tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43833530234813508502024-03-05T00:10:57.943-07:00Life in the Mouth of a Modern-Day MuseTake my words, they're all I have.
-Hudson Taylor-Ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12473244230060079459noreply@blogger.comBlogger202125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4383353023481350850.post-409134342863042722015-09-07T19:26:00.001-06:002015-09-07T19:26:30.454-06:00When is the revolution?Are split ends a First World problem?<br />
The mess in my room is a First World problem.<br />
A result of excess, available through the acquisition of necessities no longer essential<br />
To my ability to thrive.<br />
My stockpile of half-empty<br />
Makeup containers<br />
Awaiting the day they'll be used<br />
Is a First World problem,<br />
Along with my inability to decide<br />
Which sweater isn't worth saving--for now I'll keep them all in a bag<br />
Until the seasons change, when the assumption of "need" is returned.<br />
Finding broken hangers is a First World problem.<br />
Perfume so old and unused its scent is no longer worth the price is a First World problem.<br />
<br />
The problem with the First World is that they define all hiccups as problems.<br />
I, in fact, was once told my hiccups were a problem.<br />
An inconvenience due to the unobtrusive, minuscule sound<br />
That popped from my body, hushed, muted, muffled in undertones;<br />
But still my abnormality of normality<br />
Was a nuisance and a problem<br />
Of which I should be aware.<br />
<br />
Fix what's wrong here first, they say,<br />
Let's cure the disease at home first,<br />
As they dedicate their time sorting endless rooms full of objects<br />
And picking at and breaking split ends. Ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12473244230060079459noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4383353023481350850.post-69889166356831319372015-04-19T14:18:00.001-06:002015-04-19T14:18:52.634-06:00Invention vs Discovery"This is a great idea for a book," I thought, lying in bed in the dark. I ran the characters through my mind again and could see the book on shelves in elementary schools everywhere. It would be the next big thing for kids my age, a rite of passage like the Magic Tree House series or the ever-fading Boxcar Children. It was fourth grade, and I was going to write this book. And I was going to be famous.<br />
<br />
I waited and waited for a fiction writing assignment to come up in class, and when it did I would write the novel and turn it in and the student teacher would be so blown away that she'd sweep me and my novel off to get published.<br />
<br />
I never wrote the novel, though I narrated it (and three additional books in the series) to myself in bed at night or on road trips to distant family gatherings in the far-off city of Ogden. But it never left my head.<br />
<br />
<br />
I knew I had a good singing voice, though it wasn't as fabulous as my friend's. I knew one day I'd walk into an audition and shock the casting table with my hidden talent.<br />
<br />
"Who is this girl and where did she get that voice?!" They'd say and cast me on the spot.<br />
<br />
I waited until my junior high musical production class, in which we did a musical review of sorts, to reveal my secret singing ability in my first on-stage solo. My friend had a duet with another girl in the same production. We put up the show. I sang. She sang. My parents came up to me afterwards and told me how amazing and professional <i>she </i>sounded.<br />
<br />
I decided musical theatre would never be my forte.<br />
<br />
<br />
When I'd started taking piano lessons I realized I was naturally relatively decent at it. This skill surpassed any my mother or grandmother had in the area, and exceeded that of my non-lesson taking friends. Satisfied in my ability, I stopped practicing. This nudge toward talent would suit me well enough.<br />
<br />
<br />
The friend with the incredible singing voice has been in my life for years. She's very driven, very motivated, very confident. She always said she would do everything she could to be as good at theatre as she possibly could--knowing if she became as proficient as possible, she would, in comparison, exceed the ability of her peers in the field by miles. She believed being her personal best would equate to her being the overall best. And she was determined to reach that goal.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, I constantly resigned myself to not being in the same league as these people who shared my interests, or that I was so substantially better that I didn't need to constantly tune and tone my skills. Where I was was where I was meant to be.<br />
<br />
And then I started doing improv.<br />
<br />
For the first time in my life I had that desire to <i>try</i>, to actively work on this inkling of talent crumbled up with lint in my pocket, and to build it into a castle I could inhabit and from which reign and rule. I wanted to learn and grow and excel and become more advanced like the more seasoned players in the troupe.<br />
<br />
For the first time in my life I wanted to <i>work </i>for something.<br />
<br />
<br />
There's a quote the internet attributes to John Lennon which has started to rub me wrong: "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans."<br />
<br />
I understand why it is continually super-imposed onto images of sunsets and forest glades. I understand that the world takes it to mean that "Life happens when you least expect it," or "You can't control a lot of things that creep up in life," or, the every popular, "You'll find the right guy when you stop looking." I get that.<br />
<br />
But I disagree.<br />
<br />
To me this implies a passive, almost existential quality to life: that life is a river and we're in a little boat with no oars or paddles and we just...float. If you hit a rock, hey. You were meant to hit that rock. If you drift down the left fork when you'd hoped for the right, hey. You needed that tributary more.<br />
<br />
I've lived my life that way, relying on fate and happenstance and circumstance and serendipity, I've lived with that mentality of life just <i>happening </i>to you--I've shelved my dreams of novel writing from a young age because it was not <i>required </i>for me to attempt it for a grade. I've given up on learning musical theatre because my voice, as an adolescent, was not naturally Broadway ready. I've quit musical instruments because it would take effort to become the kind of person who could sit down and play anything. It was enough to be able to play something, however basic that something be.<br />
<br />
I wanted life to happen to me. As perfectly imperfect as I was naturally. I expected it would. I expected people would notice me in a quiet solitude and sense my potential and ability. They would find me out and bring my skill to light and life would be a landslide of good-fortune and fame and prestige.<br />
<br />
And then I started doing improv.<br />
<br />
There's a principle in improvisational theatre referred to as "invention vs discovery." The essence of this is that a good, strong scene is one that develops naturally between the actors and their relationship with each other through their characters. If each player focuses on the realities of their character and their relationship to the other players upon the stage, humor and a thematic direction for the scene will naturally crop up into being out of that action--discovery.<br />
<br />
Invention, on the other hand, kills a scene. Invention is an actor running into a scene with an arsenal of jokes in his pocket he is determined to deliver, regardless of the dynamic of the relationship with his partner. Invention is best summarized by the "Michael Scarn" construct, which (for anyone who has scene a few seasons of The Office) is the improv actor who pulls out a gun in every scene when he runs out of ideas--because the actor focusing on invention focuses on ideas and what he can do to be a humorous aspect, what he can do to impact the scene for his own end, rather than supporting and building up his teammates even if that means taking a "fall" and setting others up for jokes and possibly not getting to deliver your own. Pulling a "gun" out in a scene is invention. It kills the relationship between characters and leaves the scene in shambles but, hey, at least they got a couple short-lived laughs and a smidge more attention.<br />
<br />
Invention comes from being self-focused. How can <i>I </i>be funny to the audience? How can <i>I </i>get a huge laugh/applause? How can <i>I </i>make an impact?<br />
<br />
Discovery is about participation. That's it. Discovery is about actively working with your fellow actors and doing <i>something </i>to build them and, in turn, the scene.<br />
<br />
A life well lived is a life lived in discovery, a life in which you work everyday to build others and their situations to a higher point than where you found them, where you actively <i>strive </i>to contribute something that doesn't reflect directly back to you. A life of invention is a life of pompous pride, a life of knowing you're as good--the scene is as good-- as you/it will ever be, and you just have to stand there and spew things out and it will work to your advantage.<br />
<br />
<br />
If there's <i>anything </i>I've learned in the last two years, it's that there is no pearl without the oyster. There is no glory without work. Pearls don't roll around the ocean floor waiting to be scooped up in droves. They have to be pried from a sealed shell--there has to be pressure and work and <i>time</i>.<br />
<br />
I want a castle full of pearls. I want a life that I've <i>built </i>and worked for. I want to be recognized as someone who <i>did </i>her best, not as someone who <i>was </i>the best. I don't want to go back to a life spent leaving doors closed because my key didn't open the lock on the first try. I want a life I've actively participated in, a life of discovery and creation where my input builds the outcome, rather than a life on a cardboard throne spent expressing lamentations that no one has noticed how great I am at sitting yet.<br />
<br />
Life happens when you <i>make </i>it happen, and I think that's what Lennon intended if/when he said that. I want to act and not be acted upon. I want a life of beauty and fulfillment, a life of discovery.<br />
<br />
I want pearls.Ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12473244230060079459noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4383353023481350850.post-51026414978503061152015-02-15T22:31:00.001-07:002015-02-15T22:31:37.432-07:00In Secret<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
A Facebook friend posted this today.</div>
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<br />
Erring on the side of caution, should the technologies of the internet deem the photo unfit to display, it says the following: "A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity." -Franz Kafka<br />
<br />
I've been feeling very off lately. And it should be no shock to me that the majority of this feeling stems from the fact I haven't sat down and jotting something casually for the sake of merely jotting in a long time. Last night I desperately wanted to write in a journal, but I knew the task would cut more out of my sleep schedule than I was able to allow.<br />
<br />
But I miss it. I miss this. And it's occurring to me that though I set out for this blog to be everything but a "here's how my life's going yolo" kind of media, it can still have aspects of that.<br />
<br />
Theatre school has made me stop watching movies to watch movies, and I mean that in the sense that the things I've learned have effected my view, not that my professors have some sort of iron fist over my personal entertainment options. I watch movies and pay attention to the costumes, watching for inconsistencies or themes. I look for metaphor in basic on screen conversations, taking apart the dialogue as though it were a play on the page before me and I'm equipped with a series of colored pencils. I watch character choice and subtleties that speak to an internal monologue or objective.<br />
<br />
I watched a Tom Felton movie the other night because, as Boy Aaron said, girls are prone to obsess over celebrities. His portrayal of the character was so compelling, even though he played a sickly, naive, exuberant 1800's chap. I couldn't get over the performance. So I watched it again. To be honest, in both sittings we never quite finished the movie, but the second time around, aware of where the stroyline would take us, I caught blow after blow of metaphor and foreshadowing that were so subtle I honestly hadn't caught them the night before. I started taking note of which characters referenced water the most, how often death became a casually passing topic, and it was amazing.<br />
