I would get what I wanted ... if I just knew what that was

If trying to work out a wedding has taught me anything, it is that I really have no idea what I really want.

Take my dress, for instance. I have long been convinced that I wanted a shorter dress, and had specifics in mind.

But then I went and actually tried on dresses, and while I found one that was tea-length and adorable, it failed to convince me that it was all I'd ever wanted in a wedding dress. Or dress I'll be wearing to my reception. Or whatever you would call it.

So I tried on long dresses, and found a couple I liked, but still nothing that I wanted to take home with me.

So here I am, with only a little more than two months ahead of me, at a sort of impasse with myself. On one hand, I'm really whatever about my dress. I will wear it once and then pretty much be done with it. It seems silly to spend a lot of time stressing out about it.

But, on the other hand, it really does matter to me. I want to look absolutely beautiful. I want to look back on that day and feel the vivacity and loveliness of that day.

I want a skirt that is knee-length, to avoid sweatiness and show of my stems. But then I want that is long and A-line and will swirl out around me when I dance.

Do you see my problem? Too conflicted.

Let's not even discuss the veil.

But at least I'm positive about the groom.

Engaged.

It's true. I am actually, factually, officially unavailable. All single men and vampires, take note, because I'm just not destined to be your Bella Swan.

Instead, I am the cheese to this guy's macaroni:

And believe me, our brand of mac'n'cheese is the best you're gonna find.

But seriously.

His name is Chris Kirkham and he's the biggest stud I know.

We are to be married July 30th in the St. George temple — which happens to be his favorite. That also happens to be the same place and date that my parents got hitched 34 years ago. Wild, huh?

For now, however, we still live in separate states — him in Utah (I know, right? Who lives in Utah?) and me in Idaho (much cooler, I assure).

Most of the time, being apart is not that bad.

Ok, so that's a total lie. It's horrible to be apart.

But, the thing is, it just means that I have that much less time of actually being around him to drive him away crazy, which is probably a good thing.

Oh, I also have some other things going on before July 30th. Just a little ol' thing called graduation.

Still, I can't help but think of July 30th and ask: are we there yet?

An instruction in living

I love photography. In the way that I admire talents that others have, to capture life's moments. To tell so much, to invoke such feeling simply with recorded light.

I follow some photographers on twitter, not the least of which is theJed.

Browsing his Flickr account today, I came across a series of beautiful images from a trip to Lake Powell with his family (from which the above is borrowed). The gold light, red gritty sandstone, and the algae-colored water that turns murky and brown in the shallows; it came alive to me. I wasn't there, but I felt the sleek water run through my outstretched fingers as I paddled, the warm sting of a sunburn, the slimy sludge between my toes.

Trips to Lake Powell every summer were a long-standing tradition on my dad's side, up until I was thirteen or so. Looking at the photos brought back those times — not in specific memories, but in impressions, in the vivacity of youth, the joys of being strong and free on a lake in the heat of summer. It brought my mind alive, relishing this internal stream of responses brought on by stimuli. This is what beauty is, I thought, what art should be: an instruction in living, a how-to for cherishing existence.

Later as I headed home on my blue Huffy, I still rode on that high. Rather than resenting the wind, I noticed the cold, recorded the steely sensation. In my head, everything was a photograph, everything was art. The scraggly bush that grows over into the sidewalk, the rolling gray of the sky above; things I usually don't notice, that I take for granted, were suddenly there, so real and deliciously tangible. I enjoyed the rumble and shift of the rubber wheels over a path of cement blocks set in the earth, end to end.

There is a quote from Anaïs Nin: "We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect." And while that's true, I know that I write, at least in part, to anticipate life. Because I know that for every moment I take the time to delight in and write about in retrospect instructs me on how to better appreciate the moments that are to come.

Understanding identity & feminity

Recently, I found the April issue of the New Era (the magazine written and printed by the Church for teenagers)in the student newspaper office. It was a special edition, all about "Dating for Beginners," and it was full of some really amusing things (the whole issue can be found here).

There was a lot that I felt was good advice; overall this was a great introduction for young people to dating. I remember having a lot of questions when I was younger that the magazine addressed.

Another section addressed to the young women. The Young Women's Presidency gave dating advice, most of which were good things like "Be Physically Fit," and "Improve your social skills."

But one bullet of advice really bothered me. It read, "Behave like a daughter of God. Do not be forward, loud, brash, or suggestive. You may have seen this kind of behavior in movies, but it is not fitting for a young woman who understands her identity as a daughter of God."

Hmmm, I thought. I am definitely all those things.

Forward? Check.

