Bricks

There are a lot of bricks around here. A lot of bricks. They seem to show up everywhere: on the streets, on the walls, the walks, patios. I can't decide if they color the air, and if the overall effect is warm or chilling. There is a tight formality in the way bricks fit together on a street, no mortar, just red and purple blocks lying together like prisoners, jutting out here and there, waiting for the ground underneath to sway and knock them free. But bricks in general are slow. They don't appear in long swaths like asphalt, or flow out the end of a pipe like concrete. They take their time. They don't care if your car shakes off its fenders when you drive over them. They sit back and talk about Sunday sermons and shade, mustaches and timepieces. Some were born yesterday, and some just won't die. I'm sure I fall somewhere in the middle.

Now Broadcasting

In this brave new world, there are few advantages as precious as having your own radio station. (At least for us poor saps still without ipods.) So, if you want to groove and you're online, check mine out here.

You can get your own radio station too, just go sign up at http://launch.yahoo.com. It takes awhile to train your station to play what you like. I apologize if mine still airs some complete crap every once in awhile. I realize it's just a computer program, but I can't help but feel offended when Trace Adkins starts crooning.

Computer: Here's some Trace Adkins, Joe. You know you like it.

Me: No I don't, shut up. I'm cooler than that.

Computer: I dare you to skip it before someone you respect walks in.

Me: I will. And don't ever play that crap again, or I'll, I'll . . . I'll shut you down. Yes, I'll shut you down! And I'll be the one who decides when to turn you back on.

Computer: Fine. But don't think this is the end. There are a whole slew of country pop icons out there for me to choose from. I'd think twice before starting a ground war with Yahoo!'s extensive music catalog. You fool, if George Strait and Kenny Chesney don't get you, then the Christian Rap and New Jack Swing will. I'll go Easy Listening all over your #%@!

Me: Uhhhhh . . . I . . . I'm sorry.

Computer: Accepted. So, got any Duster?

Me: Yeah, sure. And, do you think you could play some more Rita Coolidge?

Computer: (smiling) I won't tell anyone.

Me: Thanks.

Rock Bottom

You know you've hit rock bottom when you find yourself in a darkened aisle on the second floor of the library, browsing through volumes of The Tightwad Gazette by Amy Dacyczyc.

I was looking for something I had read once about driveaway companies, services for getting your car from point A to point B without having to drive it. Basically, you pay some schmoe to joyride your vehicle across the country, while his only deterrent from motoring to Alaska and/or blowing it up is a $200 security deposit.

How can you not love a book whose slogan is "Promoting Thrift as a Viable Alternative Lifestyle," and whose cover offers tantalizing headlines like "Fool-proof yogurt making," "Diet on the cheap," "Economize with antiques," and "Mass-produce pies." I very much especially like the generic casserole recipe on page 47 (italicized comments are mine):

1 cup main ingredient (meat)
1 cup second ingredient (vegetable)
1-2 cups starchy ingredient (potatoes, noodles, rice, etc.)
1 1/2 cups binder (see below)
1/4 cup "goodie" (I'm not telling, but the sky's the limit!)
Seasoning
Topping

What is a "binder," you say? Elmer's glue? (According to the Gazette, binder suggestions include "cream sauce, sour cream, can of soup.") Alright poor people, get your leftovers out and let it rip. We're having "ingredient" casserole tonight! Post your creations to this blog. No need to actually make it in the kitchen. We'll do a virtual taste test, and the winner gets an entire cup of "goodies" sent via snail mail by yours truly! Don't think I'm serious? Try me.

Happy concocting!

Lips detaching from face

I've built up a good store of useless judgment and have worked hard enough today that I don't feel guilty letting it out in blog form.

Pirates

A big disappointment like you knew it would be.

Favorite character: stain-toothed voodoo lady. There's something strangely seductive about her, not in a particularly sexual way, that's probably part of it, but I just want to keep watching her. The sound of her voice, that iceberg grin, just understated, unlike anything I've ever seen. What an intriguing human form, absolutely delightful to observe.

Second favorite: Davey Jones. More interesting than any of the non-CG leads.