<br />
I don't know where I'm going with this, but I'm in need of one of those therapeutic writing sessions so this is what you get, internet and Sydney. <br />
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I just like the idea of people being intellectual in their creativity, of there being more behind the beauty besides a natural gift at depicting it. I like knowing I can take a spade and push the topsoil away, and that there will be soil beneath rather than overturned, hollow crates.Ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12473244230060079459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4383353023481350850.post-76299106306484137422015-01-02T04:01:00.000-07:002015-01-02T04:01:01.346-07:00Now is the winter of our dis...contentI haven't done a lot of writing. And I don't just mean on this blog. It has slipped to the sidelines of interest, it seems, which is sad because words still remain my favorite.<br />
<br />
I've been feeling....ick for the past few days, in a spiritual/psychological sense, not the sort of ick that accompaccompanies a burning forehead or a doubled-over-on-the-couch stomach agony.<br />
<br />
I don't know, it just seems to me that when you're frustrated with the things that make you happiest, something's wrong. And I used to purge this feeling with words. So here we are.<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm sorry I've been bitter or brutal, biting, bland.<br />
I'm sorry if I've portrayed the friend then withdrew my hand.<br />
I'm sorry I don't feel the way I did when I was lost<br />
And you looked like forever holding me for naught.<br />
I'm sorry you frustrate me so much I can't articulate it<br />
And that my perception of the universe isn't what you'd make of it.<br />
I'm sorry I just rhymed a word with itself<br />
And that I set it up to slant rhyme with this.^<br />
I won't do it.<br />
<br />
<br />
Now is an appropriate time to remind the reader I blog because it's cathartic for me to know my words are out there, being read, and thus it's not always the immaculate nature of the words that I am seeking. So...Deal. If you want perfection try finding a post titled an actual title. Cuz this one will probably be "another untitled."<br />
<br />
*Because. I'm trying to stop this bad grammar thing.<br />
<br />
I'm noticing I get unhappy when I need change. Maybe that's for humanity in general, I wouldn't know, I only presume to know through the power of the pen and the stage. I've been frustrated with improv, feeling like, while I'm getting better, I somehow missed the migration to this different island and everyone is over there doing their thing and I'm on my island doing mine, and it's not bad for the island but I'm missing nuances that everyone else has from the New island and am just standing over there going What?<br />
<br />
(Cassie and I decided my Amy Poehler-esque memoir would be titled Life Is One Run-On Sentence. Copyright is pending. I only mention it so in the likelihood this year is my last and someone wants to publish my genius, it would be on record what I would have it called.)<br />
<br />
And I say this with the trepidation that those closely associated with me might read it, but my friends are very frustrating to me. It's not anything they're doing, it's me, it's all me, but for whatever reason my tolerance for these people I adore is skewed in such a way that I fear I've been very curt to some of them unintentionally, for which I apologize. It's just...it's getting that way again. This seeping unhappiness and dissatisfaction for life, but this time there's nothing to blame it on. There's no non-reciprocating love interest, no No-I'm-actually-over-this non-reciprocating love interest. There's no People-were-getting-famous-with-their-genius-skills-at-my-age, no Why-can't-this-just-be-reciprocated? non-reciprocating love interest. There's non of that. There's almost an apathy for that, for all of it, but the apathy isn't the problem. There isn't a problem. I'm not happy.<br />
<br />
And it's not the weather because I was more on edge at the dessert December than I was at the bite of winter's chill so hold off on the belittling weather remarks.<br />
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And I'm not posting this for you to comment and fix me. I'm posting because the posting does the fixing. It's voicing all these stupid apparently-hyphenated remarks and musings and stumblings so I can wake up tomorrow and say It's because you don't have a sleep schedule anymore, doofus.<br />
<br />
And maybe that's it. This will be a good year. I'm not bad at everything I'm good at. Even if that sentence is a trick to make sense of. Try turning it off then back on again. January 1st is the restart for your system. Do not shut down or unplug until updates are installed, just take a moment, take a breath, take a nap.<br />
<br />
Who knows, maybe the best hasn't happened yet.Ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12473244230060079459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4383353023481350850.post-49519711392511899292014-10-29T00:18:00.001-06:002014-10-29T00:18:14.060-06:00Think Twice on MeI think my biggest issue is I place too much importance on people.<br />
<br />
I'm going to acknowledge the fact that this is not just a curse and actually lends to the key factors about my personality and that I would not be who I claim to be without it, but every virtue has its vice.<br />
<br />
The trouble is that I don't know exactly where this stigma stems from. At first it always seemed to be a genuine love for people, but as the years have gone on I've started to notice it comes more and more from a narcissistic place that I seldom draw attention to and try to mask with genuine love for people, because I know I had that once.<br />
<br />
I was just scrolling through my Facebook feed and saw a post written by the mother of a missionary friend of mine using the missionary's account, obviously. The status closed with this: "Everyone who truly knows her knows she has such a sensitive heart and deeply cares for others. Relationships matter to her..."<br />
<br />
I thought back to how I met this girl and the friendship we had. I sat by her in a mission prep class on campus. She was still undecided, like myself, and taking the class to see if it was something she should be considering doing, like me. She told me several weeks later when she'd decided, and left me with a bit of information that stuck with me throughout the process of making my own decisions, both about missions and nearly everything else: deciding was the hardest part. She said once she made a choice everything was so much easier.<br />
<br />
I read this post and thought, for a nano-second, about her coming home in a few short weeks and us talking like we did in that class. Over 18 months ago.<br />
<br />
And it brought this question to mind, this issue about the importance I place on people that cross my way in my life. She'll probably never think twice on me, honestly, unless one day I comment on her page or she sees some photo from a major life event. Most likely it'll be that moment of scrolling through friends' names and thinking "Wait, who is this person?"<br />
<br />
My computer wants to restart so I'll be quick.<br />
<br />
I like to think I matter to people, and this is where the narcissistic part comes into play, because people matter to me. I do scroll through my news feed and ponder on people from the past, I do think about those I help at the bank and how things are going for them. I'm just too lazy half the time to bridge any gap to find out. But it makes me wonder if it's a strange anomaly in myself or part of the existence of mankind. I wonder if I project my own images of self-worth onto the blank slate that are acquaintances as a way of fostering my own belief that I am excellent and others feel the same, or if it's a matter of truly caring about people, not the potential they have to care about me.Ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12473244230060079459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4383353023481350850.post-19019080582033178562014-08-12T14:11:00.002-06:002014-08-12T14:11:19.442-06:00No Man Is An IslandI never wanted to be fake, to be a poser, to put on different masks for different crowds. I never said I loved the Back Street Boys because I only had one album and hadn't ever mailed in to join the fan club. Months after having listened to Jason Mraz religiously I still didn't claim he was my favorite artist. To me, to declare something/someone as your favorite would negate knowing more about them/it than the average person on the street. I found a poster for sale on Mraz's website and wanted it. But I stopped my 7th grade self from running to dad asking him to order it for me. <div>
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I didn't know enough about him yet. I wasn't really a fan of Jason Mraz. Not yet.</div>
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And that's why I look like an uber fan, being able to tell you where he's from, how he got into the music business, what this song was written about, his brother's name, etc. Because according to the unspoken rule I'd always lived by, I couldn't truthfully declare myself a fan until I knew as much as possible. So while my improv troupe pokes fun at my "obsession," I reside with the knowledge that I'm a true, sincere fan.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Which is why mourning posts on Facebook bother me. I understand the reasoning behind it; Robin Williams was indeed an excellent man, bringing characters to life in the greatest way possible. But I have a hard time believing the 18 year old on my newsfeed with keep true to her declaration that he will "always be one of [her] favorite actors." It's easy to forget, especially in this modern world of high speed internet and smart phones. Remember all the hub-bub about Michael Jackson's death? Remember how the world was shaken, how an incredible artist was gone too soon, how everyone started listening to his music and covering his songs and releasing full magazines containing every article they'd ever published of him.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Remember when his five year death anniversary happened?</div>
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You don't?</div>
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I didn't either. Until I was in line at the Walmart and noticed a reprint of the MJ-only People's Magazine.</div>
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And then I thought "That's right. It's June. That's right, he's been gone a few years now."</div>
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I took art classes in junior high, convinced I'd become the world's best artist. Newsflash, I'm not. But on several instances in those classes we would study world renowned artists, and in most occasions we'd watch a docudrama about their lives, the moral of every story being sometimes though the work you produce is incredible, people won't realize it until you're gone.</div>
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<br /></div>
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This of course being time passes after their death and someone realizes the quality of the work and exposes it to the world and <i>then </i>they become a classic that is lauded for their innovation and creativity and studied in art classes through the ages. </div>
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Technology is doing the opposite now.</div>
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Robin Williams was found dead, and Facebook, like it did five years ago, exploded with well-wishing mourning statements from people touched by his work. I'm not being cynical, I assure you. Just two weeks ago I watched Jumanji and was struck with the reminder of how much I appreciated Robin Williams and his role in that movie, among others. But what I am saying is our attention spans are fleeting. I struggle to sit down with a book nowadays because I'm so used to the quick, easy read of mindless internet articles. I've grown accustomed to my two second attention span. And I think the rest of us have as well. </div>
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Which is why the most fitting way to remember someone is post about it, maybe share a video it took us a minute to find on YouTube, and forget. </div>
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And five years from now you'll be at a Walmart, and Robin Williams will be on the cover of a magazine near the bottom of the rack, pushed to the bottom by the latest Kardashian scandal, and you'll think "Oh yes. I remember when he died. It's been a while, I guess."</div>
