place at a train station in his area.

*music softly playing the background*
"Man, I'm starving," said Elder Peach. "Definitely should have packed lunch."

*music continues*
Elder Turner quipped, "Well, your investigator is Muslim, so won't he feed you?"

"Feed me at a train station? No way," said Elder Peach.
*TRAIN STATIONS ARRRREEEE NEVER FORGIVINGGGG*

All burst into hysterical laughter.
The end.

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.

Eighth

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.

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,

is, 

most certainly,

falling.

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.

Ohhhh hey.

I'm in London. Blogging about it at http://thisgoeswithus.com.

UGH.

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?)

Live Through This and You Won't Look Back.

(Image: David Daniels Photography)

(Image: Star Tales)

I learned something new today, about friends (which, yes, I am still blogging about) and about myself. I was writing a letter to my friend Mike, who is currently serving a mission in London. I've been in a weird kind of funk lately; I woke up this morning super stressed with absolutely no reason to be, and I feel dissatisfied with most things most of the time. I was writing about this and I asked him for advice when I guess I answered my own question. Looking for more interesting news to write, I told him about how the Provo Tabernacle burned down inside last month.

Next, realized the following:

a. I wouldn't be writing about ideas if I weren't writing to Mike. Sometimes the best friends are the ones who provoke thought. I have always been able to have deep conversations with Mike, gospel-related and otherwise, and I'm grateful that for a friend who I feel comfortable having those conversations with.

b. I don't know how else to say the second part without just using my letter. I'm just going to quote.

In some other news, the inside of the Provo Tabernacle burned down a few weeks ago, which was really sad. The good thing, though, is that the outside (which is brick, if you recall) is preserved, and it provides an opportunity for a great remodel and update of the Tabernacle now. I’m not sure how soon that will happen, but from the looks of what I saw driving by yesterday, they probably will remodel.
You can even see that as a metaphor! It’s like getting rid of old habits or things you don’t like about yourself, I guess. Sometimes you have to get all burnt up inside in order to make a clean start, and in order to progress from there. The inside doesn't even necessarily have to be negative. The Provo Tabernacle was a great building, and it served perfectly well for hundreds of years. But maybe it wasn't as great as it could be. It’s like exchanging something okay for something awesome. That’s hard, of course, because you don’t know whether the “okay” will even be replaced with awesome. I guess that’s where faith comes in. We have to trust that the Lord lets us go through trials and get a little damaged in order to make us and our lives greater than we ever could have been before. Maybe on our own, we can be decent, and even good. But when we submit our will to the Fathers’, and rely on him in the face of trial, he can make us great. I’m grateful for that.

Anyway, it's good to be learning things. I'm the worst at conclusions, so this is all I'll write.

Pasadena

Now that we've gotten past the fact that my family are my friends (and my closest, at that) I have a story for you.

When I was 16 months old (fact supplied by my mom as I sit on a kitchen stool while everyone else makes lemonade) we moved to Pasadena, California. Home of the Rose Parade and a two-story house on South Los Robles where my mom would eventually grow a spectacular garden and win an award for city beautification. My favorite part of our yard, after the flowers, was the three plum trees in the front.

It was like this:

I had three good friends in Pasadena before we moved to Palm Springs in December of '97, when I was five and a half. Their names were Amber, Allison, and Marilyn. The parents in our ward organized a day at the park every Thursday, when we would all play together. We always got super excited to watch the dump truck pick the trash up outside the park:

I'm the pink and purple one on the far left.

Here is a picture of me and those friends at my fifth birthday party, about six months before I moved away. (Note: my name was scrawled in pink marker on the back of this picture.)

Order, left to right: baby Spencer, Amber, Me, Allison, Marilyn (who was a year younger than us)

Life in Pasadena was fun. I was sad to move.

Biffles.

Again, I'm attempting to blog for the entire month in honor of NaBloPoMo. This month, I'm going to share with you thirty stories from the past and present about my experiences with friends. Best friends, old friends, new friends... frenemies?

We'll go chronologically. This is Collin. He was my first friend ever, if you count brothers as friends. I think they are.

Some things I am thankful for:

1. Good people and bicycle thieves, and learning from both.
2. A new sketchbook (which I have only drawn typography in so far).
3. Lemon tea and craisins.
4. Roommates who love Harry Potter as much as I do.

5. The gorgeous sunset over Provo tonight.
6. Speaking, hearing, reading, and writing poems. (Also, BKDG.)
7. Phone conversations with my mom about recipes, boys, and life.
8. Picking out a Christmas tree for the TMA office today with Elizabeth (my boss and good friend).
9. Letters and emails from my missionary friends:

Sam and his doodles of us.
Molalla, Washington

Mike (nice tie.)
London, UK

10. The healing power of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Little Dorrit

 

Pictures: Masterpiece Theatre, Jane Austen Today

Choose the best of the following answers:

1. I finished watching Masterpiece Theatre's rendition of Dickens' Little Dorrit today, which has resulted in one or more of the following:

A. I want to write a slightly dark, comical short story, Dickens-style.

B. I have a crush on Matthew McFayden which hasn't surfaced since he played Darcy.

C. I am making a purple dress, half-inspired by Amy Dorrit's wearing purple throughout the film.

D. I sort of want to get bangs again.

E. All of the above.

It's March 1st.