Worst ending. Yes, jaw-popping sets, props and gags. A few perfect lines from J Depp. But other than that a bewildering, unwieldly story with surprisingly little at stake and too many careless moments. One question: What the crap is going on with the heart? Am I supposed to care? It was discovered and then changed hands twice without contributing anything significant to the narrative? What was all the trouble about again? Oh yeah, it's a bloody, beating, disembodied heart. Throw it in a bag and forget about it for the last 30 minutes of the movie while Keira Knightley tries to make her lips jump off of her face and stick to an unsexed Johnny Depp who then jumps into the mouth of a grainy green-screen Return-of-the-Jedi sphincter monster while the oh-so-convincingly sad remaining cast retreats to their bayou "sanctuary" only to be greeted by a cameo of apple-eating Geoffrey Rush who I guess had been in cryogenic storage for the previous 3 hours. Orlando who? I could hardly tear myself away from his hearbreaking dad/son scene: "Don't try to but into my life now, dad. I rise above your pirate ways." - "I never wanted this for you son" - "Oh come here youuuu."

Cabela's

A truly magical place, despite all the instruments of death and torture. I threw caution to the wind and embraced the taxidermy in all it's postmodern glory. There are plenty of live moose in the world, it's just that I'll probably never get a chance to see them without considerable time and effort and hey, let's face it, moose-watching isn't at the top of my list of do-before-I-die activities.

I even lent my support by buying two camping pads. My justification was that there is no Cabela's in Ohio and we're probably going to want to do a lot of camping in the Appalachians. And by a lot, I mean at least once. I also bought Cabela's brand beef jerky for a little backpacking adventure this weekend with Scott and his two oldest boys. I never buy beef jerky, but it just seemed like the right thing to do. Again, the magic.

Should I lie and say I didn't want a gun? I won't. There were hundreds, nay, thousands of them. All my life I've grown up knowing that guns are for hicks and criminals, and that owning one would be far more trouble that it's worth. I'm 28 and I've never shaken the feeling that I'm too young to own a firearm. Guns aren't for kids. And yet here comes the guy behind the counter talking to me like I'm his equal, saying, "What can we do so that you walk out of here today with something?" I almost ponied up and acted the part. I wanted to. Wanted to walk out with a big silver glock pressed against my palm, or a shotgun slung over my shoulder. Didn't know what I would do with it, but wanted the world to know, for a moment, that I could figure something out. Shooting watermelons, or street signs, or aliens. I'd figure something out.

20

Had to write this for 518. Some of you will find it horribly dull. Others may find it mildly interesting.

Rules of Thumb

1. Write everyday. I don’t, but I’m still a believer. I find that the weeks and months where I establish a pattern of writing regularly become much more enjoyable and productive. I feel confident. My story starts to fill the background of my daily grind, I think about it in the car and walking across campus. When I sit down at the computer I feel ready. I had a teacher in California who used to say he needed to get home and write because his characters were “digging up !&*% in the backyard.” They were a part of his everyday reality. I don’t know if that’s necessarily a good thing, but hey.

2. Close the door and don’t come out. Stephen King talks about this in his highly readable memoir about writing. When the door shuts, don’t come out for anything; not until you’ve achieved something. Of course, King also says if you haven’t finished a novel in three months (first draft), it’s not worth finishing.

3. Write whatever the hell you want. Contrary to the popular maxim, “Write what you know,” I say if you can dream it, do it. Of course, drink responsibly. You may have to do some research. But just because I’m not a ninja, don’t know any ninjas, and can’t name any famous ninjas, doesn’t mean I can’t write about them.

4. Don’t be afraid of being earnest. I don’t know, maybe I’m off on this one, but it seems like everyone wants to be “biting” these days. Biting is awesome. But there is nothing wrong with sincere emotion when a story calls for it. I try to be as jaded and post-modern as the next guy, but, secretly, I like to cry as well.

5. Read. Read. Read. Read. Read. Read. Read. Read. Read. Read. Read. Read.

6. Don’t ever write in a coffee shop while wearing a black turtleneck and tinted spectacles. Just . . . don’t.

7. Listen to music for inspiration. OK, maybe it’s just an excuse not to write, but I know that when I feel discouraged or lost with a piece, music can electrify me and set the tone for creativity and productivity. It’s a tonal thing. The creative nonfiction writer Patrick Madden is rumored to have said that the band Rush has influenced his writing as much as any other thing.