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So I'm not declaring this death has wrecked me to my core, I'm sad, definitely. How could you not be? Will I buy all of his movies and think about him every day? No. I'll probably invest in Dead Poets Society because I frankly haven't seen that yet, and if his death is similar in anyway to Michael Jackson's it'll yeild a surplus of his movies suddenly stocking shelves so it shouldn't be hard to find. Robin Williams won't live on as the man who changed my life, who brought me comedy and taught me to laugh. But I'll be struck with appreciation each time I flick through TV channels and pause as Hook comes back from commercial break, I'll smile as my kids watch Aladdin in the other room, and I'll remember him -like I always have- when there's a surplus of mosquitoes or a news story about stampedes. I'll admire his opportunities and the fact that he was able and willing to share them with us; that he had a leg up on the artists of yore in that his legacy was in circulation before he was ever gone. </div>
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But I'm not going to say I'm his biggest fan. </div>
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It's not about me. </div>
Ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12473244230060079459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4383353023481350850.post-53903106149604920732014-07-18T18:46:00.003-06:002014-07-18T18:46:53.422-06:00Discography Sometimes I wonder if I'm a product of my music interest, or if my music interest is just a side effect to who I am.<br />
<br />
Let me explain.<br />
<br />
Young Erica listened to a cassette tape of Kenny Loggins singing children's songs and lullabies. I don't mean this in a The Wiggles kind of way. They were calm, peaceful, almost folk songs.<br />
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It's where I met Pooh Corner, unicorns, comets, horses, and the existence of other cultures (as exhibited in To-Ra-Loo-Ra). They gave me this calmness, this widening of the mind. I started making music videos in my head to this music, before knowing music videos were really a thing, that video had ever killed the radio star, before knowing an artist could record songs they hadn't written. I learned the words painted the pictures I would see in my head. And I liked it.<br />
<br />
Young Erica found another album in her mother's collection. She'd stolen Kenny Loggins, and returned for more. It's this album that I believe did it, this album that made my above mentioned speculation evident.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZCoLQNK48vUkG31FOMNXZAMDc8Tkga5eDU-ZrbSP0majut4MtEUfEFAOb5bknl7Y8TeV1YP6toST2S1DXz-LaFWEJFlz8OOPCDOEd4mVMpHQeXXjBVPLBsTGbQBZSSV63N6A5N9Z9bLEp/s1600/sixpence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZCoLQNK48vUkG31FOMNXZAMDc8Tkga5eDU-ZrbSP0majut4MtEUfEFAOb5bknl7Y8TeV1YP6toST2S1DXz-LaFWEJFlz8OOPCDOEd4mVMpHQeXXjBVPLBsTGbQBZSSV63N6A5N9Z9bLEp/s1600/sixpence.jpg" height="275" width="320" /></a></div>
I think about this album a lot, especially lately. Because it made me think. And that's the key. Kenny Loggins drove my mind across the sky with St. Judy's comet and through forest glades with the last unicorn, but Sixpence None the Richer made me <i>think</i>. I didn't know what it meant. And it was frustrating. I didn't know what inconsistent angel things were, how a womb could be artistic, who "she" was in 'Sister, Mother.' I didn't get it. I was left to figure it out, and when I learned to read I read through the lyrics printed in the cover. But I still didn't know. This album is heavy on imagery, metaphor; it's poetry. It's an album of poems, and the answers are hidden in subtext and verbiage and unique to the listener. It's words painting pictures.<br />
<br />
I have an odd reverence for words. You've probably gleaned as much if you've read this blog before. My favorite thing about Kenny Loggins wasn't his voice or the beautiful album art. It was the words, the story. I was devastated when I read who'd written the songs and saw Leigh Nash was only responsible for one of them; I felt cheated her lips were speaking someone else's words. The thing I loved most, and what still remains the deciding factor, about Jason Mraz was his words.<br />
<br />
It had to come to this. He released an album Tuesday. Why else would we be here?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgctWesfUh2eEVwjDu9u4aQIAyFALS73p8biVZmBLjb2XZywX1BubYYvj-5WtpHmjNvXZIrMMJUQ-4v743b8YiSOkh2vmk8QHE_Yq_4QIhJGiifmW2Rk2prtDBDiTrZrcmnBlINCdTotCgt/s1600/Yes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgctWesfUh2eEVwjDu9u4aQIAyFALS73p8biVZmBLjb2XZywX1BubYYvj-5WtpHmjNvXZIrMMJUQ-4v743b8YiSOkh2vmk8QHE_Yq_4QIhJGiifmW2Rk2prtDBDiTrZrcmnBlINCdTotCgt/s1600/Yes.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
In the past couple of years I've let go of my tight grip on lyrics to hear the themes in the music itself. It started with Jason Mraz. I'd heard his songs so much the words were already ingrained in my subconscious, so I started feeling the beat, started noticing the way the rifts changed, started hearing the layers. Music has become a new journey for me; I've realized it's not just the words, but the way they play with the music. Hearing Mraz for those first months was incredible because each time I heard a song again I'd get new insight into what words he was using, what he was truly saying. When that went away I started having epiphanies about the melodies.<br />
<br />
And now back to my musing at the first: am I a product of my music, or do I have this taste because of who I am?<br />
<br />
Where's the causation? Is there any?<br />
<br />
I've often attributed my prose style to Sixpence None the Richer, claiming the album introduced me to words that masked what they meant, thus giving me the natural knack I have for spewing imagery. I'd been raised on it. But as the last few months have gone on, I've found myself slipping back into my old tastes as far as music goes. I've ventured off to Indie and Alternative Pop, but I'm tucking myself back into acoustic folk pop. I turn a happier ear to the music reminiscent of that first album, the mystique and metaphor on which I was raised. And I'm aware now that it's more than the words I appreciate; I've noticed a distinct similarity between the two. I've always said I like the music I like because the words are usually more akin to what I'm interested in. Which is mostly true. But there's been many a song I've enjoyed for lyrics and felt so-so as far as music goes. (A certain duet between Eminem and Rihanna comes to mind.) And a couple albums with instrumental tracks have taught me that music can speak without words. Willis showed me a Japanese artist whose songs hit me very deeply, but I don't speak Japanese.<br />
<br />
Then Wednesday happened. Yes! came in the mail a day late, and after I enjoyed my new t-shirt, notebook, and poster, I popped in the album and leaned back on my bed to let Jason Mraz's latest work envelop me for the first time.<br />
<br />
It's a meadow. It's soft clouds lilted by the pink hues of a setting sun breathing through branches accompanied by a faint breeze. It's sand flaking out to sea as the waves roll over it lightly. It's nature. It's peace. It's beauty. I hesitate to say it's my favorite album only because it's so new, and of course his newest endeavor is my favorite. I said this of his last installment, Love is a Four Letter Word.<br />
<br />
But it's the difference of this album to every other that makes it hit me in such a unique way. I'm well versed in his music, and I recall lying there, listening to this album for the first time thinking how I love how he has changed. This sound is something I couldn't place in his past. But I could place it in mine.<br />
<br />
If I'm a product of my music interest, Yes! is my current Sixpence None the Richer, an album for another decade of life. If my music interest is a side effect of who I am, this is another album I'll be yapping about for months. Because it is me. It is everything my heart wants. It's like coming home. And I try not to say this in the cheesiest ways, and hope I've made a fragment of sense this entire post. I just wonder if this album would speak to me in the way it does if I'd grown up with a different introduction to the realm of music. I wonder if I'd be who I am if it weren't for that first album, and for the albums that have followed. In the way I wonder if I'd be fundamentally the same if I hadn't been raised in the Church, I wonder if music has made me what I've become. Music is a gospel, after all. As Matt Nathanson sings, "I found religion at the record store." I lost myself in the melody and found myself in the words.Ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12473244230060079459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4383353023481350850.post-38473600819358034702014-06-23T22:52:00.002-06:002014-06-23T22:54:19.830-06:00A birthday IS going to comeWhen I discovered Jason Mraz and started doing more about it than listening to one song on repeat, he had a website designed in the manner of his second studio album MR. A-Z. One section on the site was titled "Journal," and that's where I discovered my first blog.<br />
<br />
I loved his writing. I loved seeing in his head other than the songs I'd started to memorize and sing in the solitude of my bedroom. It made him a person, these puns about Kevin Federline--Mr Please Make Fun of Me--and memories of launching grasshoppers on firecrackers with his brother. He was a real, regular guy.<br />
<br />
And then they updated his website, and all the journal entries were lost.<br />
<br />
I hated it. I was devistated. But shortly thereafter discovered a wonderful thing.<br />
<br />
He'd made an actual blog.<br />
<br />
He'd created a blogspot account and was still sharing insights into his lyrical head.<br />
<br />
Determined not to lose out again, I started reading the blog with intensity, saving each post into a Word document so if the unthinkable happened again, I wouldn't have a void.<br />
<br />
So I kept them.<br />
<br />
Not all of them, sadly, high school became more hands-on than junior high and I steadily got out of the habit of regularly checking the blog, and if I did, it was usually during class while procrastinating writing an analysis on a book I hadn't read.<br />
<br />
After he ended things with TP he deleted all the posts.<br />
<br />
Four years of posts. Gone and replaced with <a href="http://freshnessfactorfivethousand.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">this</a>.<br />
<br />
But I've got just about two years of them, and I'm sure if I dug the internet enough, I'd find them somehow.<br />
<br />
But it's been a while since I've read his stuff. He still writes now, but it's few and far between and they don't often offer such an extended look into his phsyee. So today, for his birthday, I'm going to post one of them. On my blog. Because one guess as to what lead me to start it.<br />
<br />
Happy Birthday Mraz.<br />
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Thursday, October 2, 2008<o:p></o:p></h2>
<h3>
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="8415542859054540420"></a><span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";"><a href="http://freshnessfactorfivethousand.blogspot.com/2008/10/change-is-going-to-come.html"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A change IS going to come</span></a>
<o:p></o:p></span></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 19.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">Last
year Bob Dylan compiled a song list for Starbucks’ Artist Choice Series. In
addition to offering up a keen selection of country, blues, and jazz, he also
supplied notes and commentary as to why he held the songs in such regard. BUT,
the best part was the forward. <br />
<br />
He wrote, "When I was asked to put together this collection of songs, I
wasn't sure what to do. So I just grabbed a bunch of things I was into
recently. Some people have favorite songs, but I've got songs of the minute --
songs that I'm listening to right now. And if you ask me about one of those
songs a year from now, I might not even remember who did it, but at the moment
it's everything to me.”<br />
<br />
I bring this up as today’s lesson: Nothing is final. One day you’re high. The
next day you’re low. You might have a funky, expressive, or awful haircut
today, but soon it will grow into something else, something new and random.
Maybe you grew up liking pop music and boy bands, but now you like a specific mash
up of Electronic & Classical. You might decide you don’t want to smoke
cigarettes anymore; that it’s just not who you are. Maybe you were a staunch
republican but now have curiosities about the </span><a href="http://www.barackobama.com/index.php"><span style="color: windowtext;">well-spoken
and well-organized Democratic Nominee</span></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">.
