"The Fascist v. the Faulty," (or) Me and My Cell Phone

This is me.

This is me with my mostly-destroyed "phone."

I dropped it a few days ago, and the face plate popped off and refused to be resecured, despite my best coaxing.

Since then, it seems like every time I turn around (or drop it again?) some new piece unfixes itself: the keypad, the volume button on the side, the strip of plastic over the microphone. The screen followed — I somehow managed to reattach it, but it's still rather fritzy.

Did I mention that sometimes, if I hold the beast just right, my skin completes some circuit and I get a tiny shock to the face? It stings a little bit, but I'm hoping it'll prove to be some weird form of facial (as per here). Hey, as long as it's going to be shocking me, may as well remove a few wrinkles — am I right?

This phone is just the latest in a long line of nemeses I have acquired. Most are electrical gadgets, ranging anywhere from old laptops to older sewing machines. Others are things of which I simply can't keep track (toothbrushes, class notes, keys, and combs being at the top of that list).

I'll admit, a lot of this is my fault. I'm definitely not the gentlest with my belongings.

It's possible that this beastly gadget may have been helped along the road of destruction by my two-year-old niece, who put it through a rack and an iron maiden (and possibly some water-boarding, as well). I can't deny that I allowed her to handle my phone fully knowing the torture she was likely to incur. I also may have dropped it in the snow, lost it on a number of occasions, stepped on it, sat on it, nervously fiddled with it (i.e. pulled it apart), etc.

But I can't officially confirm or deny any of this, of course.

I'm like the tyrannical despot that demands too much out of her citizens, then tramples all over them while living the life of luxury. My belongings are just bound to turn against me eventually.

When I get a replacement, I'm planning to take this "phone" apart, mount each layer side by side, and frame it. You know, as an example to all other subjects thinking of staging a coup. And maybe out of some minor desire for revenge (sweet, sweet revenge).

Maybe some day I actually will lead a luxurious life; then I'll be able to afford things nice enough to be worth taking good care of.

Until then, I'll just keep the bamboo shoots ready and the guillotine well-oiled.

A Case of Wanderlust.

Today Chris and I were watching The Brothers Bloom again. During the scene where Bloom steals an apple, Chris said, "That park is awesome."

"You've been there?" I asked.

"Yea, I've been there."

"Where is it?" I asked.

"It's in Prague." Which would make sense, as that's where this particular section of the movie is set.

I paused. Repeated in my head: Prague. "I want to go to Prague."

Image courtesy of here.

To be honest, I didn't even know what country the city is in. Google has since informed me that Prague is the capital city of the Czech Republic. But my initial ignorance of Prague's location has only reaffirmed this fact to me: I need to see the world.

The onset of my wanderlust has been a recent thing. In my younger years, I wasn't that interested in the world. And in many ways, I think I was afraid of what I would see.

When I was fourteen, my family flew out to Chicago. I remember visiting the Art Institute of Chicago, posing next one of the towering lion statues out front, majestic even though they were crusted green with oxidization. We visited Buckingham Memorial Fountain at night, watched it light up spectacularly with different colors.

I don't remember being that impressed. I liked it OK, but growing up in Vegas, you get used to spectacles. Vegas has an Eiffel Tower, a Statue of Liberty, a volcano, a bi-hourly pirate attack; and artificial as all these things may be, they still manage to cheapen the overall effect of the originals.

I was impressed, however, by the bums.

Maybe it was because I didn't spend much time in downtown Las Vegas, but it seemed that the Windy City had more than its fair share of the homeless.

Homeless people in Vegas are often charming, will chat you up. They look tan and leathered. They say, "God bless you. Now you have a good day, now," when you give them some money. They might thank you by doing a dance. They hold signs that say things like: "Father killed by ninjas. Need $$$ for karate lessons." Maybe most of the time they are just too blitzed out of their minds to appear that sad.

But in Chicago, not only were the homeless more numerous, they were more pitiable as well.

Bums there sat in wheelchairs, one leg or even both clearly missing. Some leaned against walls, or huddled over, knees to chest, one hand holding a cup that they slowly clinked from side to side. They were everywhere, and they looked so openly dejected, and it frightened me. I wanted to give money to enough of the homeless people we passed on the street that my dad finally told me to cut it out, that at this rate we would never get anywhere.

But the whole thing was uncomfortable to me. I remember that whole trip as being overshadowed by a greater realization that the world was a bit uglier than I had previously thought.

Then, the summer after I graduated from high school, I made a trip to Boston and New York with my brother Brandon, his wife, and my younger sister. Before going, I was apprehensive of visiting another big city.

To my surprise, however, I loved the city. I loved its life, its ceaseless pace.

I loved when it surprised me, with its sheer size, the endless number of people packed onto each street, the delicious food. One night we headed back to our hotel after midnight, after going to the jazz club, Birdland. I don't know why, but I was surprised to find the subway car empty but for us; tired and slaphappy, I did a Russian-style jig around the car.