8. Always write with a thesaurus close by. I like dictionary.com, with both a dictionary and thesaurus online. I’m not looking for the most obscure word, just the right word.

9. Think about form. When I get stuck, I try to think about ways to change the form in order to spark progress. Do I want to be in the narrator’s head? Is it better told through dialogue? How about letters? A collection of vignettes? First person? Third person? A play? A film script? You can only go so far with different options, but sometimes it helps to take a different approach and see what comes out.

10. Let yourself write garbage. This is another commonly expressed sentiment that I first heard from the famed compositionist Peter Elbow, or St. Elbow as I prefer to call him. He was talking about freewriting in the classroom. The same applies for everyone, from Hemingway on down. In fact, Hemingway partly killed himself because he wasn’t able to stomach this one, wasn’t able to write garbage. I am not a prodigy, and I know that some, if not much, of what I write may be subpar, unimportant, and incomplete. Let it out, man. If you beat yourself up every time you fall short of a Pulitzer you’re going to be a sore, lonely human being.

11. Get to know your characters. Related to #1. I like the fact sheet approach suggested by many writing teachers where you writing a bio of your character that exists outside of your actual story. Knowing how your character will act or respond in certain situations saves a lot of time on the back end trying to revise and correct inconsistencies. Of course, this is largely subjective and should only be carried so far (unless you’re writing a biography or something), but it helps. Sometimes.

12. Turn it over to the character. Related to #12. One of the most important lessons John Bennion learned in Houston and passes on to his students. If you’re unsure of how to play, or explain, a certain situation/scene, make a conscious effort to let the character work it out on the page. How does the reader know how to understand/interpret certain acts or phrases? Let the characters give cues on how to read it. What are they thinking or doing that points the reader in the right direction? Am I making any sense? This is new advice for me, so I’m not sure I even totally understand what I’m trying to say.

13. Don’t worry about publishing. Go with your gut. Constantly skewing and tweeking your work according to some perceived secret of what “publishers” want will send you in circles and suck the blood out of your manuscript.

14. Worry about publishing. (i.e. Make some money!) Artistic integrity aside, I would gladly be a tool of the publishing industry if it meant making insane truckloads of money off my writing. Nobody wants to eat sawdust and shoe leather. Send out your work. There is nothing wrong with wanting to make money, even insane truckloads of it. Just be prepared not to.

15. Cut. Slash. Revise. Reduce. Ken Rand calls it “the 10 percent solution.” Stephen King says something similar. Basically, the idea is that no matter how good or tight you think something is (especially an early draft), you can probably always cut out more. Rand says 10 percent: 10,000 words to 9,000. William Faulker’s much-quoted “kill your darlings” line comes to mind. This depends on the writer, and the piece. I don’t follow any mathematical formula, but like to keep the principle in mind.

16. Eat rejection. My aunt, Karen Joy Fowler, is a fairly successful and critically-acclaimed novelist. She started writing on her 30th birthday and is now 53. This, she has said, is her secret to success. She started out in a class that later turned into a writing group that has been together for over 20 years. They still meet at her house every Thursday evening. But she is the only one in the group who has enjoyed any kind of success (measured externally). She told me, “I wasn’t the most gifted in the group, or even the hardest working, but I was the one who was able to take rejection and keep on going.” She waded through years of disappointment, peppered with modest successes, before she began to emerge. There are many reasons for writing, but if part of your goal is to produce great art and be recognized for it, then don’t give up after a year or two.

17. A man is never a prophet in his own country. Don’t be upset if Mom and Dad don’t appreciate your genius. They love you anyway.

18. Have kids. One of the biggest sources of material for many writers I know. Probably not the best reason to have them though, I admit.

19. Love it. There should, for at least a moment, at some point in the process, be a feeling of joy.

20. If needed, break any or all rules. I know, I know, this sounds like a title for the last chapter of a shameless self-help book. But I figure I need to cover my butt, since I can often be found not following my own rules of thumb. We all know life is an improv thing. Whatever works, you know. OK, self, now get out there and do something with your life.

Try to cry.

