I Wish the Real World Would Just Stop Hassling Me

My dad's retired. He likes to sit in his lazy boy and watch discussions on politics because, frankly, he believes every day is taking us one step closer to the second coming.

They said something and my mom started freaking out.

"It's coming." Dad said. I regretted not listening. Those shows are on so often I tend to force them into background sound that rarely reaches me. At least when I'm preoccupied.

"What does that mean?" I asked, referring to the statement I'd missed.

"It means our standard of living is going to go down."

It's the age old cliche, "Life's not fair." I know I should understand this, having heard it on every sitcom I've ever viewed, but I can't help but be indignant. Soon I'll be a high school graduate. Soon I'll be off to college, off to the real world. I can see me entering a career, I can see me trying to start a family. I can see me trying to give my children all they deserve. I can see me trying to give me all I deserve. And it's not fair. Why I can't have the America I had when I was a kid, day-dreaming of growing up to become a veterinarian or a doctor? Why can't I have the America my parents had when they brought me into this world? Why can't I have the America they wrote of in the Constitution? Why has Karma picked my generation for its dumping ground?

A girl I work with once told me how her mom would always let them go visit relatives out of state when they were younger. She said it was because her mother wanted them to know what the real world was like. To quote her exactly, she said it was because "Utah is some protective bubble." She didn't want her children to grow up naive and in the dark.

Perhaps when Brigham Young said this was the place, he didn't mean it for the pioneers with their covered wagons. Perhaps he meant it for me, for you, for anyone who wants that America we grew up proud of. Perhaps this was the place to establish a protective bubble from the real world.

Because perhaps the real world would get rather terrible.

Perhaps the real world is rather terrible.

But what do I know? I'm a gullible resident of the bubble who doesn't even listen to transmissions from the real world.

Horses Bred With Star Laced Wings

I've had a lot of strange dreams lately. But the most common of all my dreams are the ones that show what you don't want to see. The ones that keep taking you by the hand and saying, "Dear. You still want this. Dear, you're not done yet."

Last night an old crush and I were talking. In my dream. And according to this dream the part of him being an "old" crush is utterly, wholeheartedly untrue. According to this dream, and my wiser subconscious, he's a current crush, a current love, dare I say. And we were talking.

And it felt so good, after chasing him down in my dreams for weeks, after seeing his image in my dreams for weeks, it felt so good to talk it away; to say my opinion, to hear him say his; to see through his eyes while he saw through mine. It felt so good to make it alright.

Perhaps this was spurred by the book I'm currently reading, Impossible (by Nancy Werlin), and the passage last night where Lucy had to confirm that Zach would stay her friend, that Zach would always be her friend.

Then I dreamed me and this crush were talking, like friends, and we even said that we both wanted to be friends, in spite of how I felt for him in the past (though, of course, my dream made me remember it's a current "feel" not a "felt", little does he know). And it just felt so good.

I love those kind of dreams, though I hate that they make me see the truth of who I am and what I'm dealing with. But I love the dreams that lock me so deeply in dreamland that I want to stay. I want to try to sleep till four in the afternoon with a full bladder because the dream is so...

Is so...

Is so much better.

I once heard someone say that they'd heard dreams were our reality, and, as Jason Mraz puts it, "this life is but a dream." (song: Live High). I told them jokingly back,

"I hope so, because the Dream Me has met Jason Mraz at least six times."

But what I tell myself is,

"I hope so, because things are so much simpler, so much prettier there."

In dreams I can be myself, perhaps that's because I create the world I dream I'm in. I wish I could speak to my subconscious, she's much brighter than I'll ever be.

But it's nice to know she'll keep speaking to me. She'll keep sending me dreams.

Whether I like the message or not.

Whenever We Pretend It's Summer

Well folks, it's that time of year again: Summer. It didn't really hit me until today as I sat in Lizz's car and grumbled to myself about the patch of sun burning my right arm into oblivion. And as I drove home from school with my Daphne Willis CD at the questionable volume 12, I found I have hope for this summer. It's almost like the fact that I'm being "rushed" into this summer vacation, due to the fact of bizarre wintertime weather, will somehow allow me to channel the adrenaline that usually accompanies summer breaks into productive somethings. Usually I burn out said adrenaline by the last day of school, and the "dog days" of summer become nothing more than that.

