The London Blog

Adopt this boy!

2011-06-03T21:14:00.000+01:00

Hello. My name is Rex. I'm a good dog. My family lost me in the canyon last weekend, and another family picked me up. They put me in the back of their truck, and I got scared. I tried to jump out, and when I did, I shattered my back left leg. It hurt, but it's okay because I don't use it now. I just hop around on three of them.

My family gave me to my friends at Family Pet Hospital because they don't have enough money to pay for my leg to be fixed. It's okay though because my momma's husband died, and she's trying to save her money to pay for her human kids. I will miss them, but I will find a new family to love me.

Do you want to be my family? I would love you and snuggle with you forever. I'm such a quiet and good dog. I'm good with kids and people and all kinds of dogs and cats. But don't feel bad if you can't be my new family. Having a dog is a big responsibility, and I would not want you to be unhappy if you are not ready for a dog.

Do you have $1 for me so that we can pay for my leg to be cut off? I'm not scared. Right now, my leg is in a lot of pieces, and it broke right in the spot that would make it so hard to fix. I would need surgery over and over for the rest of my life. I don't want to do that. So we'll just say "bye-bye" to my leg. If we can all help with just a tiny bit of money to pay for that, then maybe it will be easier to find a new family.

Don't feel bad for me. I'm a good puppy, and I am sure to find a new home soon.

Love,
Rex

Welcome to Summer! Please check your dignity at the door.

2011-05-15T20:03:00.000+01:00

It's been hot the past few days... hot enough for everyone to start moaning about. When it's cold, I start to romanticize the warm weather: it improves my circulation, everyone starts to feel happier because they're not shut indoors, the sun makes my serotonin come out to play, etc. In reality, summer means embarrassing episodes of back-sweat, avoiding swimming because I feel as large and spotted as a Holstein cow, and having to avoid the heavy traffic created by weekend marathons.

Don't mistake me. When everyone was complaining about losing one little hour of sleep to Daylight Savings, I was saying that I'd gladly go a whole week without sleep just for the extra sunlight. I will always love summer because it never feels like the sun sets after lunchtime. But warmer weather means you have to wear half as much clothing, and I feel like I'm a naked potato in shorts.

Rewind about one month, and brace yourself. I... started... running... My little sister put us on the couch potato program leading up to a 5K. Two weeks in, I threw my knee out. It took me another two to recover. Do you see how much my calories love me? They conspire with every part of my body to ensure their survival. Now my sister is way ahead of me, and instead of blog-bitching, I just need to get my asterisk on the treadmill and catch up.

I’m hemorrhaging friends, by the way. I really need to make a rule for myself: you can go on Facebook at any time of the day, but you’re only allowed to post things and comment during the “reality” hours of 12-2pm. If I had made that rule from the beginning, I wouldn’t have the problem that I do now.

It goes like this: I feel unrealistically good about my wit, I make a funny comment on somebody’s post, the comment ends up being out of place, and then, the only thing I know to do in order to save face is delete the friend I made the comment to. It’s probably not necessary to delete friendships that I’ve somehow made awkward, but when one little comment makes me feel like the fat kid in middle school with sweat beads on his mustache, it’s the only option that comes to me.

Note to self: technology is wonderful, but just don’t go ruining your reputation at a rate of 11 megabits per second.

On a side note, I can't seem to shake my pretentious tone. I am not under any illusions that my blog is a must-read, but I do want it to be a good read for the people that do visit. Does anyone have any suggestions on how to blog without making everything you write sound like a line from 'You've Got Mail'?

A Letter of Resignation

2011-04-24T22:44:00.000+01:00

My dearest X,

While in the course of my employment with BYU, I have made it my objective to avoid affection at all cost. As I've explained before, passions are so unproductive. They tie up your attentions and leave little room in your head for anything else. But now, after almost four years, I submit to you my resignation: I love you. I’ve loved you from the moment you walked through the door. And I loved you the moment I walked out. My tenure at BYU has spanned seven years, and I can say without reservation, my favorite part was you.

You may be asking yourself "Why?" or more aptly "Where the hell is this coming from?" Out of fear, I hide my affections very well. Fear is my exposed Achilles heel. It makes me freeze in the very moment that I need to be volitional. And so in a way, I've been frozen since I met you. It's like everyone is waiting for me to choose one of three doors, and I cannot choose any because being stuck in one moment, clinging to hope is better than choosing the wrong door. I want the Mercedes, but maybe the Mercedes wasn't made for me, and somehow I'm stuck with the washer and dryer behind door number three instead of the beautiful new C-Class that I so badly wanted. You and fear make me out to be the world's biggest pansy.

But I also won't fight for attention. I just won't do it. I refuse. Fighting for someone's attention is a bit like being the only one at a party that wasn't invited. Oh sure, I'll stay at the party because it's fun, make a few rounds, and take full-advantage of the open bar, but I'll duck out before anyone notices that I'm not on the guest list. My dear X, if you invited me, I couldn't tell. If I invited you, you couldn't tell. It was stale-mate.

I had almost four years to be happy. But under fear, I was content to just know where you were, how you were doing. Now, I no longer have the one thing that brought us together, and I don't know where you are or where you're going. Where ever it is you're headed, my heart says that I was supposed to be there with you. This is how my heart mourns:

Leaving school is so rough. I had this picture in my head of how life would be after graduation, and life just doesn't look quite like that. It takes a few months to adjust your plans to a more healthy place. When they learn that I've graduated in Psychology, people ask, "What do you want to do with that?" I may say anything that suits the conversation, but the real answer is: I just want to be happy with you.

So after these past four years of agonizing and doubting, I've come to this conclusion: it doesn't matter what I look like. It doesn't matter how much I earn. It doesn't matter if you are the one I deserve... because you are the one I will always want. And that is love's only bottom line.

I will never meet anyone better. I will never meet anyone happier. And I know that I will never meet anyone kinder. After four years, I am resigned: my dearest X, I will love you forever.

Yours always,
Aaron

The one where they got a puppy...

2010-06-23T16:54:00.002+01:00

Our house has been a veritable nuclear plant this past weekend--full of energy and in danger of melt-down. That's what happens when you have a new puppy. Everything changes so dramatically that emotions run high. Several times a day you think, "What have I done? I can't do this anymore!" But then, you get a glimpse of this:

This is baby Eli, our little six week-old Boxer puppy begging to be let out of his kennel. Don't worry. Two seconds after the footage stops, I let him out for a little potty break and a brief run outside. He's a dear little boy. I dare you to keep your heart from melting over this one:

You see? Absolutely a delight! You giggle all the time over his simplest of tasks because they are so uncoordinated, so awkward, and so unassuming. He is a beautiful soul.

So what's the problem, you ask? Why, when this little boy makes everything so beautiful, should there be any problem whatsoever? Good question. You see, there is this other little boy that has also stolen our hearts for the past year, three months, and nineteen days. His name is Evan, and he has been the brightest spot in our home. Take a look:

He still doesn't know about Eli, yet. When we first brought Eli home on Saturday, Evan thought he was being replaced. He stayed downstairs with me for nearly the whole weekend. He would run to get away from Ammon or Nicole when they made loving overtures toward him. He lost his energy. He lost his appetite. He would lay on the floor at the foot of the stairs connecting their home to mine, and he would just stare up toward the top. It was so painful to watch.Someone so beautiful and so pure as Evan shouldn't have to ever feel that way, especially when he gives so much to us.

Living in this situation over the past four days has felt like living in a vice; the pressure is always on you, and you don't feel like you can get out. My darling little sister, Nicole, has been at her wits-end. She has felt like if she gives attention to any one dog, it will be at the expense of the other. Her loyalties are to Evan, of course, but she doesn't want to and shouldn't have to have loyalties at all. Both doggies deserve the best of everything good, just by virtue of being an innocent dog. It tears her apart.