Here's an exercise for you:

1. You have to be alone.

2. Put on something emotional. Music that is. I mean the absolutely most bittersweet, I-want-to-dissolve-into-nothing, world loving, world hating music you can think of. Its different for everyone. It should also be something epic. Don't forget, bittersweet. For me, it's Pink Floyd's "High Hopes."

3. Now, go to MSNBC's "Week in Pictures" feature. You can go through MSN, or just google "week in pictures."

4. Play said music and look at said pictures. If it works, you might feel alive. It's also possible that you feel despair. Or an amazing mixture of both.

Music is power. Seeing is tasting. Living is good. And never quite enough.

I'm not trying to be pretentious.

28 years ago

I got a glimpse into my childhood the other day, through the eyes of my daughter. She's the firstborn, as was I.

My longtime friend and his wife came down from Logan with their four boys, all under age five including a couple of twins almost the exact same age as RJ. I was astonished at how excitable, how absolutely tickled, RJ was to have other kids around. She was hyperventilating. Too young to really "play" with other kids, she just cruised around picking up toys and tossing them aside, banging her palms fiercely on anything and everything. I guess I always thought our company was the best she could ask for. This just confirmed the need to have more kids. Dang it. But I realized, as I watched her watching the action unfold around her, that I too was an only child for a time (three years).

I saw myself through a window in time, towheaded, toothy grin, playing by myself on the green carpet in my parents' late 70's apartment. I saw the roots, maybe, of my social neediness. In some ways I am more introverted than my brothers and sisters, but not more solitary. I am drawn to the nexus of human interaction like a wayward moth, blind and seeking, always afraid of missing something, always wanting to eat experience like a lotus flower and be born up by something outside of myself. Seeking. So much for self-pop-psycho-analysis.

Listening to Richard Buckner's "Bloomed", and feeling wistful, like a winter leaf on the edge of spring, watching the clear sun from under the muddy branches, while the ground gives way.

I'd like the deluxe package please...

Hear me out:

So I was with Los Lindos the other day and we dropped the Pan off at PetsMart for a grooming. Shampoo, haircut, nail trim, toothbrushing. The Works. Then, later, I started thinking about how funny it would be if I brought my daughter (baby) in and held her out to the grooming girls and said something like, "Yeah, I'll have the basic service. Be back in an hour." I could see them doing that on some candid camera show. But I really do think it might be a good idea. Open a baby grooming service. Today's busy parents don't have time to wrestle with a baby through the bath, the nails, the teeth, etc. You could call it "The Baby Salon" or "Tidy Tikes" or something like that. The child is covered with snot, baby food, smells like sour diapers; you drop her off and come back after grocery shopping and there she is, shimmering, all fragrant with like a red bow stuck on her head. Beauty. Dog groomers could easily expand into this market because you basically need the same equipment: a rubber mat, something to spray with, and a giant blow drier--just lay down some thick towels and stick the kids under it so they can airdry because, hey, no water spots!

To park or not to park

Something has got to be done about the parking situation. I can't live like this, like a beast, fighting with other beasts for the last piece of meat, the empty parking space. YOU, BYU, you've made us like this. We are sharks, idling dangerously in the aisles, waiting for a leaver, for a pair of legs to pass by on their way to a parked car. We wave at each other as we prowl, but then spit out curses when we see that much-hated spectacle: another car stopped in the aisle, with it's blinker on. The blinker is a territorial mark, a signpost, shouting MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE in perfect time. We have begun to pray for parking--yes, to include it in our intimate conversations with creation's Architect--is there no end to our debasement!? We are dogs! We are ashes. We are the living dead, those who circle, endlessly, to no end. To no purpose. To nowhere. To hell. To hell with parking. We are leaving. We will walk home. But we won't forget, oh no we will not fail to remember, when the alumni office calls....and asks....for cash. We are petty. We are proud. But we will smile.

Horrorball

Thought I'd play some intramural basketball. Didn't want to disappoint a friend. Showed up at the first game last night. Friend wasn't there. Dirty bum. Only had four players. The other team got scared and played five anyway. 20 minute halves. Knew I was in trouble when after five minutes I looked to the sideline for a sub. Nope. Only 35 minutes to go. Almost collapsed. Spent the last half running from one three-point line to the other, watching the action. Got home, felt like Don Johnson after Valentine's day, completely spent. Wish I had his stamina though. Wish I had his white pants and boat loafers. Wish I was in Florida.