Perhaps you were madly in love last week, but woke up today feeling comfort in
solitude, without a desire to be held. <br />
<br />
Everything is fine. Not finAL.<br />
<br />
We tend to instantly identify with “things.” And we believe in so much, when in
fact, a belief isn't known to be true. It's a hope for the truth. We hold
grudges because of what someone said when we were young. We store hurtful words
and replay them in our minds until we think it to be true. And some of us
believe a TV commercial and think we need a faster computer, a smarter phone, a
stronger pill, a more relaxed-fit jean, etc. We think that certain things,
thoughts, or actions make us who we are and sometimes we become addicted to
those thoughts or behaviors and then become too afraid to let them go. <br />
<br />
I write and post a lot therefore many people assume I have every self-published
word memorized or that I live these shared thoughts constantly. This is not the
case. My brain doesn’t reference myself very well actually, and I’m sure I
contradict myself every other day in one way or another. One day I feel like I
have all the wisdom of the world and the next day my soul wears thin and I
stutter just ordering ice cream. <br />
<br />
And everything is fine.<br />
<br />
Because I trust in the ever-changing climate of the heart. (At least, today I
feel that way.) I think it is necessary to have many experiences for the sake
of feeling something; for the sake of being challenged, and for the sake of
being expressive, to offer something to someone else, to learn what we are
capable of. These meanderings, rants, and blogs for instance, provide a great
deal of comfort just sharing it, even though i put a part of myself on the line
to be criticized or considered an ass.<br />
Oh well, Courage is triumph of the soul is guess. and an Ass can still be of
great service. <br />
<br />
</span><a href="http://www.barackobama.com/index.php"><span style="color: windowtext;">So
Remember, <b>You have the right to change your mind.</b></span></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";"> <br />
<br />
About anything. <br />
<br />
Anytime. <br />
<br />
This is not the ending. <br />
<br />
P.S. – No doesn’t mean forever. It simply means, “Not right now.”<br />
<br />
And on the topic of Not right now, whatever happened to you in the past is not
happening now. <br />
<br />
You will be safe behind your honest decisions and mood swings. <br />
<br />
I promise. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ztIdJ0TMfTXF6diL3z3OBCrGt4MphxHm_efNwgljYReu8zK2QVk1G6KC8SoGqribtuV60w68rsO0k0a3bg0G8BK4myvpK6lAbQBjU1H9AlRqxDw9bvexYmzRc4053P-8wjzpCQMEs7Tg/s1600/mrazcuriousday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ztIdJ0TMfTXF6diL3z3OBCrGt4MphxHm_efNwgljYReu8zK2QVk1G6KC8SoGqribtuV60w68rsO0k0a3bg0G8BK4myvpK6lAbQBjU1H9AlRqxDw9bvexYmzRc4053P-8wjzpCQMEs7Tg/s1600/mrazcuriousday.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";"><br />
<i>-mraz<br />
Berlin</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span class="post-author"><span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; letter-spacing: 1.2pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; text-transform: uppercase;">Posted by </span></span><span class="fn"><span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; letter-spacing: 1.2pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; text-transform: uppercase;">mraz</span></span><span class="post-author"><span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; letter-spacing: 1.2pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; text-transform: uppercase;"> </span></span><span class="post-timestamp"><span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; letter-spacing: 1.2pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; text-transform: uppercase;">at </span></span><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a href="http://freshnessfactorfivethousand.blogspot.com/2008/10/change-is-going-to-come.html" title="permanent link"><span style="letter-spacing: 1.2pt; text-transform: uppercase;">6:37 AM</span></a></span><span class="post-timestamp"><span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; letter-spacing: 1.2pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; text-transform: uppercase;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7434948010818487992&postID=8415542859054540420"><span style="letter-spacing: 1.2pt; text-transform: uppercase;">103 comments</span></a></span><span class="post-comment-link"><span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; letter-spacing: 1.2pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; text-transform: uppercase;"> </span></span>Ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12473244230060079459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4383353023481350850.post-82420539814120347472014-06-23T01:55:00.001-06:002014-06-23T02:07:21.407-06:00Part 1It's not often I go to the library, but when he asked if I'd like to go study I decided there was no harm in saying yes. Studying is difficult, and if you're not stalling with music or a trail of humorous pictures on the internet, you just might find yourself stalling by staring at that girl you're with, realizing maybe she's something more than what you thought, and why hadn't you noticed it before?<br />
<br />
I waited on one side of the door, sensing him just beyond the wood, trying to find ways to still my beating heart. But that's a task harder than studying when you've just watched him come back with your frappuccinos in hand, only to have a wayward book enthusiast stumble against him, and life moves in freeze-frame as the drinks bump and fall, your whipped cream sloping on his dark-wash jeans and dolloping on the floor followed by the bursting of one drink's lid and a free-fall of blood and it dawns on you something's amiss as the world speeds back up, your heart in your ears, everything suddenly sounding like Darth Vader breathing down your neck in triple time. The film over your ears is punctured by a scream you connect with his vocal tones and it hits you that you're watching grueling murder, the kind you find in comic books and bath salts, and instinct tells you run.<br />
<br />
I kept my right hand pressed against the door, inches from the door knob, questioning anyone who ever designed a room without a peephole, hearing him paw at the wood in a frantic forgotten way as a clatter resonates from upstairs. Fight or flight doesn't offer much by way of cognitive choices when faced with the glassy eyes of the middle-aged man who gnawed out your soon-to-be-boyfriend's jugular. Perhaps it would have registered more clearly had I versed myself in first-person shooter games or high speed sports like racquetball. Nonetheless, I moved and went for the closest enclosed space I could find, and while it was an empty conference room, there was no rain check to be had and no backdoor to exit through. I was stuck in a twisted conundrum of starving now or starving later, the only altered implication being whether I died due to starving or starved due to dying.<br />
<br />
<br />Ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12473244230060079459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4383353023481350850.post-17283994759377713872014-04-16T00:02:00.001-06:002014-04-16T00:02:10.559-06:00Noche NadaThe sand cushions out around my soles, miniature billows of apocalyptic ash clouds, swarming a plague of ruin centimeters from my footfalls. It leaves a swan song in the fabric of my sneakers, a remnant of a lost time, holding out for the uncovering of archaeologists to comb and caress and discover why. I watch the sun glint along above me, a tracking system in the sky mapping my every move, hiding behind a canopy, leaving tattoos of shadows along my body.<br />
<br />
I think about the way the clouds told me stories over the course of a day, an elongated sitcom sans subtitles. And there are breezes reminding me to breathe, and the steady heartbeat of my steps clarifies there's somewhere worth getting to, there's reason worth walking. And some sunset from now I'll find the mouth of a waterfall or a crystal blue lake and sit on the bank on a rock not smooth enough and know I'm home. But that's a sunset, miles away, and there are moons and dawns between. There's the breeze, the clouds, the checkerboard shade, and my feet carrying me through and beyond, leaving the path clear, muddled only by settled tsunamis of dust.Ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12473244230060079459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4383353023481350850.post-19621135935424083622014-04-10T00:42:00.000-06:002014-04-10T00:54:50.925-06:00UnfoldSome of the things that make me want to blog are stupid.<br />
<br />
This is one of those.<br />
<br />
People ask me "Okay, well what's your favorite Jason Mraz song?"<br />
<br />
How do you answer that? It seems stupid to say I really like all of them. And even the ones I have a lesser inclination toward are still significantly more enjoyable to me than most of what people splatter on the radio.<br />
<br />
I just had a friend stapchat me that she was sad, and what do I do to feel better? I sent her a picture of this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh0QsPn7htiLUjBbpiqSEfXEFZEqUGdUI5nbZDgM9CB47bJTB28k0A3ipShAeHHl2rk8GPpgPz1TTMLJZ3s-1hBxw-GJcwPvE34pP9HmqwOetMP0VqYmZGjgVp1zM8GMIDnScDsJTgB8tM/s1600/Jason+Marz+-+2001+-+Live+at+Java+Joe%2527s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh0QsPn7htiLUjBbpiqSEfXEFZEqUGdUI5nbZDgM9CB47bJTB28k0A3ipShAeHHl2rk8GPpgPz1TTMLJZ3s-1hBxw-GJcwPvE34pP9HmqwOetMP0VqYmZGjgVp1zM8GMIDnScDsJTgB8tM/s1600/Jason+Marz+-+2001+-+Live+at+Java+Joe%2527s.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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and included the title: Live at Java Joe's</div>
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Naturally I then had to go listen to it a little, because....seriously. If I ever experience an extreme tragedy or you see me sobbing for hours on end or am in a pit of depression, sit me down and play this album. It is almost a drug; more endorphins than you'd think a person could handle. I can't not be ecstatic when I hear this. Truly.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I started to notice a while back that one song seemed it hit me a little more than the others, but I'd convince myself no because those other songs are just toooooooo good.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It wasn't until he played it live in concert in 2012 (you know, hours after I'd met him) that I realized this was it. This was the favorite song. </div>
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<br /></div>
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You see I wasn't expecting him to play it; it's only recorded on two live albums, there's no studio release of it. Oh, and the last time he'd regularly played it was, you know, 2004. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Which I guess is actually a lie because this video I'm considering linking is from 2007. </div>
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Like I said, it's dumb. But he just gets to me right in the creativity, so I have to share it. So I did. </div>
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Now, please, treat yourself to a little Mraz music. (Please ignore the tools that think they know when the bell sounds come in. That's a sad thing that happens pretty much every time he does this song. Including when I saw it live. But I'm not bitter.) Just pay close attention to 3:03-3:31 for the best part. ESPECIALLY 3:20-3:29. That's where it's at. Literally my favorite moment in music history. The best nine seconds of your life. Seriously.</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/nNUUwznczSI" width="420"></iframe>Ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12473244230060079459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4383353023481350850.post-891026373273107472014-03-02T23:16:00.002-07:002014-03-02T23:16:48.104-07:00yet another untitled. I can't imagine living<br />
Where the seasons are the same;<br />
My life would be so bitter<br />
If I never had the change.<br />
There's lightness in the snow that falls<br />
And joy within the rain,<br />
And a summer night is nothing short<br />
Of healing spring's faint pain.<br />
<br />
Each season gives a rinse, a dry,<br />
To the way in which I'm seen:<br />
Like a Sunday afternoon where<br />
My spirit comes out clean.<br />
I can't imagine living with<br />
No sustenance, no change;<br />
Where I am stuck with who I was<br />
Before the water came.Ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12473244230060079459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4383353023481350850.post-22654689177639524172014-02-17T01:51:00.002-07:002014-02-17T01:52:22.689-07:00There are other things."There are other things for us."<br />
She said, staring down the barrel of a gun.<br />
"There are other reasons we're standing here,<br />
other songs that should be sung."<br />
And the weapon's fired,<br />
The clock's expired<br />
And I find myself break a run,<br />
Toward yesterday's<br />
And far-aways<br />
I'd never thought would come.<br />
<br />
Until at moment's last, the summer smiles<br />
In the soft ray of light from a moon<br />
And I can't keep up the motion of<br />
Breath having died too soon.<br />
We struggle with our paces<br />
And defend worried faces,<br />
Praying all will soften to a swoon<br />
When the owls cry<br />
And ends are nigh<br />
And never crests from gloom.<br />
<br />
Don't pity him,<br />
Don't pity me,<br />
Don't tell me how to stand.<br />
Or how the world is empty when<br />
You're absent someone's hand.<br />
Don't say I'm clear to disappear<br />
And pray things plot my course<br />
The way my mind has drafted it,<br />
When I was yet in sorts.Ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12473244230060079459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4383353023481350850.post-78203178457948168202014-02-09T03:30:00.001-07:002014-02-09T03:30:03.124-07:00carefree summer"I don't believe in signs, Erica."<br />
<br />
I faltered mid sentence and glanced at her briefly before turning back to the road. "You <i>don't </i>believe in signs?" I had to assure I'd heard her right.<br />
<br />
"No. You're always talking about things like they're signs and I don't believe in signs."<br />
<br />
Perhaps it's my innate skills of word working that has me constantly searching for deeper meaning in the text of life. Perhaps, in the way more analytical folks see patterns and numbers in the day to day things, writers and dreamers search for the metaphor within. That's what separates the disciplines; empirical vs spiritual. The deduction of how things work rather than why things work and what it all means. It's the artist in me. It's the religionist in me. It's what keeps me optimistic--my constant search for a clue of destiny, fate, the best to come.<br />
<br />