But I have the motivation this year. I pretty much have to. I mean, after all, this is the last summer.

What shall I accomplish on this my final summer of careless freedom? So glad you inquired. Here is my list. My "Bucket List", if you will:

• wake up at no later than 9:00 am each day (so I actually have some "summer days" instead of just those "summer nights" (kudos if you caught the musical pun))
• establish a habit of practicing piano and voice lessons nearly everyday
• read all the books on my bookshelf that haven't been read (I'm thinking of starting with "A Summer to Die". I don't know why. It just somehow seems relevant.)
• finally write that soon-to-be best selling novel (Cris Wooding published his first book at age 19. I gotta beat him.)
• get a smokin' tan
• get a smokin' bod
• get a smokin' man (hey, that inadvertently rhymed)
• read the Book of Mormon (We started yesterday as a Young Womens. So far I'm behind.)
• finish all, if not most, of my Personal Progress (yes, I am indeed a procrastinator)
• fix that horrible dent en mi coche (translation: fix that horrible dent in my car)
• compose accompaniment for one of my songs (I secretly want to try Battle of the Bands next year. And when that doesn't work at least I'll have something for Choir Semester Projects.)
• hit the gym with Erin. Maybe Lexi too (this kinda goes hand in hand with "get a smokin' bod")
• watch a movie with Lexi every Tuesday night (so far on the list: Muppets in Space, Back to the Future, Oliver and Company...)
• beat Zombies Vs. Plants (must... hear... tricycle song... *twitch*)
• figure out who's on my top five Hottest Celebrities (so far on the list: Jason Mraz, the young Michael J. Fox, and that dude that plays Steve in All About Steve)
• create a computer virus

Okay, that last one's total BS, but I felt I had to end it nicely somehow. And to me, "nice" can only be achieved by a homemade gift. Such as a computer virus.

Well, that is all I have to say here. I wanted to leave you a video of the Daphne Willis hit that has, for the time being, become my Summer Anthem. But, alas, that's the trouble with fresh, unheard artists. Their youtube video base is severely lacking.

Sometimes I forget how lucky I am that there are pathetic fans who video my singer of choice.

Mraz stalkers, Unite!

Here, Have Some Stress

"Ow." I thought as I tripped over the sprinkler head that dark, Fourth of July evening, landing to my knees on the sidewalk.

"You alright?" Grandma asked as I stood and brushed myself off.

"Yeah." I said, running back into Aunt Janet's house. I'd needed the bathroom, not a face plant.

I was washing my hands when I looked down at my legs. Low and behold, there was a circle of raw skin, signifying the classic scraped knee. I was surprised to see it there; I felt totally fine, it didn't even hurt.

Immediately I was struck with intense pain.

Fast forward nine years.

"Hey girl," Ashley said, walking around my car after lunch. "What happened to your car?"

"What?" I asked, shocked, expecting some scratch mark from Hades.

I rounded my back bumper.

No worries, there's no scratch.



I couldn't believe myself. The only time I could figure this happening was the day before.

I'd been driving around for a day without noticing my baby was hurt.

I've always considered the MrazMobile as an extension of my arm. Its name suggests it's a boy, but I'm so in tune with it it just has to be a girl. I can't make up my mind, so I only ever call it by its name: MrazMobile.

I could not believe I hadn't seen, I hadn't felt that epic dent. I couldn't believe a part of me could be injured so terribly and not have demanded I know so. How could I have been so dumb? How could I not have walked around my car, at least once that day? Why didn't I move my car at lunch, or even after school?

I'm so protective of it, you think I would have at least scoped it out once I got outside. But I didn't. I left it in harms way and out of my mind until someone pointed it out.

And like the Fourth of July, somethings just don't hurt until we see them. And once they're noticed, they absolutely kill.

See me through his eyes

Perfect is in the perspective.

I used to be happy I was me, because then I didn't have to look at myself everyday.

I was imperfect.

I used to clam up and look awkwardly away near those random faces in my classes, because I didn't feel adult enough to actually speak.

My words were imperfect.

I used to sit and wonder why I wasn't thin like them because, let's face it, I wasn't thin like them.
My body was imperfect.

But now there's people saying

"You're just gorgeous"

"You're so cute"

"You're so funny"

"You're so thin"

"You have the perfect body"

The perfect body?