Senor, would you like some wax?

Yesterday shaved the beard, but kept the 'stache. I will be the first one to admit that it is nasty, despite all the courteous comments today from encouraging man friends. I have to believe that it is just helpful support, a what-the-heck kind of support meant to enable someone who is, in the face of all that is clean and nice-looking, going out on a limb. It's the, "That shirt looks good on you. I would never wear it, but it looks good on you" kind of comment. It took a woman, eg in fact, to vocally share with me the obvious truth that yes I look better without lip hair. My wife knows it, but fully supported the 'staching as an outrageous act of the shameless attention-grabbing variety. Really, I just wanted to get a reaction from my students on the first day.

Of course, deep down I would like to look good with a mustache. I swear to you it looked better when it was trailing down towards my jawline...very cowboy...but the honor code specifically dictates a corners-of-the-mouth chopping point. So I will continue to play it off as a harmless prank. Not so if I had a real Dapper Dan dangler going. I grow a mean goatee, but the mustache on its own is admittedly rather flat, and blonder than my pirate-red underbeard. I want a rougish mustache that bushes out over the lip, or stretches generously towards the ears. I want to twist the ends with my fingertips, stick my bottom lip out and blow upwards, feeling the long hairs undulating under my nose. Those kinds of mustaches can still make it in today's world. Apart from those, however, mustaches 1) shouldn't be worn by men under 35, 2) shouldn't be worn by anybody looking for a date, and 3) are always preferable in darker shades.

I did show it off to Lance Larsen, and yes, he laughed, because several years ago he too sported a mustache, a more handsome one at that, and I made a comment (anonymous) on his teacher evaluation that it made him look like a porn star. I think he suspected it was either Ryan Shoemaker or myself, but never knew exactly who said it until last year in English 600 when Ryan spilled the beans. Behind the laugh I could see a slight recollection of insult, and for a moment I felt ashamed. (Incidentally, he shaved the mustache the next semester.) So my presentation to him was I think a peace offering of sorts, a gesture of good will if you will.

The reaction from students, on the other hand, was disappointing. I shouldn't have expected any comments on the first day, although I would have loved to have heard their thoughts. I did make a joke about it eventually and we shared a laugh. I could tell that even they knew I was guilty of sporting a bad mustache. Still, I think I'll keep it for awhile. Oh, and I did have one freshman girl ask how it was that I was able to get away with a mustache. "Is this your first semester at BYU?" I asked. "It is," she said. "Well, then I wouldn't expect you to know that mustaches are 100 percent legal under the stipulations of the BYU dress and grooming standards, as long as they are stop at the corners of the mouth." "Oh my gosh," she said with a hint of disbelief and turned with an amused look to the girls sitting next to her. Oh my gosh, indeed.

dadadpfffffffffbfbfbfbfaaaahhh

I feel like laughing out loud, jumping over my couch, grinning like a maniac, and just generally wigging out. Why? Because it's past the witching hour, and I am still awake thanks to RJ and her nascent teeth. So I've been converting audio files to use on my final radio project that's due tomorrow and I'm all strung out on music, balancing on that strange tipping point between crying and shouting that makes my whole body feel electric and volatile. I could implode at any moment. I think I will take this opportunity to expound on something I've been thinking about lately: the Jimmy Buffet phenomenon.

Jimmy Buffet, the king of boat music, needs no introduction. We've all heard Margaritaville. But here's the deal...as a multi-platinum mainstream artist, JB has never even been nominated for a grammy; he is not a talented singer, he's not even badgood like a Dylan or Neil Young, he sounds like my dad singing around the campfire; his songwriting is often predictable and his guitar work not particularly noteworthy. Yet he has enjoyed steady success for the last 30 years, and maintaints a loyal following of "parrotheads," including myself. I don't know, there seems to be something about his straitforward approach, not hiding the fact that, on paper, his music is somewhat mediocre. Yet when it all comes together it just kind of makes you smile and nod your head. He sings about the middle-class America that most of us grew up in, decent folk who just want to put in their 8 hours, who know they should probably do more, who change diapers, clean the toilet, save their money, who cry during soup commercials, and fantasize about getting away.