Now, there seem to be signs that they are warming up to each other. It's like any change--one just needs time to get used to it. We cross our fingers in situations such as these:

Eli always wants to play with Evan. He follows him everywhere around the yard when we go outside for a potty break. Sometimes Evan engages in play, sometimes he doesn't. We are researching and trying every sound way to get them to love each other to death. It just takes patience. By the way, if you have any advice, it would be most welcome.

Scattered life

2010-06-17T06:20:00.000+01:00

I have a problem. You see, I'd much rather play around with the aesthetics of my blog page than actually blog. If you were a psychologist or a Hindi guru, you'd learn all you need to know just by my color choices. For the rest of you, it's no good. You all need a new post, which means I have to wade around in the swamp of my life, feel around with my feet to find and bring up the small bits of rusted metal, beer bottles, and rubber tires that would make my life seem interesting. So, here's what I dug up this time:

I'm writing a lot of letters these days. Compulsively, I write to everyone. I find it's a little exercise that calms my nerves while I am at work or in church. The only problem is that, when I am finished, I feel like I have wasted the hours that it takes to write them. I have nothing to show for it. The hours are gone, and I feel just as financially destitute, just as uneducated, and just as unfulfilled as before. Writing the letter only changed the position of the hands on the clock. Was writing to someone supposed to be like kissing a frog, only to have my life become miraculously beautiful afterward? I have no idea what my motivation is... but still, I write.

My family life is starting to make me just a little sad. As all of us kids start to grow up, we all think that the other siblings aren't growing as well. So when one makes a decision that seems odd to the others, we all remain convinced that their life would be so much better if they chose differently. Our family culture sometimes turns into one of control; if they're not going to do it our way, we'll withhold or manipulate, hoping that it will change their mind. I'm usually very able to give my family the benefit of the doubt, but not when it comes to this. You see, if there is one deal breaker for me in all types of relationships, it is in lack of respect. There's this attitude that says, "If you only did things my way, you'd be so much happier." It's painfully ignorant, and it makes pain shoot throughout my soul. It makes me want to cry. How can anyone be so sure that, even though there are so many different people in this world with different lives and different circumstances, there is one way to solve a problem, there is one path to success, and there is one way to be happy? People are not wind-up toys.

I think I talk a little too much. I'm going to try sitting on my lips for a while. The people around me are starting to give off little cues that I'm monopolizing the conversation. I can see it in their eyes. Even when people look away, you can still tell if someone is paying attention to you. The people I talk to are thinking about other things in their eyes if I don't lock my responses down to one, short sentence. I probably need to train myself to talk and think in sound bites, like spokesmen do when they don't want to be misquoted on television.

And then, while I was searching for accompanying photos for this blog post, I found these:

An underwater skyscraper

And an underwater tiger. They have no point, but I thought they were interesting.

...But now, I'm found.

2010-05-24T19:00:00.004+01:00

I credit myself with happening to fall on the most marvelous little shop this weekend. For everybody that has never been there, you must go. For everybody that has already been, shame on you! You let me live my whole life thus far without ever hearing about this place. I'll need to hold a grudge a little while longer before we can be friends again.

And there it is... the temple for letter writers everywhere, a "crack-house" for paper addicts, a playground for paper-mania. This is my success story:

My life before Tabula Rasa Social Stationers is a dark one. I hardly remember it. When I think back one who I was or what I did back then, it seems as though it is someone else's life -- like it was a movie I watched or a book I read, not what it actually was... a life I led. I'm a clean man now, but I can still feel the craving at times, like when I'm stressed or on the weekend when I'm partying with my friends. It creeps into my blood: the need to find beautiful stationary.

Like so many of us, I got into stationary when I was young and stupid. All of my friends were writing letters, and in spite of better judgment, I thought, "Hey, why not? I'm curious to see what it feels like to buy stationary. What could it hurt to purchase some gold-embossed, blank note-cards just this once? I'm strong enough." But the cravings wouldn't stop, and pretty soon after, I was wandering the streets, going from store to store looking for the right lettersheets and matching envelopes that would stop the cravings. I prostituted myself, buying cards and envelopes that I didn't even really need -- stationary that somewhere in my mind, I knew it was ugly. But I was addicted. I was so high on letter writing that I just couldn't see what I was doing to myself and others around me by buying ugly stationary.

One day, I hit rock bottom. I was busy trying to do housework, but I just couldn't concentrate. I had to write a letter. My breathing was heavy. My palms began to sweat. I got that familiar headache and tingling in my head that comes when I've gone too long without a hit. I got in the car and drove over to Barnes and Noble. I picked up a few folios of whatever I could find, paid at the front, then drove home. My little dog who I love so much greeted me at the door. He knew where I had been. He could smell the cheap notepads and slutty stationary sets all over me. I froze. He looked up at me then began lick his rear as if to say, "When is it going to stop, Aaron?"

I broke down. I fell to the floor, curled up in ball like a fetus in the womb and cried like I have never cried before in years. I felt it all at once: I didn't like who I was. I felt dirty. I knew I wanted to see my dog grow up, but at the rate I was going, I knew I wouldn't be able to. After hours of crying, I picked myself up off of the floor and began searching the internet for resources to help.

I found a website for this store in Salt Lake City called Tabula Rasa - Social Stationers. Something inside me spoke. I felt the universe guide me to this store for healing. I wrote down the address on a small, torn-off piece of paper. I kept that paper safely tucked away in my pocket for days. It was my light at the end of the tunnel, my talisman against the demons of polka-dots and poorly designed damask patterns on letter pads intended for teenage girls and post-menopausal cat-ladies.

This last Saturday, I went through Tabula Rasa's Fifty-Step Program: it's fifty steps from the entrance to Trolley Square to the entrance of their store. They don't rush you; you take as long as you need to walk those fifty steps. You can even have the support of your family and friends around you as you make those final steps to recovery. I knew that I was finally "on the wagon" when I bought this:

24 Sheets of antique 'par avion' stickers to put on the outside of my envelopes. And just to make sure that I knew what it felt like to buy gorgeous, quality stationary (to ensure that I would never go back the same road I came), I bought a box of this:

When I got home, I found my dog half asleep on the couch, wasted. The very one who inspired me to change was almost passed out next to a Hallmark bag with pastel-colored floral note-cards scattered everywhere. It seems as though he's fallen in with the wrong crowd. But as long as Tabula Rasa is only one hour away, there is always hope.

John Doe (name changed for privacy) is now a student at Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah pursuing a degree in Psychology. He hopes to one day bring help to recovering stationary addicts like himself. He is in high demand as a speaker, touring the country one day out of the year to speak on the dangers of ugly letterpaper and cliche greeting cards to high school audiences.

Discovery!

2010-05-18T22:38:00.000+01:00

Following a job well done on my latest lesson, I have decided to treat myself to the delights of the city. You see, if one escapes the nomalicy of Utah County, or the UC as we sometimes call it, one must fully embrace the offerings of Salt Lake -- as cosmopolitan as is possible in this state. There is never a shortage of experience to be had; the city offers, and you either accept or are taken aback by the unfamiliarity and decline. Salt Lake asked me, the Wallflower of Utah County, to dance, and I took her hand and allowed her to lead me across the floor she knows so well.

Where did she lead me to? Today, it is the Beehive Tearoom on Broadway. Here, you share tea with your soul in Miss Havisham's dark and warm study. A cup of vegetable soup, spinach and artichoke sandwich, and hot pot of tea... they stir my soul, gently waking my heart from complacency as gently as a wise, old grandmother. Take a look at where I'm sitting:

--Blogged on the run using my mobile.

My big mistake...

