8

Tanka:

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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)
whole,
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.

#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.

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.

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 jilt.us, Rhythm Junkie, and 710kmpc.com.

Your pal,

Emily

Wisdom from the Cupboard:

1. In order to break a bad habit, wear a rubber band on your wrist. Snap it when the habit reoccurs. I'm two days and counting not thinking about a particular person. (snap)
-Aubrey Johnson
2. You can always exchange what wanted before for what you want more, now. It might be difficult at first, the change becomes easier and more appealing every time.
-Hannah Johnson
3. Take your first impressions of people into account (intuition is key) and when you make friends, learn their impressions of themselves.
-Courtney Perry
4. There must be moderation in all things. Also, people are just happier when the dishes are clean.
-Chantelle Fowler

These are not direct quotes from any of the Cupboard girls, but a FEW (or just one) of the things I have learned from them.

By the way, our apartment is nicknamed the Cupboard Under the Stairs. It's 'cause we're in love with Harry Potter.

A Trip to the Zoo.

Friends, Neighbors, Countrymen,

Remember my bucket list that I didn't finish during the summer? Number 16 on my bucket list is "Visit a Zoo." I think we should visit Hogle Zoo together.

Here's the thing. If 20 or more people want to do this, we get a discount, and we all get to look at animals and take pictures together. I like you people. I want to look at the New Guinea Snake-Neck Turtle with you.

January 29th's the day, folks. If you live in Provo, we'll meet at the parking lot across the street-ish from my house (192 E. 700 N.) at 10:30. Then we will drive to Salt Lake in our cars and visit the zoo and have a picnic together (so bring lunch, if you feel inclined) and later we will go home with newer, better memories than before.

Who's up for it? Here is the facebook event. Invite your friends. Invite yourself. This is going to be an adventure.

Yours sincerely,

Emily Brown

I am blogging about Ciera Black

in honor of National Blog About Ciera month.

On Saturday, Ciera and I drove to Annex Studio, where we were about to record some Book on Tape Worm songs. When we got there we realized that Scott wasn't there yet, and so we decided to explore the neighborhood. After some house-hunting, we came to an open house. Deciding that we needed an excuse to explore the house, Ciera told the realtor that her uncle "Ron Smithson" was looking for a house in the area and we wanted to check out the floor plan. The design and decor in the house (Okay, I know that phrase makes me sound super phony, but seriously-) was so well done. We even found these alligator pillows in the hypothetical little boys' room and got so excited we took pictures.

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.

In first grade I had a friend named Erica. We were in Mrs. Valley's class together and  once we found a spider's egg sac in the corner of the playground. We were learning about spiders in class at the time and we brought it back from recess with us to show our teacher.

That's really all I have to say.

Today

Fast forward to the present for a moment, if you please. All I can say is that my roommate and close friend Hannah and I reorganized our schedules so that we have a whopping THREE classes together on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It has been supa fun. I love that girl.

In conclusion, friends are good because they don't steal your bicycle, and they let you take classes with them.

Moving to the Desert.

I moved to Rancho Mirage and went to kindergarten (and the rest of elementary school) at Washington Charter School, complete with an obnoxious theme song that was written while I was there. I don't remember many specifics about who were my best friends, but the girl hugging my shoulder in this picture is Cassie, who I became better friends with during high school.

On another note, because this post is short, it's interesting how quickly little kids can make friends with each other. When I was a kid I felt like age was the only thing I had to have in common with a person for us to  have fun together. Add some arbitrary toys or a make believe game like "Lost Kids," (which my cousin Connor and I made up) and you've got hours of enjoyment.

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.