When I was young my dad had JB's "Coconut Telegraph" album, and listened to it constantly for about a year. I can't listen to it now without seeing myself in our brown Aerostar minivan, trying to imagine myself as a character in one of Jimmy's grapefruit ballads, flying to paradise. He also sings about John Wayne dying, about getting old and breaking his leg playing baseball, about street sweepers who do their job (that one always makes me tear up), and about his daughter in a song called "Little Miss Magic." There is no end to the cheese, and no end to my appreciation for it. Maybe big doses are better than small ones. Anyway, I don't think many people will agree with me....but here's to Jimmy Buffet, minstrel of the common man.

I think next time I'm going to write about Bruce Hornsby, whose music could heal the world.

Counting down los days

Hard to stop thinking about going to Mexico this Christmas. So I wrote a poetic tribute to our upcoming trip. I'm not sure how it is a tribute. It's kind of a leftover from our last visit. I'm not sure what it means, but I'm feeling it.


White dude in Mexico trading
his skin for sun, serving limes

to tourists wondering why
he’s turning brown, inside

out, living in cutoffs
forgetting Canada, damn

Canada and piss jobs,
ex-wives, no tequila, not even jellyfish.

If I remember correctly his
name was David, spoken softly

like palm fronds. He offered
to sell pretty much everything:

horses, ATVs, kayaks, parasailing
and of course, the banana ride.

In the end, we bought a shrimp
plate and sat rigidly among empty

tables—it was Wednesday.
We told him we loved

this place, this quiet beach
where locals dine Sundays

separated by hundreds of
swells from the hotel zone

and their jobs scrubbing,
starching, driving, haggling,

begging. So he showed us a room
in a gated yard with a nasty

dog, a mango tree, and lots
of rebar. His green eyes never

left my wife’s neck, and I felt
somewhat flattered I admit,

but certainly a little scared
of this white dude in Mexico.

Fall Finale?

For anyone who has been following the hit Fox television series Prisonbreak on Monday nights, all I have to say is: What the crap was that?

First The Brutzi gets slashed, and now this? More episodes in March? Do I dare withdraw my support in response to such a ridiculous stunt? I must say, my interest is fading somewhat, partly in lieu of the upcoming opening of 24 season, hollaback boys, FIVE!!!

The emotional ante was racheted up, only to tumble with a series of oh-come-on moments: nice-guy-Secret-Service-agent-turned-informant is shot in the head as if he didn't know what was coming; he was committed enough to meet in the dark with the ball-breaking evidence but not to defend himself against his proven psycho of a pal? Death row inmate left alone in the infirmary? Not to mention the dangling story lines that will be all but forgotten come spring--vanilla ice and his burger pact with Bellicek, budding romance between Mike and Doctor Feel Good. And what ever happened to the warden?

OK, so part of me is complaining because they didn't fulfill my conditioned expectations, but I think it's my right to expect such from a show like this. This isn't British comedy. It's artsy American bloodlust. I want to see people darting out of the shadows and tackling the guy with the gun. I want someone, after so many brilliant ideas, to have a little gumption and find one when it counts, when you're trapped in the supply room under a frickin' pipe. And please, for the love of all that is beautiful in this world, won't someone kick T-Bags around a bit? The guy weighs less than a wet towel.

See you in March? We'll see. We'll see.

He kicked the hell out of death.

One of the coolest lines. It just came at the perfect time in a perfect poem by James Dewey.

Reading on Friday now in the past. What fun. I think my favorite part was the "panel discussion" at the end where we sat up there and answered questions--questions that made it seem like we had way more experience and expertise than any of us could claim. But it was great. Sarah and James were articulate and mesmerizing. I think I did OK. I rushed it at the end. In some ways I think poetry is better suited for public readings. It seems more rooted in sound, and the immovable details of language. Not that prose can't be either of those things, maybe just not mine. Even I felt myself getting bogged down in some of the scenes, and I was reading them. I need to work on my delivery. A little more drama eh! That's the spirit.

So, out of 40 students in the two classes I teach, only one showed up. Wah wah wah (in descending pitch). So, I know I'll be giving out at least one A this semester.