2010-05-07T18:06:00.008+01:00

Do you remember this post? It was right before I went to go pick up my dear little Pistol. I was reflecting on all of the quirks that I used to scoff at before I became a doggy parent, and I noticed with my impending responsibility that I was becoming a neurotic parent myself: organic foods! Safety border-lining on insanity! Etc, etc. Apparently I was scoffing too much, for last night, I received this comment on that particular post:

"That is my family photo you took from my blog. The outfits were made by a family friend, so we wore them one Christmas. Brings back good memories for me. Make fun if you wish. I am not the person you described." --Jules--

Small world, huh? Either this lady is lying, and it really isn't her family, or it is her, and I'm wondering how she found my blog. I, of course, have no idea who she is or where her blog is. This photo was taken from a Google Search. I don't just wander on to people's blogs and steal their photos to make fun of them.

Second, a closer reading of the blog post never once returns the phrase, "Look at this family... they're neurotic parents." I tried to speak in general terms, a hypothetical situation that relates to everyone and no one. The photo served to kick-start my readers' imaginations.

Third, I'm very sorry. It's funny that this comment should come last night. Earlier in the day, I was walking my sister's little dog, thinking about how head-over-heels in love I am with that little boy. He's a Pekingese / Chihuahua mix. It's been said on several occasions before that he's a homely little dog. I just don't care. I have no concern at all for the way he looks. All I know is I love him to death. But if anyone says anything derrogatory about him, I'm crushed. It bruises me because it seems like they're not getting how beautiful and precious he is.

It was unintended, but I'm sure I did that to this lady. I'm sure she'd die for her kids, and for me to step in and use one of their more precious memories in such a calloused way is quite unlike the person I would like to be. Even if this wasn't the actual lady and was just someone out to cause a stir, it's still a good wake-up call. People cannot be oversimplified. That's half the reason for trouble in our world. People look at each other and assume they know each others story. Then, they pronounce judgment on each other quite unfairly.

So, what does this mean? I was writing about a hypothetical parent, so I must use very general photos. From here on out, it will only be royalty-free images or clip art. I will never use someone's personal or family photos again. It's not enough that I don't know them; they still exist somewhere. They're real people. If I want a photo to illustrate my discussion of a neurotic parents, I have to find a photo where people were paid to look like or are pretending to be neurotic parents. I'll be leaving the original photo up for two weeks or so, just so everyone has a chance to go back and look at it if they want -- to jog your memory of the post, and to pause a while, imagine the family in a positive way (how much they love and take care of each other) to make up for the way I used them earlier. Then, I'll put up the kind of general photo I spoke of earlier.

After receiving Jules' comment, I wanted to shrug it off, pass the blame to someone else, justify my actions and suppose her reactions were far too sensitive. That kind of deceptive self-preservation gets our society further away from where it needs to be. Thank you, Jules, for giving me the opportunity to learn the grace to admit fault when fault arises, and the opportunity to hone my habits of respect for others.

Natural-Born Consumer

2010-04-23T05:31:00.009+01:00

"Take heed, and beware of covetousness: for a man’s life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth" (Luke 12:15).

Fail. Just chalk it up to another fail. I covet all the time. If anyone really knows me, they could describe me as such: covetous. My Amazon.com Wishlist attests to this. It has always been one of my most favorite hobbies to want what I don't have. Life is a game of identifying what I don't have, devising a plan on how to get it, finally owning it, and then moving on to the next item on the list. I keep little lists of things I want to buy, and then I go over my monthly budget and finances, once, twice, more than five times a week to see what it is I can afford to get this time. And sometimes, I just want, want, want so badly that I impulse buy. What a gross admission.

Let's look at what's wrong with this picture: can I really be satisfied with anything when I just want all of the time? Not really. Like I said, there's always something else on the list, and the list never ends. If I acquire one thing, there's always one more item that is added to the end of the list. Ergo, there is always something that, in my mind, I do not have, and I'm just miserable without it. Didn't you get that from my last post?

Did you ever see Confessions of a Shopaholic? Our protagonist describes her problem thus: "When I shop, the world gets better, and the world is better, but then it's not, and I need to do it again." This has been my unconscious philosophy for dealing with life. Just acquire, and you will be happy.

I'm a visual person. I can walk into a bookstore, and all of my problems go away. I am cleansed by the sight of things I don't have, and every book promises to make me into a better person -- more controlled, or more educated, or more open-minded, and of course, much happier. All, I have to do is buy it. Or perhaps I feel overwhelmed or burdened; I go to a bookstore and check my problems at the door. It becomes such a marvelously positive experience that I just have to have a souvenir of my "journey."

How shallow. Let's just all get that opinion out into the open.

I simply have too much stuff for one person my age. I knew that when I moved this past January. I saw myself buried under a mountain of merchandise with no organization to any of it. You know that feeling you get when you look at a gaping hole in someone's flesh? Your friend falls off his bike and breaks his leg with a big bone sticking out of his skin, and you shudder with absolute shock and disgust? That's what I feel when I look at the state of my finances.

So, my strategy for change begins with this mantra: find fulfillment in doing, not having. If you buy a book, read it all. If you buy a DVD, make sure you'll watch it often (may I just say, I recommend seasons 1-3 of Arrested Development for this -- you will never make a better investment for entertainment). If you have an instrument, play the living hell out of it. Write. Read. Think. Those are the cheapest and longest lasting forms of fulfillment.

Yes, I see myself drifting off the road into a ditch, and it is so difficult not to over-correct the steering wheel. In fact, I do that all of the time. I shut off all spending, making myself impossibly miserable. I need a gentle transition back to the road. Finding fulfillment in doing does necessitate spending, sometimes. (I hope this is sound logic and not justification). You have to spend money to travel. You have to buy books you want to read if the library doesn't have them. You have to buy music if you want to be able to play it. Some of that is inescapable.

Now, I'm at the end of my post, and I want to delete the whole damn thing. That would be a shame, seeing how I post so infrequently. So, I'll hit the "Publish Post" button before I think better of it.

Santa Baby....

2010-04-19T14:11:00.003+01:00

Dear Santa,

Look, I know you aren't due here for another eight months, but we seem to have a good relationship going; I behave, and you bring me stuff. Who says that only has to be one time a year? The Easter Bunny picks up your slack in the spring, my parents and family have to fork out cash and presents on my birthday... from where I sit, it looks like you have it easy. So, let's talk about what I want in the meantime.

Santa, my life is on the line. I am absolutely dying for lack of one of these:

In spite of my best efforts to save up for one, things just aren't moving as quickly as I want. You see, summer is here, dude. Summer is the time to read. Most obligations run away in the warm weather, and school work never seems as pressing.

Reading is a lovely activity. Surely you can see its merits. And my request is very honorable. I mean, how many children actually ask for books for Christmas? I'll bet you've carried your share of Harry Potter boxed sets over the past few years, but other than that, who really asks for books? This is an investment opportunity for you. Here's how the logic of this present goes down: you decide to give me one, and you only have to carry 1.4 pounds to my house; from here on out, the books that I want for Christmas, you deliver wirelessly to my Kindle via Whispernet; the decreased poundage in delivery saves your back, not to mention the countless chiropractic visits you go to on the other 364 days in the year; you give me the Kindle, and I read voraciously; I read voraciously, and become more educated; I become more educated, and I get a damn good job; I get a well-paying job, and you have no need to give me free stuff anymore -- you can just send me post-cards. Brilliant!

Santa, I'm stuck without it. I can't see the sense in buying more books when all the ones I want are available on Kindle anyway. I'd end up buying them twice! So, this is completely up to you: do you really want me to be miserable? Do you really want me to ruin my back by shuttling stacks and stacks of books back and forth from the library?

Sincerely yours,
Aaron

P.S. If you don't comply with my simple request, then I might just have to march into a few elementary schools and tell as many kiddies as I can that there is no Santa Claus. Is that really what you want?