I think I was afraid, at one time, of seeing the world, of facing the reality of it.

But now, I see: the world guarantees I will be surprised, but I am the one who decides if it's good, or if it is bad; if it is beautiful, or if it is ugly.

I want to see the world.

I want to be surprised.

Now, around people like Chris who have been all over Europe or spent months at a time living outside the United States, I am envious. But I am hopeful. I'll get my turn.

Telling my own story.

I saw The Brothers Bloom this past summer, and I absolutely loved it. It's a clever, funny tale about two brothers, Stephen (Mark Ruffalo) and Bloom (Adrien Brody), who are con artists. But they take conning to a level of art; they endeavor to create a con that is an adventure, a beautiful story in which every person involved gets what they want. They end up conning Penelope (Rachel Weisz), a rich heiress who is eccentric and naive. Directed by Rian Johnson, it's really a moving film.

What's more, is it has an absolutely brilliant soundtrack, this wonderful and dynamic mix of clarinets and electric guitars, electric organ, jazzy saxes and yearning cello solos. It's the kind of thing I can listen to over and over again (which I have been doing, almost obsessively), and almost every time I listen, I notice something different. It amazes me in some new way. I can only hope to one day create something that inspiring, delightful, and whimsical.

I loved the theme of the movie, as well: telling your own story.

Penelope, explains it well. She tells Bloom about her childhood, how her parents mistakenly thought she was allergic to everything and kept her inside their huge, sealed-off mansion. When she's around 19, they finally discover that she's not allergic, but then her mother gets sick and Penelope has to stay home to take care of her for a very long time. Bloom asks her if she feels cheated, and Penelope replies:

"The trick to not feeling cheated is learning to cheat. So, I decided this wasn't a story about a miserable girl trapped in a house that smelled like medical supplies, wasting her life on a dying person she sometimes hated. No. This was a story about a girl who could find infinite beauty in anything, any little thing. And even love the person she was trapped with. And I told myself this story until it became true.

"Now, did doing this help me escape a wasted life, or did it blind me, so I wouldn't want to escape it? I don't know. But, either way, I was the one telling my own story, so, no. I don't feel cheated at all."

I love the idea, of telling our own stories. Of taking control. Of acting, rather than being acted upon--even if all that means is getting to decide who we are in less-than-desirable circumstances.

Things are so much what we make them; life, friends, enemies, good times, bad times. They are what they are, because that is what we believe them to be. That is what we make them.

Maybe that's what hope is: holding onto the belief that their is beauty in every person, situation, and thing, if we only look for it.

Stress for stress' sake

I'm becoming Bridezilla.

Don't worry—you didn't miss anything.

I'm not engaged —

just the editor for the Bride's Guide produced here at BYU—I.

Which is pretty ironic, considering that the part I dread most about the possibility of one day getting hitched is the whole wedding fiasco.

I could care less about flowers or cakes or centerpieces, and planning makes me anxious.

If there is anything that is possibly more painful than planning a wedding, it's planning a magazine about planning weddings.

Today we had the photo shoot for the cover. I was stressed out about it for a number of reasons. One, because this is the first cover of the Bride's Guide that was shot specifically to be a cover, and not just something a nice photographer is letting us use. It really has no general precedence, so a lot of the ideas and process were from scratch. Secondly, this is the first magazine cover I've really had to plan and make happen. A cover everyone will see.

And remember how planning makes me anxious?

Between trying to figure what props, etc. we needed, getting dresses from a local bridal shop, trying to line up times, photographer, reserving a studio, I was ready to go into a coma.

And what's worse is that I allowed myself to become crazy because of all of it. I'm not a detail person, so details?

They drive me crazy.

And somewhere between picking out fonts and deciding on a concept for the cover, the details jammed up my synapses and I morphed into Bride's-Guidezilla.

Finally, today we are in the studio. Our model, Meredith, is cooperative, sweet and fun. She's a recently-returned missionary, and totally gorgeous in the dress: a simple sheath, free of embellishment, the flares at the bottom, with an almost pearlescent sheen.

Joey snaps away taking pictures; after a moment, they appear on the screen. They look great; better than I'd imagined.

On the inside I sigh, glad to actually be doing instead of just planning and fussing. It's a relief to finally see the project.

And I realized that only about half the stressing I did actually helped lead me to this product. The rest of it was just me worrying and fretting over things that were unimportant or outside of my control.

When it comes down to it, I know that the magazine will go to print in a week and a half looking totally fabulous, and it won't be because I stressed about it. Actually, it probably won't even be because of anything I did (or didn't) do.

How about you? What things do you needlessly stress over or worry about?

Being more.

Heartaches.

They are caused by losing something that we loved.

Sometimes it’s a person you love.

People leave our lives, by choice, or circumstantially — it happens.
When most people think of “heartache,” this is probably the first kind that comes to mind; the longing for a person, their presence, their laugh or smell. The remembering and missing all wrapped up in one.