After dining last night with DT, BruceJ, and Johnny B, I've decided that I have no qualms about spending my life as a professorial-type person. These guys have it easy. It was fun. Although I don't want him on my comittee, I would like to have DT in a bottle. I would pop it open anytime I needed a laugh. The patriarch of the English department is one giant, walking wisecrack. But he's got a definite tender spot too, especially for little humans.

Saturday calls.

Untitled (Blog)

Well, the masses are seething with anticipation. What? Another blog? Yes, I know you hunger. Patience my babies. Patience.

I have been furiously assembling a rough cut of a radio documentary for my one and only class this semester. You would think that with one measly class, just one, I could avoid the night before syndrome. But it is, apparently, when I do my best work. So, after I pin that down, win an ultimate frisbee championship tonight, and put my ducks in line with the Scrivener, it will be happy time for a few days. And happy time is blog time. Sometimes. With time. Shut up Joe.

So, here's the calendar, as if anyone reading this isn't either directly involved or already in the know:

Tonight, Wednesday, 6:00 pm, Stadium fields, ultimate frisbee division III championship game, Sneaky Mormons vs. Counterfeit Foodstamps, round one. The air will be electric, you will be able to see your own breath, as well as steam coming off my head.

Friday, 12 noon, HBLL Auditorium (1st floor near Special Collections), I am part of the English Department weekly reading series, this week featuring graduate students, namely myself and two very talented poets, Sarah Jenkins and James Dewey. I can't say it will be stunning (my part that is), but I will be dressed nicely and you may even get to see me get nervous. A round of Cokes for everyone if I pass out.

PEEC

Time for a list.

OK. This is going to sound stupid, but I've been trying to cut back on the treats lately. For me, "cookies-and-cakes" is somewhere around the middle of the food pyramid. As I was sitting in front of the TV tonight, thinking about how we have nothing with enough sugar to slake my gnarly sweet tooth, I started thinking about ice cream, and the place in Santa Cruz that has like 50 flavors of their own design including cantelope and marshmallow. Here are the five worst flavors of ice cream I can imagine:

1. Vegemite. This could kill a grown man in under 15 seconds.
2. Pepper and Squash. One of the worst things I ever had on my mission was a bowl of squash with hot milk and pepper, as in black pepper. I'm sure the frozen version isn't any better.
3. Basil. It might work for mint, but not for this leafy little herb. Maybe with a bowl of pasta.
4. Sausage. OK, this is getting too easy.
5. Apple. I'm not sure about this one, but I do think it's rather suspicious that no one's ever heard of it. Almost every other delicious fruit has been sorbeted (made into a sorbet). But not apple. hmmmm...I don't trust it.

On the other hand, it could be really good. Apples and cream. Cold, apple-y creamy custard-like spoonfuls.

Dammit, my appetite is coming back.

Oh crap, I'm not Jhumpa Lahiri.

Started reading Interpreter of Maladies and I am feeling somewhat depressed. Depressed that someone's mind can construct stories that are beautifully understated, then completely engrossing, and then, at the end, completely stunning--and that person isn't, may never be, me.

RJ wouldn't go to bed tonight, kept playing the cry-till-I-wheeze card on us. By the third time out of her crib we decided to forget about it and just party. It wasn't a typical party. She mostly chewed on my finger like a gremlin and headbutted us while we laughed hopelessly. One of my favorite evenings as a father. It felt like a sleepover and nobody had to go to bed...until we really had to go to bed. Well, JollyEm and RJ did. I'm obviously not in bed.

On a final note, the student housing bureacracy, in an amazing departure from character, showed up today and replaced our countertop and sink. And not just another stainless steel basin, but a brand new Kohler ceramic dreambowl! I am not lying when I say that I spent several minutes this evening just gazing at the sink. Admiring if you will. I have no business getting this happy over a sink. But I am. It's so shiny and...white....and clean. Nobody's grime but ours. The only drawback: no sprayer. They are coming to plug the sprayer-hole tomorrow because, as the plumber told us, "Sprayers and hot water spigots are the number one cause of problems with your plumbing, because they leak and you usually don't notice. Let that be a lesson to you." I'm not making this up, he actually said "Let that be a lesson to you." And it was.