Once again, I am beginning the month with the resolution to actually post every day. The theme for this month is Strange(r). It should be fun, since I like posting about strange things and strangers already.

The first thing that pops into mind regarding those two? The time a hobo slapped me on the streets of Paris.

Fun stuff.

FAIL.

Okay. I missed- what, four days? That being said, I guess I'll keep blogging this month, but I'll probably have to do a legit NaBloPoMo next month. Maybe I'll just try every month until I actually get it right.

Today my dad is in Provo!! We've got a lot of fun stuff planned, and I'm pretty psyched. Already this week, I've shown my Dad around Provo (the highlight of which was giving him a tour of Velour, where I play sometimes), and yesterday I took the train to Salt Lake City and met up with him for dinner there. I felt very metropolitan and cool, especially because Greta did my hair yesterday and it looked amazingly classy and gorgeous. She is seriously brilliant in a million ways. :)

Anyway, I'll be taking my camera with me today, so there should be some pictures soon!

Pretend I wrote this yesterday.

I know, I know... I have a tendency to screw this up. BUT the good thing is that I blogged twice the day before yesterday, so it kind of counts. Right?

Anyway, I'm really busy today, so that's all for right now.

asjfklsdjfk

I am posting at MIDNIGHT for today's post!

Yup.

NaBloPoMo and This I Believe

Hey, everyone! I've decided to participate in NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month) for the month of December (and CHRISTMAS!!!). It's my goal this month to do something specific and good for someone every day, so you'll be hearing about that a lot, I guess. In fact, that should continue after December. :) It just so happens that the theme for the month is "Mitzvah," which, according to Wikipedia, refers to 620 commandments in traditional Judaism. However, the word also means "an act of human kindness," which goes right along with what I hope to do.

Anyway, for my first post, I've decided to put up my most recent This I Believe essay. Enjoy!

Thicker Than Water

I have a personal mandate from the universe which is literally in my blood.

I learned this as a senior in high school, when I donated blood for the first time. I have O-Negative blood, which means I can donate to any other blood type. I'm what's called a universal donor.

We'd known about the blood drive for a few weeks. I was seventeen, so I could officially donate by then. The only thing holding me back was my own fear. It creeped me out that the nurse might dig around in my arm for a vein, or that I might pass out if I hadn't eaten enough. My dad, who is a giant at 6'4" and the last person you'd expect to freak out, faints when he gives blood.

I went anyway, of course, and missed my Spanish class fifth period less-than-grudgingly. Some friends and I walked over to the gym at our school and waited in line. I was terrified, to say the least. Waiting in the queue with my friends, I kept saying out loud how unafraid I was, as if it would help me feel better. Eventually I went into a booth where a lady pricked my finger and found out that I'm not anemic. Shortly after that, I was sitting in a chair with blood flowing out of my arm.

Despite my thin, deep veins, the nurse had found my vein without a hitch. The needle didn't hurt. I wasn't passing out. I was just talking to the nurse about vacations I'd taken, and suddenly I was drinking water and eating cookies before going back to class.

Donating blood, however, wasn't successful because I evaded pain or because I managed to stay conscious the entire time. Donating blood is simply a form of service, something I can to do keep someone else from dying, or worse, from the immeasurable grief of losing a loved one.

Just as I was afraid to open a vein for a dying patient, I believe that it's hard to find room in my schedule, my home, or my heart for serving other people. It can appear inconvenient, time-consuming, and downright frightening. Yet, in the long run, I believe that when I give up part of me for the sake of someone else, I am doing my part as a member of the human race.

I believe we're all universal donors of a different kind: we have the power to donate our time, our love, and ourselves in the service of another person. In our blood, which we share, we have an infinitely more unifying factor than inherited antigens or whatever it is that makes a blood type singular. We share our humanity. This brotherhood and sisterhood is our mandate from the universe to do everything we can for one another. I believe in giving my blood and my life to someone else, because every person's blood and life are equally important as my own. Every human bleeds red. There is no one on this earth who doesn't need to be loved. I believe our blood unites us. I believe in being a universal donor.

postttt

Welll... I got home really late last night with every intention of blogging, but all the computers were off, soooo I'm posting this today. Tada!

Hmmmm....

Not much to post about tonight, so this is mostly just so I can keep doing NaBloPoMo.
Today, my grandmother came over and we planned some more of our Paris trip this summer. We're also thinking of stopping in Copenhagen to see the Christus and stuff, and because we have ancestors there. I am so psyched!!!

LESLIE, YOU NEED TO READ THIS.

This is NaBloPoMo Post number one, guys! The theme for May is sweet, apparently, and in that vein, I'm sure I will think of a lot to write about.

For instance, there is the matter of food.
Family can occasionally be sweet.
Movies, chick flicks specifically, can be sweet.

But, more specifically, this post is about something rather romantic/sweet that happened to me yesterday.

Yes, friends, relatives, blogstalkers.

I got asked to prom by an awesome guy.

YYYYYYYYYYYYYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(jumps up and down in a happy dance, my sister adds)

I am terribly, explosively, and incandescently happy.

Pluse, I just went to Mormon Prom last weekend, so I have already had a practice version. So I pretty much know exactly what I'm going to look like, only this time I can do it better. Bwahaha.

YES!

Take the Quiz here!