You've got it all wrong

2010-03-30T04:48:00.005+01:00

I think there's something wrong with the world when the top news story on BBC.co.uk is "Ricky Martin Announces He Is Gay" and the last story on the Top 10 is "Suicide Bombings hit Moscow Metro." (at 21:50p MDT, 29/03/2010). Don't get me wrong; I'm happy for the dude to unburden himself. But one man came out of the closet, whereas 38 people died. Judge for yourself.

I think there's something wrong with the world when people are so consumed with getting in front of other cars when driving. Did it ever occur to you to get behind someone? I look at someone who signals to wedge into the three feet of space between me and the next car, then I see that there is no one behind me for two blocks, and I think "what?! Are you serious?!" Do you really have to be in front of me? Will that one car length make that much difference?" Disgust.

I think there's something wrong with the world when everyone tries to appear as though they're on a catwalk, sending the signal: "You want to be me." No. Sorry. I just want to walk across campus without feeling like a potato. Maybe everyone should just relax and fart in public. Then, the masquerade will be over and everyone can be themselves.

I think there's something wrong with the world when higher education makes you feel like the biggest loser. It makes me wish I went to trade school to learn how to build stuff to compensate for all the people who tear down.

I think there's something wrong with the world when praise and good opinion are the scarcest resource on the planet. You can poke a giant hole in the ozone with your carbon emissions, and most of us will all die unfulfilled and thirsty.

Today, You Get an "F"

2010-02-18T22:17:00.004Z

Failed, failed, failed. I'm so sick of that word. It's the only word you have in your head when not a damn thing goes right. You try to get up early, and your body decides otherwise. Fail. You decide you need to go to class, but your health decides you don't. Fail. Today is your day to bring treats to the Senior Operator meeting, but your sister has to do it for you - on her birthday! Big, fat Fail! Then one of your old friends drops by the office to pick up a copy of the Quran you've had of his for the past year and a half. Yep, he came from Sandy, and you didn't bring it in today, so he left empty handed. Big, big, fat Fail. I shouldn't have gotten out of bed today... but wait I didn't. That was the whole problem.

While we're speaking of failing, should we even mention the fact that this is my first post in over four months?

My only consolation? This little boy loves me like no one else. This is Evan, my little sister's dog. We live in an upstairs/downstairs duplex now, and this little dog loves to come down and sleep on my lap. He likes to run down the stairs and dance excitedly when he sees my face. He loves me even after I accidentally dropped him when going to get the mail yesterday. Yes, I dropped him. I was the bad dog. I missed my work meeting today and all of my classes, but still, I was the most important person in the world today to someone - this precious little dog.

I always hope that Christ's mercy is like a dog's disposition. If He's as forgiving as dogs are, we are all in good hands.

Modernist Crap

2009-11-16T07:16:00.001Z

Did I ever tell you what a fake I am? I have it in my mind that musicians are supposed to be open minded about all kinds of music, are supposed to be free-lovers of all creative uses of sound. I'm not. I openly dislike all modern music. Nope, I don't mean popular recorded mainstream music. I mean most all instumental music composed about 1900 onward. I just don't like it. I'd rather have my temperature taken witha rectal thermometer than listen to endless modern sonatas.

I'd like to enduldge my own ego here and hope that I'm with the majority of people: we just can't follow it. It seems to go everywhere and nowhere. It's like a beatnik poet on open-mic night at a coffee bar: over-indulgent and unrestrained, art for art's own sake. Me? I think that wherever there is art of value, it must always show restraint. The art I most deeply respect, the kind that makes me fall on my face with amazement is the type that leaves little "breadcrumbs" of brilliance as if to say, "Oh yes, Aaron. I am very capable of doing all of it." Yet, in the face of their own immense ability, they surrender it all to the piece; they temper themselves in order to sharpen their communication as an artist.

I'm selling the modernists short, I'm sure. They must somehow be as thrifty in their craft as the rest of us. I just don't get it.

Someone asked me on Wednesday if I planned on attaching myself to a symphony upon completing music school. The thought stopped me in my tracks. Yes, that was always the plan - occupy the principle harpist position with a major symphony/ orchestra/ philharmonic and teach at a neighboring university. Now, it didn't make much sense. It didn't sound fun. You know how many times a symphony plays the classics? Those recognizable melodies that sometimes are made into ringtones?

So as I sit here during the intermission of one of the Utah Symphony Nova Chamber Series concerts, I wonder. Louise, my instructor, is playing today. She loves these modern pieces for their nuance and color. Does that interest come later? Do I get bored with those classics eventually? Or do I resent the fact that I cannot choose the repertoire and plug away at the music as sometimes people plug away at the boring parts of their jobs?

Nope. I have to have Baroque? Why?! Why, why, why?! Why did I have to be a harpist who loves Baroque?! There's like 2% of our repertoire that is Baroque! Plenty has been transcribed, but only a sliver is originally Baroque. And as a principle harpist, I'm not going to be playing any of the transcriptions because the snobby museum-culture that makes up the season ticket-holders just won't allow it. They'll know that only Handel had bollucks enough to write a concerto for the harp, and even then, half of the time the concerto performances harp part was given to the organ. The harp wasn't that important in Baroque music.

But there's a glimmer of hope: The Academy of St. Martin-in-the-Field. I heard them perform at the Church of St. Martin-in-the-Field in London. I have their CDs. They play Baroque on period instruments. And, they have a harpist. That's my in. Even Baroque composers that I just don't care for, I like to listen to. I could take whatever repertoire they throw at me and love it. No metaphorical rectal thermometers. Brilliant!

So, where does this leave me now? I've created such a narrow window to happiness. I have to work, work, work. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, but Jack, in this instance, has a chronic illness to deal with and a big doggie to provide for. All work and no play puts food on Jack's table and pays for his monthly subscription to NetFlicks. That's not a bad life for Jack.

--Blogged on the run using my mobile.

2009-11-14T15:38:00.001Z

So I'm quite obsessed with what one can do with a mobile these days. For kripes sake, I can blog, listen to Bach, send/receive texts and phone calls all at the same time on one little palm-sized nugget. For someone who hasn't had the Internet at home, this is complete liberation. I smile at the very thought.

It just streamlines life. Let's say I want to practice on campus. Those lovely school harps, sadly, are never in tune. But who wants to carry a tuner around with them on the off chance that they have a free hour to practice? No worries, I have a chromatic tuner on my phone. Need a metronome?I have that on my phone, too.

I gage my musical progress by time. With learning instruments, there are no shortcuts. Either I put in the time, or I don't. And no matter how brilliant I might momentarily sound, it's not going to be as good as if I spent a full amount of practice time on myself. Time is the bottom line. Well folks, there's an app for that too. All I have to do is press one button and my practice time is recorded by exercise, by piece, by instrument, etc. It graphs my totals separately and together, and it also graphs my progress in speed. Marvelous! I have a visual confirmation to satisfy the need for constant progress. The stats seem to say, "You know what? Be fulfilled because you spent a serious chunk of time on your craft today. You did well."

And what about this? I can snap a photo of Imogen Heap in concert and tell you all what a great experience it was, all on one device. If it's not classical, I'm just not a concert-goer. I've been to The Fray and to Imogen. That's it. Everything else, I'm afraid, most people wouldn't call them concerts because it's the stuff that most people find boring. To me, they're morphine drips, straight to the heart. And Imogen, though not classical, is great talent, folks. She mixes and creates a one-of-a-kind show right on stage. She knows her instruments and her technology, and she marvelously creates something completely different. In a different life, I'm filthy rich, and I take all of you with me.

I hope all of this mobile talk doesn't sound like gloating. Oh no, I'm just dancing in all my luck. The 'blogged on the run' label down at the bottom? That's just something that makes me feel like some of these posts are novel. My favorite 'London Blog' posts are the ones I actually posted while in London. There's something fun about reading words written while in an irregular setting. So, "blogged on the run?" I could be in a doctor's office, waiting for my name to be called. I could be on a park bench in the middle of campus. Anywhere there's mobile reception, I could be. Try it, folks. If you have a laptop, move yourself to a Starbucks or Borders Cafe and blog. You'll come alive with the new atmosphere.