City of God

Just finished watching City of God, a Brazilian film. Every year there are a few movies that seem to rip a hole in me. This this was my second in one week, the first one being Crash with Don Cheadle. To anyone who wants to feel that inside-out feeling for a few hours, I recommend either (faults and all). Be forewarned that they won't be justifiable for some: both contain multiple naughty words (however with City of God you only have to read them, which seems less offensive, unless you speak Portugese), a few shocking scenes of violence (but not gore, my definition of gore being 'bloody to the point of grotesque parody of violence'; this is violence in the emotionally bewildering sense), and a few flashes (albeit graphic ones) of unglamorized, not-particularly-erotic sex.

City of God is a about a boy who wants to be a photographer, growing up in the slums outside of Rio. It is based on a real story, centering around youth gangs and drug dealing, but it is also about the human element in even the most despicable characters, and the real tragedy of poverty, the way it bullies people into debasing themselves. It is a picture that hurts as well as holds, and not cheaply--isn't that the point of good art?--and one that rings true. It makes me think of Honduras, and the people scratching out life on the dirty hills that ring Tegucigalpa. I know it is partly a selfish, vain impulse, but I want to live those lives, each one of them, thousands and millions of them across an earth sagging under the bittersweet chains of mortality, the broken dreams and scraps of joy.

In the end, I am left with longing. A longing to climb inside of suffering and eat it whole. A longing for God.

Doppelganger Friday

It's Friday. From the time I rise on Friday mornings my weekend brain is in complete control. One could even argue that the transfer of power starts sometime on Thursday evening. On Friday my mind wanders like a stray dog.

In between classes I googled the term 'doppelganger.' Doppelganger, German for "double walker," commonly referred to as a shadow-self. According to about.com's paranormal pages, there is some crazy sheenus out there regarding these doubles. Shelly claims he saw himself when he was in Italy, silently pointing towards the Meditarranean Sea. He died in a sailing accident in 1822 on the Med. Maupassant, French novelist, said that one day his double came in a sat down across from him as he was writing and actually starting dictating his story to him. Now that would be cool. "Hello me. Sit down and tell me a story." What struck me as odd was that many of the stories about doppelgangers are coming from writers. Maybe it's because they tend to write things down, whereas many stories are lost. But still...weird.

My favorite story, though, is about Goethe, that crazy German. He encountered his double, riding towards him on a road to Drusenheim. The doppelganger was wearing a gray suit trimmed with gold. Eight years later Goethe found himself riding the exact same road, same direction, wearing a gray suit trimmed with gold. I like this story because it dovetails nicely with my ideas about the phenomenon of deja vu. They go something like this:

With God, we are told, time is different. It is "one eternal round." All is present with him. Whereas we are trapped in linear, chronological time, he can behold all things at once. How are the prophets given visions of the future? How did Moses behold every living soul that ever lived or would live on the whole earth? God can show them these things because he knows them. He's not making movies about what might happen. This brings up the old dilemma about destiny, which I'm not going to go into deeply here. But I will say I agree with James Talmage when he says that just because God knows the end from the beginning doesn't mean he is controlling outcomes or taking away agency. Surely his influence is felt through his work, but for us the opportunity to decide our own course is never in jeopardy. Maybe God can see down different space-time continuums, maybe there are an endless amount of outcomes. But whatever the case, there seems to be a place, another dimension maybe (for as typically sci-fi as that sounds), where time slips.

Maybe when we dream we can slip into that place where time is jumbled up. Maybe we encounter pieces of the future, or futures. Every once in awhile we find ourselves actually living one of those futures, and the experience is powerful deja vu. I know its wacky, and utterly undebatable on a scientific level. But I like to imagine that could be the case.

We've all heard about how we only use 10 percent of our brains. Hugh Nibley talks about how we mortal can really only concentrate on one thing at a time. Our minds are slow and move from one task to the next chronologically. But for God, he says, his mind is capable of multi-tasking on a supreme level, he can devote his complete attention to many people at the same time. Maybe our brains sometimes slip past their mortal bounds. Maybe the result is strange phenomenon like visions or supernatural experiences, or doppelgangers. Maybe I'm full of crap. But I like to think that we are wired for more than we can imagine, that we aren't ready for everything yet, but that are made in the image of a being who can comprehend all things...and that is our ultimate purpose.

And that's all I've got.