I've definitely asked guys on dates. I've told others that they needed to take me on a date.

Loud? Check.

Ironically, I was loudly reading excerpts from the New Era in my hand just moments before. I seem to be missing the volume-control built in to most humans.

Brash? Check.

I'll admit it — I'm irreverent. I try not to be rude, but the truth is, life is too funny and absurd and ridiculous to be polite and soft-spoken all the time.

And suggestive? Check.

Not sexually suggestive, silly. Is that really all you can think about?

But, I suggest things all the time. Just today I suggested that the trash be taken out, because something smelled like rotting, snot-covered, fetid pig vomit.

Not to get graphic or anything.

Also, I would suggest that maybe it would be better to encourage young women to be genuine and unique. To love who they are, even if that is brash and loud. To be willing to take responsibility for their life and get what they want—even if it means being forward, or being intimidating and not getting asked out.

I suggest that it is great to be brash and loud. Being forward and going for what I want doesn't mean that I misunderstand my role as a woman — it just means that I'm not afraid to make things happen. My strong personality is what makes me powerful, and I'm not afraid to be so. I know that I was created loud and forward for a reason, in the same way so many are timid or shy. They are just different ways to do the same thing; to share my beliefs, to be bold, to be forward in what I feel passionate about.

So, go ahead girls: get loud. Be brash. Go forward. Make suggestions. Because you're powerful, and it is this boldness that will enable you to make a positive change in the world.

On metamorphosis and maturation

In my second grade class, we got this butterfly kit, a kind of introduction to the microcosm and melodrama of metamorphosis.

It included these little plastic tubs with holes punched in the tops, with caterpillars crawling around in this delightfully disgusting golden goo that was supposed to be their food. The class watched them get fat, inching around, eating, pooping on their food, eating some more.

Eventually, the caterpillar would inch its hefty little body to the underside of the lid. There, it managed to attach its tail end to the ceiling of its little house and spin itself a bright green, pristine chrysalis. Then, we took the lids off and attached them to the top of this tube-shaped net, the tiny delicate house swinging when moved.

The class waited a week or so later, and finally, monarch butterflies emerged, orange and flashy and regal. Their eyes were big, bodies thin and delicate; they were beautiful, and so wholly different from the short stubby things they had been when I had last seen them.

Metamorphosis is an apt symbol of growing up, of maturation. It's about as literal of a representation as one can get: a caterpillar grows fat, too heavy for adolescence, and encases and transforms itself into something completely new and different, as a mature member of its species.

The process of metamorphosis for cicadas, however, is quite different.

Female cicadas lay eggs in small cracks and crevices in tree branches. When they hatch, the tiny creatures drop to the the ground and burrow into it. There, the pupae grow and mature, living off of who-knows-what.

Finally, when it is warm enough, they emerge simultaneously from the soil, ready to molt to an adult, driven by some insane and inexplicable instinct. Then, a cicada attaches itself to the bark of a tree and emerges from its exoskeleton as a wet, green, sickly-looking thing with over-sized eyes. Slowly, it will dry out and become the brown hordes that will buzz incessantly for the next four weeks or so.

We had three huge mulberry trees in the front yard of my childhood home, and their bark was often carpeted with the pale yellow, crisp skins left behind by the molting cicadas. Fascinated by them, I would often spend hours plucking them off the bark, crushing them, studying the minute structure of those odd creatures.

The creatures hardly had the same grace and beauty that butterflies are admired for. And that's not even mentioning the noise. But I still couldn't help appreciate their determination, their ability to push forward, their readiness to progress and change.

The human metamorphosis seems to a be a combination of the two species. It is half the desire of the caterpillar, to become something more elegant, beautiful, greater. And it is half the goal of the cicada: to rid itself of a stiff, constricting skin. Our skin has grown too rigid, and we are outgrowing them.

No matter how underdeveloped they may see, we still need room to spread wings that have been slowly growing underneath our hardening skin. The difference? We get to decide what those wings will look like, and what they will help us do.

Short fiction piece

I just finished a piece of short fiction that I don't feel terribly embarrassed to have written.

It is 12 pages. 3,726 words long. And it is pretty depressing. It was a work of will to just get it finished.

But, writing it was liberating. As if the story was this entity, urging me to finish, to tell it, to make it real. It was exciting to finally have a story I was excited about, that I felt was worth telling. The kind that compelled me.

I know it's not anything spectacular, but that's ok. It was one of those things that just needed to be, no matter whether it was a work of literary mastery or not.

To read it, head here.

(Although I warn you, it is not a light read, either in length or content)

"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.