But the clincher, the best payoff for having this phone, for me is photos like this:

It makes my day when my dad and little sister treat me to instant doggie photos. Lovely!

--Blogged on the run using my mobile.

Finished Tattoo

2009-11-11T17:50:00.001Z

So, I forget about my blog these days. I have rhythms, I find, of being so thoroughly excited about my own life that I can just blog away. And there are other times when I feel like being semiprivate or blogging just becomes an irritating chore.

It didn't help my blog that we had the Internet taken away from us at work. Our performance was just too sad to merit priviledge. So, I didn't write or check blogs that often. Crystal dear, yours is always the exception; your readership is partly due to those amazingly cute little twits you're raising.

Now, I can read all of your blogs on my phone. God bless the 21st century!

My mom got to come for a visit this past week - the positive end of a trade-off from losing my Grandpa. The dear man - he passed away at 87 from renal failure. It wasn't totally unexpected, and it wasn't completely sudden. It was simply his time to move on. He provided his family the wonderful opportunity to gather together and share company without hard feelings.

And on Friday, I got my birthday gift. I don't turn 27 until later in the month, but my tattoo artist had an opening, and I had to take it. After a year of waiting, my family paid to have my tattoo finished. The guy did such an amazing job. See for yourself:

It's the absolute spitting image of my little boy. Marvelous!

--Blogged on the run using my mobile.

The State of the Onion

2009-10-12T06:41:00.000+01:00

So, I had a this blog post. It was about starting lessons with the principal harpist of the Utah Symphony. I never followed up on it. I had my third lesson with her this afternoon. Let me tell
you how it's been.

I've been completely intimidated. A teacher is a deal-breaker; when you're looking at getting into a conservatory, you must have a teacher recommendation. If you don't, you will never be invited to audition. Looking like an idiot in front of your teacher will stop you dead in your plans in addition to bruising your ego. There's more at stake here.

In the very first lesson, we started changing everything about my technique. All my instruction so far has been in the Salzedo method. It seems to be the preferred method here in the US. But outside the US, people just don't use it that much. In the UK, people learn more of the Russian and French methods. So, that's how Louise plays, and she thought, just by looking at how I play that I might benefit from it.

Why am I telling you all this? It's changed everything. I was skidding on an oil slick (or so it felt like), and now everything has slowed way, way down while I rework all of the essentials. I can't just jump right into music like I thought I'd be able to, but these new approaches--I have absolutely no doubt--are going to make me a more efficient player. Yes!

What's my main concern? I just don't want to frusterate or bore the snot out of my new instructor. Tuesdays are days of fear; I never feel like I've practiced enough, and then I'm so sure she's going to drop me as quickly as she agreed to take me as a student.

But--good sign--she did give me pears from her tree in the backyard after this last lesson. Does that make us friends? And then, we started talking about "practice ruts." She said, "I know. I was practicing this piece we're doing with the symphony, and it felt like I was getting stuck. And I thought to myself, 'What would I tell Aaron to do at this point?'" Lovely! It made my day. It wasn't fake. It wasn't patronizing. It just made me really feel like her student, relationship solidified.

--Blogged on the run using my mobile.

Good Cop / Bad Cop

2009-10-04T22:00:00.001+01:00

It seems to me that General Conference just ends up being one big game of "good cop/ bad cop"; one speaker makes you feel so marvelously encouraged about life, and you can bet that the very next one will give you a horrible tongue lashing. It's a dynamic that, quite frankly, makes me tired, and I end up falling asleep. I bet I only caught half of the talks. Leave your comments if you think that I missed anything particularly important.

I tend not to be as excited about Conference as most. I know that it's a thrilling time for everyone in my church--to hear worldwide leaders of our church speak to all twelve-some-odd-million at the same time. But for me, it's a reminder of my list of "nots." I already know what I should be working on. I know my own weaknesses very well. It never is a glorious help to hear about them again. It's like someone is standing over me, shaking their finger, saying, "Bad dog, bad dog, bad dog!!"

So, I look for lovely distractions during the tongue lashings (like blogging about Conference) while I wait for the "good cop's" turn to speak.

I think I'd be able to like this better if I were on my couch, wrapped completely up in a comforter, with a bowl of Blue Bell Rocky Road icecream.

--Blogged on the run using my mobile.

Immense Good Luck!

2009-08-21T22:19:00.007+01:00

High as a friggen' kite, my friends! I am stoned on my good fortune. You know why? This lady returned my call while I was on my lunch break:

That's Lady Louise Vickerman, Principal Harpist for the Utah Symphony and Utah Opera. We had a lovely little chat this afternoon, and she agreed to take me on as a private student! Wild!

Not only is it amazing to get the chance to study with someone of such prestige, but she's Scottish; she's done all of the Associated Board of the Royal School of Music exams that I am getting ready to finish in March. From her experience, I'll have a marvelous chance of finishing with distinction (that's an actual grade, by the way).

I was so worked up before she called me back, and I was so sure that she just wouldn't take me. So it just makes the marvelous blessing of being taken on as a student that much sweeter! Everybody have a drink on me to celebrate! (But I will need receipts submitted if you expect to be reimbursed). And let's make all the drinks virgin; I don't want any pasted SOB's on my account.

Jamba Coupon

2009-08-04T19:14:00.003+01:00

I offered, and no one took me up on it. It's buy one, get one free for kripes sakes. So rather than trying to email it to anyone that wants it, I decided to post it on my blog. Just print it out and take it in. I've done it four times now, so I know it works (just not at the one in the WILK). I'll delete this post after it expires.

Not in the mood

2009-08-04T17:28:00.011+01:00

I'm really not in the mood to blog--ever. I used to be so good about writing, back when my life was interesting. Now when I go to work (which is the only place I have the internet), I just surf. A bleeding waste of time. I'm even betting that this post will remain unfinished, saved as a draft until I eventually delete it because I just completely lost interest. It's happened many a time before.

But I feel disappointed. I must write something on my blog to get people to visit. Otherwise, they won't get to see and enjoy my beautiful new layout that I spent so much time and energy on. I'm quite proud of it.

Water. They tell you to drink plenty of water in order to be healthy, but they don't tell you that you'll spend more time in the bathroom eliminating all of the liquids you don't need that you will spend actually living your life. If you get all of the water that your body needs, you will need a catheter in order to still lead a productive life.

I don't really like wearing bracelets, anklets, necklaces, bandannas, etc. The less crap I have hanging on my appendages, the better. However, my littlest sister, Robin, made me a simple little bracelet from hemp, and I love it. It's a precious part of my daily ensemble. And everyday, I wear Pitsol's puppy collar around my ankle. I will always make exceptions for lovely people and precious dogs.

Dreamweaver. I took a class in Adobe Dreamweaver so that I could build websites from scratch. I hate having to depend on these ruddy "website builders" that allow you to do only basic functions, never giving you the opportunity to make your website unique. Well, one of my supervisors at work heared that I knew a bit about Dreamweaver and solicited my help on rebuilding one of our operator resource pages. I knew everything. I was so pleased. I know this means nothing to most, but it made me happy--just like being a kindergardener, taking the milk money to the cafeteria and bringing all the milk back myself.

Music is hard, especially when you are trying to maintain a second instrument. I play the harp beautifully--not perfectly, but beautifully. I have progressed at an accellerated pace, and now I have a solid footing. I used to play the cello before I played the harp, and now (after three years) I've been practicing the cello regularly. Taking up a second instrument requires a hefty step-stool. Otherwise, there's no way to get off your high horse. By being very accomplished in one instrument, you are under the illusion that it will be very easy to pick up a second. Not so. You do have a handle on the rudiments of music, yes. But you still must teach your muscles to work in another way. It's a bit humbling, so it must be good for me.