Sometimes it’s losing something we treasure. Like a book with sentimental meaning. A notebook of original poetry and sketches. Sometimes it’s memories.

We can lose places, too, as with homesickness.

But a person can also lose a space in time — remain nostalgic for a small speck of a lifetime that can never be retrieved.

Perhaps the thing is less tangible. Maybe it’s the idea that people are inherently good, that there is a God out there, that love is forever. Maybe it’s the notion that the world is a place of peace and beauty. Or perhaps it is the loss of innocence, of ideals, of hope.


Sometimes, my heart aches.
And I can’t quite lay a finger on what I miss, because I can’t quite remember it, but—I know it’s real.

Can a person be homesick for heaven?
I often think that I am.

Singing a hymn, the words say:
Yet ofttimes a secret something
Whispered, “You’re a stranger here,”
And I felt that I had wandered
From a more exalted sphere.

And something inside me agrees. The strangeness, the disconnect, the weirdness of being.
Living right now, it’s the only kind of being I can remember. So, why, then, does it feel so foreign?

My heart aches for what my head can’t remember, can’t even comprehend. It misses peace and truth, and love. It longs for clarity
It yearns for home.

There is a lot we lost before we even got here. Or, rather, we gave up so much in the process of getting here, to this life.

And maybe that’s what it means, choosing to live: being willing to lose things you love to be something better.

So, what does your heart ache for?

I'm an English major. Expect disdain.

I study English.

Which, as you probably know, makes me pretentious.

By definition of being an English major, I know more and have better tastes than you. It's just a fact.

Another byproduct of studying literature is the gross compulsion I have, upon finishing a good book, to talk about it. In fact, it often pains me to read books outside of a class, because the chances of finding an intelligent human to discuss it with are greatly reduced.

For instance, I just finished The Road by Cormac McCarthy. I was in the Spori office with it sitting next to me, and a friend walked up to me and asked me how I liked it. I replied that while it was a very despairing, I still found it very hopeful.

"Yea, I didn't really like his punctuation style. He left out apostrophes all over the place--it drove me crazy," he said.

I stared at him blankly. That's the style he wrote it in; that's the point, I explained. It helps construct the monotonous tone.

"I don't know. And what's up with the boy and the father not having names? That drove me crazy. And I really wish the book had had more of an exposition. We don't even know how the world got to its post-apocalyptic state," he said.

Again, I was confused. An exposition? Names? They would have ruined the book. It would be a completely different novel.

The father and son remaining nameless—that was the point. When there is only one person in your world, do they need a name? Do they need some distinguishing label?

I guess, as an English major, I have had an abiding trust of authors and writers imbedded in my psyche. When a writer does something like leave a character nameless, or drop me into a post-apocalyptic world without much explanation, I assume it is for a reason. There is a purpose for this, a statement being made, and if I don’t see it, it just means I need to look harder.

But then, maybe I shouldn’t go around assuming these writers are smart. At least, smarter than me.

Perhaps my friend is right, and he does know better than Mr. McCarthy how his book should have been written.

For now, I think I'll just have to stop reading extracurricularly.

It's causing me to lose faith in my generation.

Resolving the New Year

2009 was an odd year. It brought a lot of learning and growth, but that came with heartaches and pains attached. It’s been humbling; the kind of year that leaves one feeling enlarged but deflated.

Every Christmas Eve my family has a gathering in which we share our feelings about Christ, His gospel and His love. This year, we upheld the tradition, minus one; my brother-in-law, Robert, who passed away on December 13th. The convictions and thoughts we shared were more sober and tender than they have been in past years.

“It’s been a hard, painful year for all of us,” said Brandon. “But I feel prompted to say that 2010 will bring a lot of healing and resolution to our family.”

I believe that statement.
I’m hopeful for the new year, and for the new decade.

I want to be more, to do more. I’m not much of a goal-maker, but I’ve gotten the feeling lately that I need to make goals for 2010.

I don’t like setting goals, usually. They seem trivial and insubstantial: getting good grades, writing a book, exercising daily, going on a lot of dates— these kinds of goals serve a purpose, but at the end of the year, these are arbitrary.

Especially now, with the loss of a loved one. I can’t help but look at things differently. At years-end, when I evaluate the person I’ve grown into in those twelve months, I won’t be looking at things like that.

In a year’s time, when I look back on 2010, I’ll be asking:
Did I grow my love?
Did I heal hearts?
Did I nurture my soul?
Did I change my small corner of the world for the better?

I recognize that I'm getting grandiose here. I'm getting sentimental, perhaps. And, as my Dad would say, my hippie is showing.

But still, I believe:
Goals should clarify. They should simplify.


My goals for 2010:
-Develop consistent, daily spiritual habits (starting with praying every morning and night).
- Develop the attribute of charity.
- Write more. Write better.
- Spend time in nature once a week.
- Serve some one. Every day.
- Get enough sleep (eight hours a night, minimum).
- Read two excellent books a month.