There are moments in my life where I've felt what I believe to be pure peace, true joy, perfection even. But these moments are just that, moments, so the teaser of possibilities fades away, appearing only so I'll recognize it when I do finally stumble upon it. They'd come when I would read. I got into "chapter books" and novels in elementary because they made me feel something; dropped me in this world I didn't know about, took me places, had me experience things I never did. I would feel free, liberated, carefree, alive. It happens when I listen to Jason Mraz after any amount of time without hearing his angelic tones. It happens when I take the stage under another person's name. But it never stays. The book ends and it's over, the song ends and I'm empty, the show's done and the character evaporates into the vapor cloud that possessed me. I've wanted to capture it for years. I started writing a book in ninth grade that was/is titled in all my saved documents of it "carefree summer," because I wanted to write a book that embodied that feeling, that breezy life they always had in books (breezy naturally meaning feel-good, not simple and without adversity). I wanted to harness that peace, that joy, and maybe give myself the ability to keep it otherwise.<br />
<br />
I've been muddled the past couple weeks. The semester is progressing, I'm growing more established in the new routines of my job at a credit union, the elementary school musical I'm directing is coming to the apex, and I don't know what I'm doing with my life.<br />
<br />
I want to teach theatre. I won't find a job in that. I won't get paid for it. And should I be lucky enough to score a spot in the field, it's not a job I leave at work. Theatre doesn't stop, especially when you're the one running it all. I don't want to teach English. I'd be good at it. I can see that, but I've never wanted to, that's never been my desire. I want to write. I want to change my double major to creative writing and learn the things I really want to know to accomplish that part of my dreams. I won't find a job in that. If I happen to write something worth publishing, it's not going to rake in billions of dollars unless it somehow becomes the next teen fandom. I want to go on a mission, but I don't want to quit this job and lose that money and drop my schooling and....<br />
<br />
Everything's just felt so wrong. Like the credit union was a mistake. Like taking generals this semester to get my associates done was the wrong course. Like I should have stayed home today.<br />
<br />
But not this week. I can't pinpoint the exact moment it happened, but I'm going to guess it started Monday. I drove out to Ogden, and now that I do that regularly I've grown tired of the one CD I've been listening to for a couple weeks, when it usually takes a month or so before over-kill settles in. I popped in a recording of a <a href="http://picklevilleplayhouse.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Pickleville Playhouse</a> melodrama and listened to the music and selected scenes of dialogue from the show, my insides burning with this excitement and happiness.<br />
<br />
And it hasn't stopped all week. I'm addicted to it, to this feeling of feeling good. I can't get enough of this carefree summer, and other than the minor set back when an elementary school student left me a rather insulting note, this feeling hasn't gone away. I've gone from school to work to Friendsday to rehearsal to a live theatre production to lounging in my friends' apartment/duplex, and it hasn't gone away. I've been swarmed in this carefree summer all week, and I don't know what I did to get it, but it suddenly occurred to me I'm living that life I've been craving from the beginning. I'm at that point of peace and joy.<br />
<br />
So I'm living in it. I'm taking it as a sign that things are right, here. That I'm where I'm meant to be standing regardless of what I thought now would look like. I'm taking this moment for all it is. And next semester can come when it comes. My next show will come when it's time. A mission will come when it's right. I don't need to plan ahead or worry about tomorrow. I need to lift where I stand in today and keep this carefree summer before it goes away.Ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12473244230060079459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4383353023481350850.post-75784040409876936312014-01-18T18:54:00.002-07:002014-01-18T18:54:25.086-07:00God Is Not Dead, Nor Doth He SleepI'm teaching Gospel Doctrine, and my lesson Sunday is on the Creation. Earlier this week I actually reviewed the lesson manual, which is different for me as I often hold off until the Friday-Saturday before I teach. I remembered something my dad had read to me in a book a few years back about some man's near death experience in which he was able to hear the energies of the plants and animals, and even things we'd classify as no longer living, such as a wooden desk, but he "walked" among them and could hear how grateful they were to be of use to man, how happy it made them to be part of this Plan.<br />
<br />
It's stuck with me, in the back of my mind, and it struck me that I should share that with the class, that though the man's account isn't necessarily "doctrine," it would be worthwhile to share for the sheer sake of perspective. So I made a note to ask my dad about the book.<br />
<br />
My dad is your stereotypical father in the sense that he sits in his Lazy-Boy and does everything from read to watch TV to sleep. His chair's in the corner of our living room, right next to our wood-burning stove. Over the years he's adopted that area as a second office, and often has a hoard of books and magazines stacked on the hearth like a library overflow. My mother, being the stereotypical mother in terms of cleanliness, doesn't like the mess, especially when company comes over, because to Mom even if someone is quickly dropping by to hand off a birthday card, this place better shine like the top of the Chrysler building.<br />
<br />
One evening I had a moment, and he didn't look too busy, reclined in his chair, so I asked him about the book.<br />
<br />
"I threw it out." He said matter-of-fact.<br />
<br />
"Why?" I asked, taken aback.<br />
<br />
"I was cleaning up for the last party. I just threw it all out."<br />
<br />
My dad's always been a little on edge my whole life. There was a time when we were kids that he was depressed, and he wasn't necessarily a sulky kind of depressed. He pulled out of that eventually, but it seems to have never been an easy road for him. He's struggled with headaches most of his life, and within the past few years they've increased in length and pain, to the point that he now as a constant debilitating headache, the kind of headache that I can only cope with by lying down and napping it away. But you can't nap away your life.<br />
<br />
I don't want you to have the wrong idea of my dad. He's a wonderful man, and from the time I was a preteen to present he's been my best friend. He's my Number 1 fan in theatre and writing, my greatest confidant and my idol. I've always had this overbearing love for my father, regardless how difficult and strained this have been in the course of my life. I am always proud of him. I always cherish his opinion. And when I find someone I love as much as him, I know I'll have it made.<br />
<br />
But like in the Book of Mormon where the Nephites spin in the endless loop of the pride cycle, going from prospering to thoughts and actions of pride to sinning to repenting and prospering and on, my dad's life is coming full circle. He's starting to be the way he was when I was young. He's withdrawn, he's angry more readily, he's less patient with me and interested in my stories. I've had to go back to gauging his mood before I approach him with more than a sentence or two. I've had to go back to toeing the line in order to avoid pushing him over the edge.<br />
<br />
And I'm out of practice. I've been stung a few times already.<br />
<br />
But the book kept bothering me. Mind you, I don't think about my lesson as much during the week as I should. I get caught up in my school work and social life and thoughts of making my lesson worthwhile don't creep into my mind. But this book, this account of that man's near death experience, wouldn't leave me alone. And I hated the idea that I'd been prompted to find it only to not be able to act on the prompting and use it. It didn't seem fair that this brilliant idea would be swung in front of my eyes only to be forever behind bullet proof glass, out of reach. Something I'd continue to see but never be able to get at.<br />
<br />
On Thursday I decided I wasn't going to take his word for it. We have a large cabinet in the living room across from his chair that we use as a bookshelf. It has a lot of different church books, but we often don't go inside it. I concluded the reason the book kept bugging me was that it must be in that cabinet, and he doesn't remember because he's too much in pain to think back that far to when he moved it from the hearth to the bookcase.<br />
<br />
When I returned home from campus sometime after ten that night, I spoke with him briefly and then started going through the cabinet.<br />
<br />
"What are you doing?" He asked.<br />
<br />
"I don't believe that you threw that book away. So I'm going to look for it in here."<br />
<br />
He told me again that it was gone, but I kept scanning spines, having absolutely no idea what I was looking for. As this notion dawned on me he told me to go turn the main lights on. As I came back from the lightswitch he was slinking out of his chair and kneeling down before the lower portion of the bookcase. He started looking.<br />
<br />
"I know which one you're talking about. It's about that kid who died."<br />
<br />
"Do you know what it's called?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"No." He partially snapped, moving books to see past them.<br />
<br />
After a moment he gave up and stood, returning to his chair. "I'm pretty sure I threw it away. Actually I know I through it away. I purposefully threw that one away."<br />
<br />
"Why?" I asked him, beginning to be irritated that he'd do that. Why would I think I wouldn't be interested in looking at that again? It had been a few years, and lesson aside, I never even got to read the book in the first place.<br />
<br />
"I was cleaning up for the party." He said with a note of bitterness.<br />
<br />
I continued to scan the spines of the books in the upper portion of the bookcase, looking now for anything that might have something to do with the Creation inside. I told him he should have run that by me first and he retorted back the simple, slightly biting phrase "Okay Karl," a reference to my pack-rat grandfather. His tone was different that time, and I knew I was too close to making him furious. I dropped it and kept looking for something I could use. I found a book by Bruce R. McConkie that was in essence an encyclopedia of Church doctrine, and figured that was good enough.<br />
<br />
I told Dad, when he asked, what I'd found, expressing it was a shame I couldn't find the other book. How I hated that I'd been so strongly prompted to find it but then not be able to act on that prompting. To try to lighten the near accusatory tone I'd just displayed, I shrugged and said "Who knows. Maybe I was supposed to look for it so I'd find this one." I jerked the McConkie book to show what I meant.<br />
<br />
"No," Dad said. "You were meant to look for it because it has my testimony in it." His eyes started to grow watery. "That's why I threw it away. I don't care anymore."<br />
<br />
<br />
8 For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord.<br />
9 For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.<br />
<br />
I don't know God's plan. I don't know God's thoughts. I don't know where I'm going or where He sees me. I don't know how He plans to help my father, how He worked things for my brother to bring him back to the fold and back to a more docile and loving persona. I don't know why I needed to find that book, why I needed to hound him about it. I don't know what this experience will do. But I am so beyond grateful that in whatever way I could, I did something. That's all I know. God asked something of me, something that evidently had more dire effects than I'd anticipated setting out, but that He was able to use me for what He needed of me. He was able to use me, I hope, to extend another nudge my father will come to terms with eventually, and stop pretending he's angry with God. Because I'd very much like to live with both my fathers when I pass back through the veil.Ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12473244230060079459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4383353023481350850.post-46086871873918317962014-01-11T03:40:00.001-07:002014-01-11T03:40:07.440-07:00-Because there's no better title at this time.-I never thought I'd be able to drive. I couldn't figure it out, and as the hours went on I became convinced I'd be that anomaly in a world of automobile drivers to be inept at functioning behind the wheel. I started looking at how life would be without the luxury of a car, or even the capacity to operate one. I knew there were millions who could do it, but I'd never be one of them. I couldn't do it. I couldn't see myself doing it.<br />
<br />
I've felt the same way about a lot of things. Marriage, giving birth. I don't think it's a low self-esteem issue, something like believing I'm not good enough for it. That's not the case, and I think that's something people tend to misunderstand about me. I'm not self-conscious. I mean yes, I have my moments were a feel pudgy or not so glamorous, but everyone does; it's human nature. I'd be lying to say I'm 100% satisfied with myself 100% of the time, but those are just moments, not layers of chronic self-deprecation. I don't underestimate myself. I once had a guy tell me there was no way guys wouldn't be interested in me--like he was trying to boost my self worth so I'd leave that "relationship" with him and enter the world confident in my ability to attract men.<br />
<br />
I've never doubted that. I've never felt I wasn't good enough for a guy, I've never felt no one would ever want me.<br />
<br />
I've been worried I won't find the right one.<br />
<br />
I can't see myself being married, even as marriage becomes less of a child's perspective of what her parents did and what all the old couples in the ward did and more of a thing my friends do and things my friends talk about with their boyfriends/girlfriends, I can't see it happening. *Again, I remind you, it's not that I don't think I'm good enough to get married, it's the idea that the opportunity will never fully come, the idea never realized.* Which is absurd coming from a 21 year old who's only been in one 'official' relationship and has only been seriously on the dating scene for just over a year. It's ridiculous.<br />
<br />
But I was reminded of it as I checked my facebook just now and saw a Junior High friend's pictures of the child she birthed nearly six hours ago, and I was awoken to the fact that I can't see myself having kids. I can't see that ever happening.<br />
<br />
It's more than that. I can't see myself as a good improviser, I can't see myself as a competent missionary, I can't see myself as a theatre teacher, I can't see myself as an accomplished author, I can't see myself as a functioning adult in society with a working knowledge of politics and taxes and current events.<br />
<br />