I have this little disease. It think that the techical term is avarus sapius, but in laymans terms, it's called greed. You see, it doesn't really matter how much I have, I always seem to want more. My family has this example: we would always say "If we only had a bigger house, there wouldn't be such a mess everywhere. We'd have a place for everything." At the time, we were living eight people to a 1,2oo sq. ft. house. But the Roundys (a family in our church) had a huge house, and it was always a mess. It just goes to show you, more doesn't mean better. You'll still have the same ruddy problems as when you had less. The solution? Buddhism teaches that one must modify their wanting. My intent is to apply that that principle by finding fulfillment in doing, not having. And so far, I'm losing. Any ideas?

A time to blog...

2009-06-25T15:18:00.007+01:00

So, do we like my new layout? I do. I'm so turned on (creatively--let's not have dirty minds here) by my new layout that I thought I'd actually write something. After all, blogs are not for looking at but for reading. Let's see how I do after three months of not having written anything.

I found that I only ever write what's on my mind if I'm interested in what's on my mind. No self-obsession = infrequent posts. When life is just life, I write nothing. That sort of builds this expectation that life has to be like a movie. How often do you see someone sit down on the toilet with their crossword in a movie? Never. Not because it's inappropriate but because it's boring. Everyone wants shooting and love-making--nothing in between.

So, the time since my last post has seemed like three months worth of "toilet-sitting," except for these highlights:

I got to go home for a day or two. My little boy is just as slobbery as ever. And the other doggy is warming up to me as well. Toward the end of my stay, all I was good for was a vigorous scratch. I would come outside, the pooches would come to the door to greet me, and then they would turn over on their backs and paw at the air until I started scratching.

He has such a big, flat tongue that when he goes to lick you, you get slapped in the face. He's the most awkward and precious dog.

I try to play dead, but he never believes me. He can't smell rigor mortis, so he just sniffs and licks my face until I get up and scratch him.

I'm tired of writing already. More later, I guess

Become a "fan" of Salvation!

2009-03-10T12:52:00.007Z

Does it make me a bad person not to become a fan of all of the LDS apostles on Facebook? What is that in the service of anyway? I thought that we were supposed to become a fan of something if we were truly interested in it. That way, we can get excited when we find out that other people have our same unique interests.

I'm going straight to hell for that last paragraph. I'm certain that there are people who truly mean to be "fans" of these people and things. But to me, it just seems like a horrible Mormon bandwagon to jump on. On your home page, you see that someone became a fan of some church leader, and you don't really feel comfortable passing that statement by until you become a fan as well. You'll feel horrible unless you do.

I protest. As much as the world of Facebook is a joke anyway, I absolutely refuse to be psychologically coerced into becoming fans of "Mr. Whatsis" or "Something-or-other" bogus cause on Facebook. If there is anywhere I can maintain complete autonomy, let me do it in the world of virtual reality.

Do I honestly need a tag on my Facebook page for my spirituality to be understood?

Oh, and if you do perhaps think I'm a bad person for such musings, just make sure you collect all fifteen on Facebook so that you can have a complete set.

No Fear

2009-03-02T17:48:00.007Z

Fear is a horrible motivator. We use fear to make things happen--to get our way. Parents count down the seconds until their child gets hammered on the butt for disobedience. Companies send out collection notices--"pay us, or else we'll screw up your life." A housing complex I once lived at posted a sign in their office: "The apartment that you looked and will go home and think about tomorrow will be signed and paid for by someone else today." So make a snap decision. Don't think or pray about it. Sign a year of your life away NOW because because you don't want to miss out on an opportunity. Be afraid so that we can collect rent for another unit.

Kill yourself to make good grades, because if you don't, you won't get into college. What about when you're in college? You better make good grades or else you won't get: a great internship, a scholarship, a good job. Run yourself into the ground for those grades or you'll end up selling insurance. You won't feel fulfilled, and no one will respect you.

What about finding a relationship? Cheers to the people who exercise in order to improve and maintain their health. Working out can be a wonderful, fulfilling activity. But, the masses? Our dating culture is about fear. You better be in shape or no one will love you. Or, to speak frankly, get ripped or you won't get laid. Women starve themselves, obsess about their bodies, go through numerous plastic surgeries that never end because they fear. "I'm afraid of being alone because I don't look perfect, so I'm going to change myself."

Fear is a horrible motivator.

A friend of mine always would remind me that we should all be running toward toward something, rather than always running away. We run away from the consequences of poor academic performance (no job, no scholarship, etc.). We operate on fear. What happens when we run toward the positive alternative? We fly.

If I want to learn everything there is about bookbinding or music (for example), I start living life. I read everything. I practice always. I take every opportunity to learn from those who are experienced in my craft. I do this because I really want to, not because I don't want a bad grade on a quiz.

I'm tired of being afraid.

Yesterday, I pulled out a DVD to watch after church--just to have something on while I was cleaning my room. V for Vendetta. I really don't know why I bought it. I think it was one of those previously viewed copies on the tables at Blockbuster. The deal was 4 for $25; I had three in my hand, and I needed a fourth.

In spite of all the blood, I had one of the most spiritual experiences watching that film. Everyone was afraid, so the corrupt government stepped in and controlled every aspect of their lives. No one dared to step out of line.

This character named "V" puts this girl through absolute hell. He simulates a torturous imprisonment. She has no idea it's not real, and she's ready to die rather than be made to fear. She's reborn.

I'd love for someone to put me through that same kind of crap just so that I'm not afraid. Instead, I have to do it for myself. If I'm afraid of failing, I just fail. Hit my head against that wall so that I can see what it is I'm afraid of.

In the end I want this:

...a definite turning point where the old life is washed away, and the new life is free from fear and full of choice.

What next?

2009-02-23T18:58:00.006Z

We've hit my limit. Every semester, I seem to have a point at which I burn out and loose interest. I hit that mark two weeks ago. Yikes! That's only a month and a half of peak performance before I start making excuses to my professors and worrying about what a financially crap life I'm going to lead.

It's just school. It's jolly boring most times, especially in religion classes. I feel like I'm being spoon-fed a testimony, and I resent it. It's just a sappy, grown-up version of seminary. I got a 57% on my last exam, and I quit going.

I worry. I worry that I'm not worried. It makes me sick that I can't just force myself to want to do homework or want to go to class. Perhaps I'll just clean houses.

I stole some books out of the closet at work today. People just leave such beautiful books in the closet and forget about them. I stole an old copy of Oliver Twist and a really nice side-by-side translation of The Qur'an. Christopher West (if you read this post), I have a feeling that these books are yours. If they are, just tell me and I'll give them back. I can never feel good about stealing books.

The only class I feel really engaged in is my bookbinding class. It's lovely. I took it once already, about three years ago. This time, I got to write my own syllabus. Instead of doing the normal, simple, prescribed styles of binding, I get to do all leather. Leather work is hard. There are special skills involved. Since you turn the ends of the leather to the inside of the book, you have to taper it down to reduce bulk. New tools, new skills, etc. I research it all on my own, and I love it. It's proactive learning. No one is telling me what to read or study; I get to choose it all. This is the kind of learning that I absolutely thrive on. It's a ruddy shame that all of my education cannot be like this. I'd do so well.

So I need that change that I was looking forward to at the beginning of the semester. I need this back:

He's such a lovely boy. Anytime I'm around, he just can't stay away. He butts into my personal space. He has no regard for anything but to be loved. Here's a year out of eight that I've wasted. I don't want to have to miss him for the other seven years of his life.

What a horrible post. Instead of only writing stuff that I can be proud and feel good about, I'm writing whatever. Holding off until I can come up with something tasty has resulted in creating posts every month or so. I guess you just write until something good comes out. It takes practice like anything else.