That's something that has escaped me since elementary...the perfect body... Me? Perfect? Me? Thin?

We got to talking Sunday in church about ura and omote, which are (if I'm remembering correctly) Japanese philosophical terms which simply mean "the internal view of self" (ura), and "the outside world or the way it's viewed" (omote). And out teacher asked,

"Which is more real?"

And the boy next to me responded, "Most people would say it's omote, but I disagree. The ura changes the omote."

We see the world in a different light. Each of us. Why? Because we each have our own ura, our own view of ourselves, and our view of selves affects our view of the world.

So why can they call me perfect and thin? Why can they tell me what I am sure I am not?

Their ura is not mine. Their omote is not mine.

Perfect is in the perspective.

Perhaps we should just change ours.

Better

Read Better (Live) Lyrics here.

I should have learned to never look up Jason Mraz youtube videos. Because this is one song I'll be singing for the next year and, as you may or may not be able to tell based on Jason's scrawny figure, over-sized clothes, and baseball hat, that this song will not be appearing on the next album.

Not even the next live album.

It's only getting better...

Books... Are so perfect. Even the books based on "Unfortunate Events" are perfect. Sometimes I look out the window at the summer green leaves on that tree and listen to this man sing and I ponder. If I was a book, what would be perfect that isn't right now? What would be "better"?

Is it a lack of motivation on my part? If I was flooring it, pedal to the metal, would I not have to sit and wonder? Would I know? Not saying I'm not satisfied with my life, no no. But on days like today: warm, sunny days with summer calling and Mraz singing... I get thinking. Jason Mraz followed some invisible drive inside him, something that kept pushing/pulling him on, and he found his way, scrawny and clad in over-sized clothes, to play his heart strings in Java Joe's, and from there the world. He found that perfect place common in books.

He found his "better".

And when I hear him sing on days like this, in moments like this, I feel like I'm tasting my "better". That feeling in my heart, in my soul even, is testament to that "better" that's waiting out there for me. I can feel fate at my door, but I'm unable to answer it yet. I know it's there, when Mraz sings I can feel it, but I can't come yet. I can't get "better" yet.

But I know it gets better. It only gets better.

I just don't know when or where my "better"'s coming.

It's just there. Waiting.

Well, I'm waiting for it too.

Maybe it's better this way.

Free Falling

I love snowglobes. I love to run my hands over the glass, to feel the cool smoothness of perfection. I love to peer at the innocent scene inside, that perfect little world, that little piece of happy. I love to gingerly pick it up and turn it over, every nerve on end praying I don't loose my grip. I love to quickly set it right, before my luck runs out and I drop it. I love to watch the snow fall, wondering what it's made of, and what it would feel like outside its watered dome.

I have my own snowglobe. I don't touch it much. The ciaos of snow is nice, but it's not worth the risk of shattering the glass. I keep it on my shelf. It's surrounded by other happy nik-knacks and random sentimental pictures. I keep it safe and upright. I keep it from falling.

She has a snowglobe too. I suppose if she could she'd glue it down; though, knowing her, she might shake it often, just for the reaction: just to watch the snow fall down. She likes ciaos. Or, this is possibly more accurate, she likes to pretend there's ciaos. She likes the brief fall of snow, and the instant peace and true calm that comes as it settles. Yes, she likes to shake the globe, she likes to make it snow; but she'd never drop it. Never.

But she doesn't work her own snowglobe. Its shelf isn't in her room. It's called her globe but it's not hers to shake.

And it's not hers to drop.

She stood there for a moment, watching them turn the globe on it's back, watching the snow start to fall. The plastic snow didn't make her smile. The stormy ciaos didn't bring thrill. They've done this before, many a time before, and though she'd shake the globe herself, the vision of them doing so is nauseating, not invigorating.

She watched them plunge her perfect world in snow.

And, in an unspoken agreement, they slowly relaxed their fingers.

It fell slowly to the ground, a moment where things truly stop and go in slow-motion. A moment where, if you were conscious enough, you could reach out and stop it from happening. But you never realize you could have caught it until it's already hit and time is regular once more.

She watched it fall.

She watched perfection break, perfection shatter, perfection flow in a microscopic river.

She saw her globe in pieces, her happiness broken on the floor.

And nothing is ever as captivating when mended with tape.