I can't see these things. I've set up this barrier that prohibits me from fully experiencing life. I've created a rule for myself to hold back and hesitate just a little, because you never know. I've let my existence be wrapped and warped in doubt.<br />
<br />
And the only way I can think to get past it is to keep going. I've used it before, but I'll use it again. I couldn't see the Improvables letting me into the troupe after those auditions. So I didn't want to go. But I pushed through and went.<br />
<br />
I need to stop thinking life is easy, or that I can make it easy by holding back. You'll never learn to drive the car if you don't sit and focus on what you're doing. You have to train yourself to understand. You have to train yourself to perform the task. It takes brainpower and concentration. It takes focus and effort. It takes the will to try, and actively doing it constantly. But one day you realize driving's not that hard, and you just needed to relax a little bit and give yourself time.<br />
<br />
I can get married, I can have babies, I can become sufficient at improv, I can follow my dreams and accomplish them. To do so, I have to stop telling myself they need to be in the immediate foreseeable future, and I need to kick the nasty habit of waiting for "next time."Ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12473244230060079459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4383353023481350850.post-66435002118773647862013-12-30T23:39:00.000-07:002013-12-30T23:39:53.734-07:00Farewell DecemberI'm trying something new this year.<br />
<br />
I'm throwing things away.<br />
<br />
I've always lived with clutter. I've always been a pack-rat, less affectionately termed a "horder." The trouble comes from the fact that I attach memories to physical objects, and it often feels like if I give the object up, I abandon the memory as well. This is why I like concert t-shirts, why I wanted a copy of John Knowles' <i>A Separate Peace</i> with the same cover as the copy I originally read, why I save souvenirs from every show I'm in; the list goes on. Sometimes even simply remembering who gave me the item, even if it's completely insignificant and possibly from the DI, I can't ditch it. It has too much recognition attached to it. The trouble is there's not space for an entire life of memories in this room of mine, and I can't keep saving everything riding on the belief I'll have space for it when I'm married and move out. Because life will happen in between then and now, and I'll gather more things inevitably.<br />
<br />
So, starting today, I'm throwing things away.<br />
<br />
I wasn't going to make this a cliche New Years Resolution post, but as I started typing I remembered something someone at church said about the way to make goals effective is to tell them to someone, to hold yourself accountable to more than just yourself.<br />
<br />
So here are my resolutions. Here are my goals in all their personal glory.<br />
<br />
-Do my school work so I pass my classes. Try.<br />
-Give myself the missionary discussions. Study one every other week and plan my Sunday School lessons on the opposite weeks.<br />
-If able with the (hopefully) new job, go to the temple every Wednesday and Friday morning.<br />
-Save money. Budget forty dollars a month to funtivities and stick to it so you stop being poor.<br />
-If able with the (hopefully) new job, go to the gym Monday/Wednesday/Friday, going after the temple on Wednesday and Friday.<br />
-Go to bed between 11 and 12 and wake up at seven.<br />
-Read John Donne<br />
<br />
<br />
What I really wanted to do was a year in review. I really like these, and a simple post covering the year is a good way to tell the kids what their mum accomplished in 2013 so they don't have to sift through my two journals spanning the year to get the basic thread.<br />
<br />
So here is my year in review:<br />
<br />
January-February I was assistant stage manager for Will Rogers' Follies at Weber State, which was an excellent experience with fantastic cast and crew, and the show became one of my favorites ever. Will Roger's is an amazing man. Look into him if you don't know of him. He's one of those guys we need wandering around today, making a difference and stirring the pot.<br />
<br />
At the same time I was directing my first musical at West Bountiful Elementary. And for the first time in my life I considered myself an artist. I've had these pictures in my head, these beautiful thematic pictures that I've never been able to sculpt or paint or sketch, and it wasn't until watching the musical come together that I realized I'd finally done it. I'd finally gotten a cookie cutter of what was in my head to exist in reality. And it looked just like I wanted it to. It was incredible to work with those 4th, 5th, and 6th graders, giving me the realization that it wouldn't be terrible to teach at a junior high. It gave me something to present at juries, something to further my ambition, practice for later in the year when I'd direct my college peers. It taught me responsibility. I didn't want to disappoint those kids. I didn't want to show up unprepared and let them down.<br />
<br />
It was probably March when I auditioned for Pickleville Playhouse. They didn't take me, which is understandable because frankly I just don't have pipes. And because I, less than a week later, was officially made part of the Improvables.<br />
<br />
On St. Patrick's Day I met Daphne Willis in Park City by fan-girling at her. Surprised and (hopefully) complimented, she hooked me and Emily up with a private mini concert because we'd driven out there to see her and she wasn't actually playing in the lounge that day. And even if she had been we wouldn't have been able to listen. Still 20 at this point and stuff.<br />
<br />
Somewhere in April/Mayish I auditioned for a play at the community theatre, and went to my first callbacks since high school two years before. They had me and three other women --and I say women meaning I was the youngest-- stay later to read a different set of sides than she (the director) had us reading as a group of twelve. I'd gone into the first audition with two small monologues prepared. She wanted to see us perform monologues she'd selected from the script, and being a 20 year old girl, I didn't think they'd give me much of a part, so I prepared a more sheepish monologue. But there was another that was so biting I just had to do it. I decided if she gave me time for both I'd do the biting one last.<br />
<br />
So I had.<br />
<br />
And she had me stay later at call backs to read for that part.<br />
<br />
And then I got it.<br />
<br />
I was cast in my first show since high school, and in my first community theatre show ever. In June and July I performed as Juror 4 in 12 Angry Jurors, which has become one of my favorite shows to ever work on because there was so much power in that cast, in being cooped up in the "jury room," stuck on stage for an hour and some odd minutes, fermenting in our characters and in our discussions. I was finally able to put two years of college theatre training to use (which, side note, is another reason I want to teach, because tell me how it's fair to learn thousands of incredible things and never be given the opportunity to try them out in something more than a monologue or five minute scene). It restored faith in myself as a performer. That I can do this. I'm good enough for theatre.<br />
<br />
Spanning January to April I was trudging my way out of being severely interested in a certain gent who didn't care for me in the slightest, and accepted a date with another I'd met my first year of college.<br />
<br />
In June he became my first boyfriend.<br />
<br />
In July he became my first ex.<br />
\<br />
I learned patience, that I don't need to rush, and that I don't need to end up with everyone I go on a date with, and that it's okay if I like other guys more than some: that's the point. And it's okay if they seem to like me and several weeks later change their minds. It hurts, it sucks, and it leaves you alone, but it's okay.<br />
<br />
I arranged to carpool with my dear new best friend Rachel (new meaning new to me not replacing the old) to school pretty much every day. I got an institute parking pass for Tues/Thurs, the days we really needed it. I became closer with her and her (ex) boyfriend, as well as made friends in my English and Chemistry class, and tried to maintain confident Erica in my theatre classes, because for some reason confident Erica didn't seamlessly roll over into that world.<br />
<br />
I went on a blind date, I cast three fantastic actors in my scene from "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead," I auditioned for another community theatre show and was cast as understudy for two roles as well as backstage tech for the nights I wasn't performing. I balanced school, work, rehearsal for three months.<br />
<br />
I was mic tech for an original musical on campus and watched the show backstage every night, having delightful and deep conversations with one of the grips, and becoming better friends with him as well. I started hanging out with the cool kids weekly, when I could, and got to be a more integral part of the group. Sometimes I stupidly am still surprised people like them can like me.<br />
<br />
Shortly around this time I was called as a Sunday School teacher in my single's ward. Gospel Doctrine. I was panicked and worried about time and my horrible way of managing it, but I said yes because Jesus wanted me to. And I've loved every minute of it and can already feel myself developing into a better teacher.<br />
<br />
In October I made my own Halloween costume, the little girl zombie from The Walking Dead, dirtying my bath robe with watered down acrylic paint. People thought it was rad. I couldn't believe I'd never made a costume before. It was more fun than anything ever.<br />
<br />
In November nothing exceptionally notable happened...just continued on with school, the cool kids, rehearsals for my directing scene and Farndale Avenue's Housing Estate's Townswoman's Guild's Dramatic Society's Production of A Christmas Carol. (I never really memorized were the possessive apostrophes go...)<br />
<br />
December I performed in Farndale Avenue, survived finals week, had my Rosencrantz and Guildenstern scene go off without a hitch, earning me an A and several compliments from the teacher on the dynamic of the cast. I wasn't scheduled at the bakery for three weeks straight, but (Christmas miracle/tender mercy) was working as a tech for Farndale on the nights I didn't perform so I earned a bit of money during that time anyway.) Had my 21st birthday, spent with the cool kids. Started interviewing for jobs as a teller, had my Floridian cousin come home and here we are.<br />
<br />
Back at the beginning. More happened this year, a lot of little things, but I wrote all the big things that came to mind right off the bat. The rest meant something, but not enough of a something to have a shout-out I suppose. I'm looking ahead now, to a year of directing another musical, (hopefully) meeting/hugging Norman Reedus, maybe finding a gent to hold my hand for a while, (hopefully) getting a new job, and possibly going on a mission. We'll see. There are things I control and things I don't. And a lot of things that can be handled if I simply get out there, smile, and try.Ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12473244230060079459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4383353023481350850.post-38557569673567277402013-12-21T17:13:00.000-07:002013-12-21T17:13:53.597-07:00The Back-Handed ComplimentI thought when he said we could talk about it at the show that night it would be to ease my pain with a friendly hand on the shoulder and a few soft pats laced with the undertone that I was never really ever considered for the part, so it shouldn't be a surprise he had to email me with negative results.<br />
<br />
And not negative in medical terms, meaning the disease isn't present. Not negative that way. Not really.<br />
<br />
You can understand my surprise when the producer of the black box at the local community theatre approached me with a hesitantly sorrowful face that night and mouthed "Did you get your email?" before sweeping me into a gentle hug upon my Yes.<br />
<br />
He started talking. Said after Saturday she was in first and I was in second, I listened, my mind remembering the four other girls up for the part at callbacks, but he was only talking about me and one other. Just two of five. "After Tuesday it all swapped. Your readings were so solid." My brain started to make sense of his monologue.<br />
<br />
It was between me and one other. Just two.<br />
<br />
"I was pushing for you but [the director] was pushing for her. And you were so close in everything that we had to go with looks. And I hate that because I've lost parts that way."<br />
<br />
But she looked more like Thomas More's daughter than I did.<br />
<br />
I don't have enough English blood for English looks.<br />
<br />
I was chipper, I was flattered, I was understanding. It was enough to know I'd been considered. Especially so closely. I felt good about my callbacks, but I had no idea I was near the head of the group after that terrible first audition. But he looked at me and told me several times that I'd been good. I'd been really good. And so had she. So they had to go with who looked more familial.<br />
<br />
And it was her.<br />
<br />
But you can see how, letting it sink in further, I realized how disgruntling a situation this was. I'd been so close. I was so close. And I lost it for looks. I lost it for being blonde and blue eyed. I lost it for being round faced, not narrow faced. I'd lost it for factors beyond my control.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong, I'm not angry and making voodoo dolls of the other girl. Nor am I curled up with the pint of ice cream my mom bought me for my birthday. I'm taking it with a grain of salt: a back-handed compliment of sorts. Knowing that I did my best, and that my best is better than I give myself credit for. I just wasn't meant for the role. Not this time.<br />
<br />
There's a line in Tom Stoppard's <i>Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead</i> that keeps coming to mind: "Which is a kind of integrity, if you look on every exit being an entrance somewhere else."<br />
<br />
I'm not meant to enter the role of Margaret More. I'm exiting from the stage for a while, metaphorically and literally, the enter into something else. Something that's more suited for me at this point of my life. It would have been amazing to do a beautiful drama like<i> A Man for All Seasons</i>. It would have been delightful to work with a different director and several new-found, good theatre friends. It would have been fun to wear those heavy, authentic 1600's costumes. It would have been, it would have been, it would have been.<br />
<br />
But it won't be. Not for me. I don't need to be Meg. I don't need to enter here. I'm needed somewhere else.<br />
<br />