Everyone should just go to sleep today and forget about everything.

It's all my fault

2009-01-28T16:51:00.003Z

I need to update my blog...

I really enjoy looking at other people's blogs and keeping current with what is going on in my people's lives (yes, my choice of words is awkward, but I just couldn't bring myself to type "peeps"). It's such an easy way to stay in touch. But it gets ridiculous to try and type everything that's going on in your life. There just doesn't seem to be time or motivation on most days. And then you get into those moods where there isn't anything you can say that doesn't make you out to be a total freak.

But it just doesn't seem right. You get to read up on all of your people, but they don't really know anything about you and your life. As I told Clay, it's as rude as those people who show up without a gift at your birthday party; you just can't show up, eat the food, and leave without bringing the host a present.

Don't get too excited, though. It don't have anything to say. This is just an acknowledgment of fault.

More later...

Happy Nude Year

2009-01-01T17:24:00.010Z

I feel so nice. Everything looks beautiful. I feel quite affectionate to people I don't normally like. I am on Lortab. Lets do a post.

When I'm on Lortab, I want to write thank-you letters. I recall the most insignificant things that people have done, and I honestly think, "My life would never be the same without them. I want to write them a thank-you letter." What a joke.

I am grateful. I'm a grateful person. But writing thank-you's for things that don't matter? I just have to laugh at myself. I want to run up and give people hugs. I want to take in a stray cat. I want to go to Bed, Bath, and Beyond to feel the towels. I want to read Chicken Soup for the Fat Sap's Soul and cry over the fuzzy stories. I want to write a letter to our senators and tell them that there needs to be more art programs in our schools. Then I want to stand outside Burgers Supreme and smell the char-broil smoke being piped out into the surrounding neighborhood.

I don't take Lortab that often. I just take it when I need it. If I take it too often, not only will I become addicted, but my body will acclimate, and I'll need higher and higher doses in order for it to be affective. It may seem like I'm a pill head, but I'm not. It's too easy to reach for a bottle of meds when things are rough. They only mask the problem. I try to find Zen when the FMS pain becomes unbearable. And when I can't find it on my own, I let Lortab take me there.

All the same, I might name my child Lortab--if I ever decided to have one.

It's only fitting to talk about the New Year on the first day of the new year. I've thought about giving some advice to myself. I don't want to call them New Year's resolutions; let's avoid cliches at all costs. Why advice, you ask? Well, since I didn't have my lips all over someone at the stroke of midnight, I have to get my kicks somewhere.

No. 1 - Don't try to lose weight. Instead, try to lose your appetite. Run head-long into a post about every three days to give yourself a nausea-inducing concussion. You won't really want to eat, and your problem will be solved.

No. 2 - Be more vulnerable. The more one tries to protect themselves from potential threats, the less one is able to feel. Pretty soon you find that you're just a walking corpse. Christ was vulnerable, and he was able to love and feel more than anybody. Just relax, be brave, and be with the people you want.

No. 3 - Volunteer. Your beautiful little boy may be in Texas, but you can still care for little doggies. Lots of animal shelters would appreciate the time, not to mention what being with the little guys would do to your spirit. Start small, and make it a habit.

No. 4 - Change your wardrobe. There is absolutely no reason why you should spend more than fifty-cents a shirt and two dollars per pair of jeans. Then, as you walk around town, people will assume you are a transient and give you hand-outs. You'll save money and make money. Genius.

On that same note, be concerned about money--don't make it your life's worry. If you have to declare bankruptcy, move out of your apartment, sell all your things, live on the street, then get killed in a gang fight, it's okay. You will have had a life, and you will have learned some pretty important lessons. Learning, not gaining, is the most important part of life. Keep that in your mind this year.

No. 5 - Turn off your iPod. Turn off the television. Cancel a few activities here and there. You need time to meditate each day. Now some people can make do without thinking and reviewing what is going on in their life. You cannot. Give just a few moments to sit and reflect. Little Daisy Brown came into work the other day, and she was so content just to touch (not have) the paper snowflakes hanging from the ceiling. Just ponder life, and the more simple pleasures in life will come. Ponder, and you will have fullness.

Have a happy 2009--with whatever you decide to do with it.

And so, today goes like this:

2008-12-06T15:33:00.010Z

So I prefer Blogger to Facebook--just so you know. I got on Facebook this morning (first time in a month), and I had no clue what to do with myself. I had a few friend requests, so I accepted them. I found a few new friends, so I requested them. Other than that, what do I do? I can't just write on people's walls; they'll think I'm weird! If you can't tell by that last statement, I'm no initiator. People have walls for a reason: you write on them. And I only accept Facebook friends that I really like, so there shouldn't be any reason why you'd think I'm weird. One of these days, I'll get over my ridiculous cyber anxieties, and we'll have lively conversation.

So I was late to work to day. We're not talking slap-on-the-wrists late. This is boot-you-rear-out-the-door late. As a senior operator, I was supposed to open the office this morning at 6am. I woke up at 7:30am. Lovely. I can't decide whether I'm more overcome with fear for the repercussions this will have on my employment, or if I'm more put out because I didn't get to shower before work.

Since getting tattoos, I like to wax my arms so that the tattoos look better. I haven't waxed them in a month, and now I look like this:

It's no wonder I haven't waxed them in a month. It's too hard to wax anything yourself, unless you can go like this:

I'm grateful to a lot of people for feeling like a burning monk (see last post), being accused of laziness, and telling me about it. Everyone's life sucks in some way, and I'm glad that some people can talk to me about their personal hells without feeling like their struggle is less or more important than the next guy's.

That little boy cannot take a drink without sticking his whole face in the water bucket. He comes out sopping wet everytime. He's always loved being wet. When I first brought him home as a 9 week old puppy, I shut off the sprinkler system so that he would get wet at night. Then, I thought to myself that he has to learn for himself to stay dry. But he never learned, and he never cared. I would come out every morning to feed and hug my boy, and his fur would be matted together from the moisture. He'd just sleep right through the sprinkler cycle right in the middle of the yard. And that one, horrible night that I spent at the old apartment, I took him out to use the bathroom in the morning, and the sprinklers were on. He just walked right through all of them, sniffing around, looking at everything. Pistol loves a good mud pile... he's such a pill. The only water he hasn't loved is bathtime, and this:

I decided that this post needed to have some kind of positive material, owing to the last post. So, I'm glad I could write about Pistol. There's no brighter spot in my life than that little boy.

Where did you go?

2008-12-03T00:35:00.010Z

No posts for two months. No apologies. No excuse. No motivation.

Here's a brief update on how everything has been going. My body always feels like this:

But people think I'm this:

So my grades look like this:

This is always in my head:

While this is always in my heart:

And I can't believe that this got married:

I don't take all the exercise that I should, so I look like this:

That's how life is, so if you're inclined to judge, get the hell off my blog. Yes, my life and your life can be hard at the same time; it doesn't need to be a contest.

I'm failing school. I hate my grandparents because they choose not to do anything for themselves. My harp teacher refuses to give me the benefit of the doubt, and I always feel like a goober around her. Everybody wants something from me. I don't have a place to live or enough money to live off of. I'm tired of Utah. I hate being put in a box by most everyone around me. I don't respect myself because I'm playing the victim. And I hate not having my little boy with me.

Before the straw breaks the camel's back, I'm moving away. I don't know if it will be before the winter semester starts or after it ends. I'm still deciding on what place will be most affordable. Let me know what you guys think. Vote on a city from the list of places I've wanted to live in on the left.

Make time for life

2008-09-20T02:17:00.003+01:00

Over a month since my last post...