I'm just waiting for the cue.Ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12473244230060079459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4383353023481350850.post-46171551406793814202013-12-20T17:00:00.000-07:002013-12-20T17:00:09.332-07:00I don't know what to write today. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It seems I've cycled back through to a realm in which I've lost the words. A realm that isn't pleasant to dwell in, mind you, and one I don't make a practice of visiting much. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I started watching Lord of the Rings. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It was last week, and I scrambled to finish an essay I should have written a good four weeks beforehand, knowing my friends were gathered at a house several blocks away watching hobbits and dwarves sing and adventure. Thankfully they'd started the movie late, so I made it in time to leave the Shire.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But I've never been much of a fan. I've never seen Lord of the Rings, other than several parts multiple times (how I manage to walk into the room or change the channel during the same battle sequence as often as six times is beyond me). I went because 1) it was the cool kids. The cool kids were watching the movie, and I'm sorry, but I'm part of the cool kids for once so I make an effort to participate in their outings. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Or innings, rather.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
2) We, the cool kids, were going to the midnight premier the following night of the Hobbit. For contingency's sake we'd scheduled it like this. So I went. So I wouldn't be lost.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And both that night and the following night in the theater behind two friends in hobbit garb, I was a goner. That rascal Peter Jackson, that sly dog Tolkien sucked me in. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I miss imagination. I miss reading epics, I miss the formulation of something other than contemporary life swirling through my mind. I miss difference. I miss clarity and uniqueness and beauty. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I want it. I want to write, I want to read, I want to watch and feel something. I want something, my heart constricting with the idea that I have nothing--which is false in every sense of the phrase, but as is said in the play Seminar, paraphrased because I can't manage to find my copy of the script, "Writer's need to feel something to write."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I haven't been feeling much lately. And now all I feel is that ache to feel, that need to feel. It's not really much, but I suppose it's enough. </div>
Ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12473244230060079459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4383353023481350850.post-52215095759998968212013-11-25T00:36:00.001-07:002013-11-25T00:36:39.810-07:00You and I BothA lot of girls are looking for a knight in shining armor or a stranger in a white hat.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm looking for a man in a powder blue tux.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It was back when Music Television was Music Television, and my older brother sat as he always did watching the latest music videos. He called me into the room, and I entered, begrudgingly assuming he'd beckoned me in order to insist I bring him a beverage.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"What?" I grumbled in my elementary school way.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Look at this guy. Watch this."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I entered the room further and stood watching the screen.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He was in a bank, holding a piggy bank, clothed in a powder blue tux, and the cops in their riot gear started dance-fighting with him, and all the while he smiled and sang, even as they slammed him onto the hood of the cop car.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I remember thinking this man was amazing.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It wasn't until a few years later, as I discovered YouTube as a viable source to stalk my newfound favorite musician Jason Mraz, that I decided to actually watch his official music videos, and loaded one for a song I knew from his first album.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I smiled to myself, in my adolescent way, at his cuteness as he tried to woo the bank teller with his piggy bank, but it wasn't until he entered the frame in a powder blue tux that the memories came flooding back, that the connection was made that I'd seen this before. I'd held great feelings of respect and adoration for this man before I ever knew of him or wanted to know of him. I had know idea the significance of our first meeting until the second happened.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That's how it should be. He'll come before I expect him, I may not even recognize him for a while. He'll be there, a part of my life that is significant enough to have a memory, but vague enough to be buried under the dirty laundry from my science classes. And then the moment will be right, I'll have found him, perhaps not even aware he's the one, and one day it'll click that I've seen this before, I knew this before, and I just needed to remember.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A lot of girls are looking for a knight in shining armor or a stranger in a white hat.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm looking for a man in a powder blue tux.<br />
<br /></div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/oieBnV_HFB0" width="420"></iframe>Ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12473244230060079459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4383353023481350850.post-1266725180481628402013-11-14T00:33:00.000-07:002013-11-14T00:33:17.447-07:00A little thing called courage. It's been a while, and having just updated my personal journal I decided to delay studying for my chemistry test/sleep a little longer by updating this.<br />
<br />
For the sake of congruence, abide by the convention that one day doesn't actually end until you've gone to sleep for the night, so while the clock says it's November 14th, I'm still awake on the 13th. Otherwise the post is pointless.<br />
<br />
A year ago today I auditioned for the Improvables.<br />
<br />
This was a big deal, for reasons that can be revisited in a post from back in <a href="http://modern-daymuse.blogspot.com/2013/03/maybe-best-hasnt-happened-yet.html" target="_blank">March</a>, but it was also a big deal because that one choice led my life to what it is now.<br />
<br />
Let me elaborate. The decision to meet Jason Mraz was a huge, obvious choice, but had I happened to miss the VIP memo, or been unable to get tickets before they sold out, or been unable to travel to see him in concert, I would for the most part--as far as hindsight lends me to see--be the same person with one less amazing story and one less glorious profile picture.<br />
<br />
Now this isn't 100% true, but I'm using it on the basis that when I returned from Colorado I was the same girl with a new experience under her belt. I still went to Weber, I still lived at home, I was still badgered with existentialist notions...<br />
<br />
Auditioning for improv changed me.<br />
<br />
I didn't want to go. It had been years since I'd regularly done improv, and I'd gone to a troupe workshop once during my first year at college and had felt like a child and moron the whole time. I didn't go back. I couldn't stand the idea of being inadequate. And as I walked through my house to the door into my garage, dressed in my jeans and a purple shirt and my new purple boots from that trip to Colorado, I told myself no. Turn around, go back upstairs, get in your pajamas and get on the internet. Don't even bother. You're not going to get in anyway. You don't need to leave the house.<br />
<br />
And a small, weak, uneducated voice told me "Then what have you got to lose?"<br />
<br />
We've recently been counseled to doubt our doubts. Elder Holland gave a talk a few conferences back about clinging to what we do know, not dwelling on the gaps in our faith or understanding. Doubt your doubts and draw faith from the things that are solid enough to hold on to. Build up the others as you may, but don't let them be the focus.<br />
<br />
That little voice has grown, strengthened, become a regular occurrence in my head. I'm not that girl anymore. I'm not that girl that doesn't talk, that doesn't contribute, that sits back and wishes life would happen to her. I'm not that girl that hides in words. I'm not that girl. I became something else last year, and it wasn't meeting my idol that did it. It wasn't having his arm around my shoulder or his gaze locked in mine. It was girding up my loins, grabbing my jacket, and getting in my car on a chilled November night, driving to a theatre I'd never be a part of, to audition for a troupe that would never recognize me as more than a patron, to an audition that would prove fruitless, to return home and amble back into my life of nothingness; that endless staircase to nowhere because I don't have enough stars yet to get to Bowser.<br />
<br />
But by leaving the house, by enduring that audition, I was doing something besides scaling a staircase. I was earning stars. And a few months down the line I'd have enough.<br />
<br />
I wanted to write tonight because of something that it's becoming clear to me I've already said a million times on this blog. But I'm saying it again anyway, so just deal with it. Everything happens for a reason. I can't see myself as anything but what I am now. I'm so grateful this person has been formed from the ashes, and that I gave myself the opportunity to burn up the old me and rise again. I'm grateful for the trial and error, for the experimentation, for the heartache, for the patience, for the surprise, for the friendships, for the revelations, for everything that's happened to me in the past 12 months, because I can attribute it--all of it--to one day in November. One ordinary day that brought forth everything but ordinary outcomes.<br />
<br />
Here's to another year. Here's to earning more stars and fighting more bosses. Here's to a little courage.Ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12473244230060079459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4383353023481350850.post-69077779105090847682013-10-06T21:44:00.000-06:002013-10-06T21:44:03.991-06:00There's a picture on [her] kitchen wall...My grandma has a picture wall at her house. The focal point is a large framed piece of embroidery with every grandchild's name down to my older brother. Around it, organized by family, are frames with each grandchild. Every year for Christmas we would give Grandma, among other things, a 4x6 copy of that years school photo to update her frames. For the past two years Graduating Senior Erica has been smiling her most attractive yearbook smile of all time, her right bra strap slightly peering out from the red half-shirt donned for the rite of passage that is Senior Photo Day. I've watched my elder cousins' photos change as they mature, and become a picture of an engaged couple, a married couple, a couple with a child, a couple with three children. I've watched them each make an advancement in life, whether that be marriage, childbirth, or the donning of a Marine uniform. And in one case, today, I made note of the missionary.<br />
<br />
There's an unfortunate folly in my family, in that one of my dad's brothers never really managed to get to family party's much with his wife. And kids. To all of my cousins I'm at least five years younger, if not a substantial amount more, or at minimum five years older. Except for two of them. But we hardly know each other, and it's one of those things that, at least for me, is too awkward now to breach any gap. One is two years older than me, or so. I can't give definites because, frankly, I don't know. The other, a boy, is 18 days my senior. Recipe for a best-friend cousin, right?<br />
<br />
Except not.<br />
<br />
He's been on a mission to Detroit for about a year now, more or less, and his picture on the wall is a smiling blonde in a suit before some trees.<br />
<br />
I looked at the picture today, noticing the different quality of photo when comparing his to the studio shot pictures of his siblings, and I looked back at my own. And my mind flashed to all the pictures coming up on Facebook of my female missionary friends having pre-mission pictures taken, out in the woods wearing dresses with a namebadge, holding a Book of Mormon in whichever language they'll be speaking, and I wanted my picture to change. I'm excited for the moment my tenderhearted grandma can put a female missionary in her frame, probably crying the whole time because nowadays you can just smile at her and she'll well up. I imaged the two of us, these would-have-could-have-should-have-been best friend cousins both out serving Jesus in their Sunday best.<br />
<br />
It's become part of my heart beat. I see girls in tights or skirts walking on campus and think to myself if those would suit the modesty standards required of a missionary. I help a friend with her mic backstage at the musical and she warns me she's wearing her "Jesus jammies," and I think about what I'll need to change in my wardrobe once I'm endowed. I have discussions with non-Mormon or ex-Mormon friends and tell them openly how I feel about my choices and my beliefs, and try to figure out how to turn that from casual conversation into moments of testimony baring. It crops into my mind every once in a while that I'm going on a mission and I get all excited. Everything seems to say it's time, it's right, unless I start looking for reasons it shouldn't be. But I remind myself there's more pro than con, there's more good than bad. I've wanted an adventure my whole life. I've wanted to shed these mountains and take wing. I have an opportunity. I intend to take it.Ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12473244230060079459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4383353023481350850.post-64304659572775529362013-09-27T14:50:00.000-06:002013-09-27T14:50:17.140-06:00But There's a Difference in Wish and Wait.Things are different.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And to the few of you that read this blog, I suppose I'll have to tell you the thing I'm not really talking about in public because there's still that little voice in my head that says "No. You're not. So just be quiet."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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I'm going on a mission.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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At least, to concede to the voice in my head, that's my intent.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I've had the notion swirling in my head on and off for about the last year. As you may recall, they changed the mission age last October, and I feel like I've written this before so I won't be extensive with it, I realized I wasn't in an position to serve a mission. I wasn't one of those girls who could grab the phone in that instance and set up a meeting with my bishop and post on Facebook about how my mission papers were a few signatures away from being sent in. And that bothered me.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
I've never planned on a mission. Never. I always told myself I'd wait until I was 21 to decide; by then I'd surely be married or steadily dating a fellow that was days or weeks away from popping the question, and the idea of leaving my secular life for 18 months wouldn't matter or be applicable. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Over the past year a lot has happened. I meant to blog about it on Tuesday, as it was the one year anniversary of that time I met Jason Mraz and it only seemed appropriate, but I haven't had time. And now my mind's on other things. Climbing out of my digression, within the past year I decided to try for the mission thing--tentatively--and see what came out of it. I started reading the Book of Mormon daily. I started saying "official" prayers. I took a mission prep institute class.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And I'd decide to go. I'd share something in a religious context and would feel this buzz that a mission would be the right choice. Then I'd leave institute and it'd be gone. I'd lay everything out and conclude it was best to stay home and continue on in the schooling and the hunting for a man. And then an hour later I'd want to go on a mission.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
I couldn't keep an answer, and it began to worry me that this was one of those instances the Lord was leaving up to me; that I would be fine and could progress in whichever course I should chose, but there was nothing critical hinging on the choice. That's all it was: a choice.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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And He was letting me use my God-given right to chose.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
And that scared me. If you've ever worked with me, you know I tend to be indecisive about a lot of things, or that I at least require someone else's opinion to balance out my perspective before I come to a conclusion. Deciding to set aside 18 months of my life is not a small choice. And I hated that I had to chose. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I wanted a Saul of Tarsus moment. I wanted to be struck down with the right option and to rise from the moment as though scales were falling from my eyes, knowing what course I should tread with the remainder of my life.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I suppose, using that lovely thing called hindsight, I've reached that point. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Kate Carroll's farewell. I almost didn't go. I had my own church meetings I could be going to, no one was going with me to her farewell. I didn't need to go.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
But I went. And I remember writing in my notebook that I was glad I was there, that I had made that sacrifice to come and see her off and hear her speak. I was grateful for the experience, and (and I wrote this at that moment, mind) if I hadn't gone, I wouldn't have had it. What experiences would I miss--never knowing what they could have been--if I elected not to go on a mission?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Every friend I've mentioned my indecision regarding the mission to has told me without hesitation that I would make a good missionary. I had a girl in my mission prep class seek me out after class one day asking me how far along I was on my papers, and when I explained I still was undecided she told me based on my comments in class that I would be an excellent missionary. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I'd like to live out of state. At least for a few years." I said in between chips.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Yeah. I went on a mission; I could live anywhere, I've proven that to myself. I want to live around here." He said it and it smarted; I knew he didn't mean it as a stab, but I took it as one. A mission would cure my itch to get past these mountains and experience something beyond the shade of my current umbrella. He didn't know, but I reacted to it as if he understood my want to know where God would send me, should I ask for the call.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I talked with one of my married friends and she pointed out how the world is getting worse and children born into this world will need a righteous priesthood holder in the family. A girl I've never even personally met but became friends with on Facebook because I knew her older sister posted some quote from an Apostle about who better worthy to raise a righteous generation than a woman who has served the Lord.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I made a pro/con list last Sunday in sacrament meeting. And as I wrote the cons it hit me how stupid they all were. For months I'd been clinging to these factors as my, for lack of a better word, excuse to stay safely sheltered in the linear life I have built. And they were stupid. I had to make myself finish the list because I just wanted to give up because they were so dumb, and I knew--for the first time--in that moment that I've known all along what the answer was. I've known all along what the answer had to be. I just <i>really </i>didn't want to see it. I wanted the Saul of Tarsus moment to knock me off my feet and into the field because I didn't have the strength to come to the conclusion on my own. If I had to go there, I wanted Him to push me there.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That night I was talking with my parents and remembered the one con I hadn't written: money.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And everything came crashing and it all felt so wrong and I could do it. I couldn't go. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I talked with one my best friends yesterday and she did some math with me, and we determined that if I spend next semester in the way I planned when the mission thing became very apparent, I can finance a mission perfectly. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And I can't ignore it anymore. Thousands of times I made the decision and changed my mind, then a few days later made the decision and changed my mind. Things are different this time. I made my decision, changed my mind, and since that moment it hasn't left my mind. I haven't had that hitherto. I haven't had this film of "mission" glossing over all my thoughts, I haven't had that as the backdrop in my mind, as the dart board I aim all my darts at. But I do now. I can't get it out of my head. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And I feel stupid that it took me a year to get to this point, but at the same time I needed that year of unofficial preparation. I needed a year of my optimistic plans falling through, a year of my faith growing, a year of my courage developing, a year to establish an open love for this gospel as something I not only carry but share. I needed this. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I needed to wait.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I told him I'd prayed about my ex, and that the answer was to keep carrying on; I haven't had enough experience with boys to know if the relationship needed ending or not.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Did you...pray about us?" He asked me.</div>
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<br /></div>
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"Yes." I told him, truthfully.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"And what...was your...answer...?"</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
"Wait." I answered, almost before he could finish his sentence. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He laughed. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I've been waiting for a while. I wasn't sure what for, only that good things were coming to me in due course of time.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
There's a difference in wish and wait. Abby said the hardest part was deciding. And I don't think I can hide from it anymore. </div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/xC0fxt2ACV0" width="560"></iframe><br />
All the time was worth the wait.Ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12473244230060079459noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4383353023481350850.post-72476757048567854932013-09-10T18:49:00.001-06:002013-09-10T18:49:19.013-06:00The Most Beautiful Day"How is everyone today?"<br />
<br />
"So good!"<br />
<br />
"Wow. Why <b>so </b>good?"<br />
<br />
I shrugged. "I don't know. I've kind of been irritated because I got up this morning and my shoe was broken but I'd already gone out the door so now I'm wearing a broken shoe and I'm just trying to convince myself it's a good thing."<br />
<br />
Today has been the most beautiful day.<br />
<br />
My new shoes of less than a month that I'd worn, prior to today, a grand total of once have a broken zipper on one shoe which leaves it functioning like a tissue box on my feet. I forgot my institute notebook today. A gal I know called me by my best friend's name. Someone told me I should donate blood. I was late to my acting class and they'd already started warmups without me. Construction workers broke the main water line to the one building on campus I was spending the rest of the day in, leaving all of the restrooms with signs reading "No water; please don't use" on the doors. I found out about free pasta after having lunched on a bag of mediocre pretzels. There are open spots for female parts in an original play reading for this Friday, and Friday is the only day this week I work. My music scene for my directing class filled up half as much time as I'd anticipated, leaving my music at an awkward cut-off point instead of rounding nicely to a close. And my shoes. Did I mention my shoes?<br />
<br />
I don't know what it was about today, the pastel of the weather or one determined notion to be optimistic about a broken accessory, but today has been the most beautiful day.<br />
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There were blessings, yes, I'm not saying awful things just kept happening. I actually had to really dig in my memory for all the wrongs I just listed. I got to use my free institute parking pass today, the janitor waited until after I'd left the bathroom to do that creepy janitor knock, I talked with that cool girl in my institute class, received a free Caprice Sun, ran into that guy from my Spanish class not once but twice, gave feedback in Tracy's class to a fellow actor without feeling like Tracy thought I was an incoherent dullard, had an epiphany that saved my music scene thematically, caught Derek just in time to borrow his keys to get books from the prop hall for my epiphany, was chosen for Niki's music scene and got to have fun with some friends in pantomime, related my traffic patterns well enough for my "actors" to follow them, got a ride home with one of my best friends, was greeted at the gate by my two adorable puppies who couldn't wait to play with me, found something suitable at home for second lunch, watched an unseen and hilarious episode of Spongebob, went to the temple (in which there was zero crowding) and had one of the female workers tell me I had a beautiful spirit about me.<br />
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And how could I not when I'd just had the most beautiful day?<br />
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There's a wall on the outside of the Bountiful temple that runs with the sidewalk. From the right angle it looks as though the wall is solid, leaving you with no way to make a full circle around the temple unless you jumped another wall and used the manicured grass.<br />
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Taking a few steps forward, however, the wall opens up revealing a staircase to the other side of the building.</div>
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It's a matter of perspective.<br />
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I once sat on the west side of the temple pondering after a solitary baptism session, and decided to make a full circle around the temple on my way back to my car. I made it as far as the first picture, grunted in dismay that the sidewalk led nowhere, and headed frustrated back the way I'd come.<br />
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It wasn't until later, perhaps as I circled the temple in my car, that I noticed there was in fact a staircase; I just couldn't see it.<br />
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I wonder how often we glance down the path and see no benefit before us, so we stop walking altogether, unaware that should we take even a few steps the way will become clear and we can go where we desire to go without backtracking.<br />
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We discussed in institute today the chapters (1 Nephi 11-14ish. But for sure 11) in which it is revealed to Nephi the meaning of his father's dream regarding the Tree of Life. The teacher ended the class with a look at all the types of people found in association to the Iron Rod: those who will not touch it, those who loosely grasp it, those who cling to it and don't move, those who hold it but move the opposite direction of the tree, and those who grip it and move forward.<br />
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It's not enough to hold the rod. You have to move.<br />
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Faith can't take you anywhere, the Lord can't take you anywhere unless you pick up your feet and walk. Today was the most beautiful day because at some point I decided I would keep walking until I could see the beauty. And it wasn't long until I found it.<br />
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And the longer I walked, the more beautiful it became.Ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12473244230060079459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4383353023481350850.post-859640396087411262013-09-09T22:23:00.002-06:002013-09-09T22:23:55.196-06:00-another untitled-I wasn't sure what I was looking at anymore. And hours later wasn't sure how my overactive imagination would insist I felt in the moment. Because as it happened, right then with my eyes blinking slowly at a night growing deeper, I was distant and safe; reserved and aloof. Unattached and uncaring.<br />
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And then tomorrow came.<br />
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And in the light of today all the truths were gone, replaced by the ache of what I can't have; what I don't have. What I won't have. What I've spent months understanding isn't coming down that road, but another I've yet to cross. Remembering taxes my emotions into believing a reality I knew at dusk wasn't so.<br />
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And yet I sit wishing, knowing then I was unfeeling, that life could continue its course underneath like water under the bridge, and I could stay stagnant observing all the Hundred Acre Woods creatures floating by on their backs and in sauce pans, knowing I'd come out of this unscathed and alright.<br />
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But doubt, and a series of rehashed thoughts, have me spinning in the current with the owl.<br />
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<br />Ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12473244230060079459noreply@blogger.com0