It shouldn't get to me. It's no skin off my gluts if I don't write a thing or two for a while. But I get so frustrated when people don't update their blogs. This is the only way I keep in touch with some people, and seeing a new blog posting is like Christmas. I just about jumped up on my chair, screaming (nut-bag-Tom Cruise-on-Oprah style) when I saw that Crystal had updated her blog after moving to Florida. Granted, the woman had other priorities for a month and a half, but I was dying for any word on how she and her little family were doing. And TA-DA! One day, there it is.My dilemma? Life. It just gets in the way. That's interesting to me, how there are 30,000 students here on campus, and probably half of them hate what they do. You almost never hear school referred to in a positive light. People ask, "So how are your classes goin'?" And others respond with a look of death on their face. Why?!! Why the hell to we do this?!! It seems so stupid. We all only get one life; so why should we let one minute go by doing something that doesn't particularly make us happy? Somehow, we think that there's a trade-off. We have to slave away at school, trading our peace and health for a degree--a ruddy bit of paper and calligraphy. Those who think the trade-off is an acceptable one might end up doing the same thing for the rest of their lives: "I have to work this crappy job so that I can network and get a better job." Well, I'm done with it.

I felt so good about skipping class the past two days. On Wednesday, I woke up a little later than I wanted to. I had just enough time to shower, shave, and run out the door to class. Usually, I get up, get showered and dressed for the day, have a warm breakfast and hot tea while watching Frasier or The Golden Girls or Bargain Hunt, then I do my two and a half hour harp practice before leaving for classes. It's that unhurried morning time that gives me peace during the day, that leaves me feeling fulfilled with what I've done with my life. Now, when I have to rush out the door to make it to class in time, I just don't feel satisfied. I leave the house with anxiety, not hope.

I decided after a few minutes that there just wasn't time in my schedule for school, and I didn't go. Well, I did go to harp ensemble rehearsal yesterday, but that was only because I really wanted to.

It was so lovely. I gave my being what it needed in order to feel fulfilled. Perhaps on other days, school's not such a bad option--but only if I've taken care to give myself the essentials, and if I can be interested in the material.

How do you tell someone that you love "no?" Any suggestions? I would love to have them.

So, three weeks ago, I took my grandpa to have some minor, outpatient surgery. When we got him home, he was so loopy from the anesthetic that he ripped out his catheter and gave himself a near-fatal blood infection. We got him to the ER just in time to save him, and I threw my back out in the process of trying to lift him. He's been in rehab for the past three weeks trying to learn how to walk again.

This is the part where you think less of me, everyone. We'll just acknowledge that between us so there's no pretension in the rest of my post.

As a young person, I just don't have the time or energy to take care of these people like they want. It's not that they need everything done for them. They just want everything done for them. It's easy to see why; they think there's a big, strong man in the house that can pick up the slack. But, I have FMS, I'm going to school, I'm trying to work on my music. Young people are trying to establish lives for themselves so that they can support themselves financially and be very secure and happy occupationally. I just don't have what it takes to do everything that they want. It would serve them well to do more for themselves.

But could you say "no" if your grandma was asking you to do something for her in a desperate, weakened voice? See, it's just not that easy. It's a hole I've dug for myself that I have to get out of before it buries me alive.

My little boy weighs 48lbs. That's twice as much as he weighed when I got him. The family tells me that he no longer chews on his food; he just inhales--literally. He eats at three times the pace of his cousin, then he goes over to Tristan's bowl and starts eating his food too. I need to go home for a bit, just so I can see his face. I usually don't dream, I just nightmare. But when I do dream, he's always in them lately. I love my Pistol.

I'd like to always have posts that are upbeat, where I make especially clever jokes about how people are idiots, I write precious little haikus on the changing seasons, and I make observations that bring out the supraliminal in life. Be patient with me. We will get back to those.

A brief update

2008-08-16T15:51:00.003+01:00

I'm feeling really irritated that I feel really guilty for still feeling crushed. I explained to my mother that I feel like a sixteen-year-old girl that got pregnant out of wed-lock and had to give her baby up for adoption; I made a choice that would make life better for the baby, but it doesn't mean that I won't feel like hell for a while.

Life is better for the baby, you know. My poor little boy had to endure an extra two and a half hours on the plane because of weather delays. When he finally landed in Amarillo and was signed for by my mother and sister, he was so happy. They let him out of his kennel to play for a bit, and he couldn't have been more excited to see familiar faces. He slept the whole way home on my sister's lap. My mother, being the good and conscious mother that she is, had to call me to ask if he normally snored.

This is Tristan--Pistol's new friend at home. They just sat and sniffed each other at their first introduction. There was some concern that the bigger dog wouldn't know how to play gently with a puppy. My little brother stood by the two of them, ready to pull Tristan off of Pistol or scoop Pistol up and take him away. But Pistol turned out to be quite the tease. He would wildly nip at the bigger dog's neck or leg, then dart back between my brother's legs for protection.

But Tristan is a champ. My mother texted me this morning to let me know that he shared his dog house with my little boy last night. I couldn't ask for more. He's such a patient soul. My family tells me that when the dogs aren't sleeping, they're playing. Tristan likes to come up to the rocks at the bay window, lay down, and feel the warmth that the rocks have absorbed from the sun as he sleeps. Yesterday, he did so with one leg hanging over the edge of the rocks. Apparently, my puppy wasn't ready to sleep yet, and he started nipping at Tristan's leg. Tristan just opened his eye (he's only got one), looked around to acknowledge the situation, then raised and released the leg to send Pistol rolling across the grass. Clearly, it was time to rest.

He's doing so well at home, just happy as much as he was unhappy here. He has great company, a twenty-four hour companion, and a back yard full of mischief to get into. That's all anyone can hope for.

It doesn't make it easier, though. There's too much I will miss out on with the kid. For now, I carry his leash in my backpack as a security blanket, just until the intensity of the loss can pass.

And as much as I hate directly addressing you readers in my blog, almost as though we were having a conversation (it just feels weird), I do have to thank everybody for sympathizing both verbally and in writing. Yes, all of this is just about a dog. But everyone has been so respectful enough to realize how important it's been to me. And every time I blog, I'm just going to expect Crystal to be reading it at the same time. You've commented on the last few posts as I've been writing the next one. It's great to have that little connection with another friend I miss.

Sorry for the disconnected writing and thinking. My form will improve as my head clears.

Requiem for my puppy

2008-08-13T15:21:00.003+01:00

A friend of mine wrote letters to her unborn daughter on her blog. I think that's the only way that I know how to format this one and have it bring some type of consolation.

My dearest Pistol:

You're such a good little dog. Everyone that has seen you comments on what a cute puppy you are. I'm guaranteed at least five "precious puppy" comments every time we walk into the vet. You're always too stressed to notice. Even though you don't like the shots, the cold stainless-steel surfaces, and the rectal thermometer, you never fight; you just sit there very quietly and let everyone try to make you healthy. See? You're such a good puppy.

I absolutely love the way you stare at me through the sliding-glass door, following me with your eyes, waiting for me to come give you my attention. Sometimes you stand at the window, other times you lay down on the patio stairs, resting your little face on the top step. Other times you whine as you claw at the glass. I walk to the door and reach for the door handle. You know the routine, and your eyes follow me every step of the way. Then I open the door, and you go crazy. You make my heart melt, kid.

I laugh so hard when we get to play. I take your chew toys and drag them across the grass, and you pounce. It's such a simple game, but you just love it. You love to win. You just flop down on the grass and enjoy your victory... until I start dragging another toy across the grass. You keep the one toy in your mouth and try to catch the other. Never mind the fact that you already won; you just can't stand the idea that another chew toy would get away from you. You have to run at it with your front legs apart so that you don't trip on the toy you have in your teeth.

You're such a beautiful dog. I've wanted a St. Bernard since I was ten or eleven. I would check out books on Saints from the library and read up on their history as rescue dogs. I would beg my parents for one. I would draw them at school. I even had a piggy bank in the form of a St. Bernard. I loved their faces, I loved their form--I loved how they were like little bears. I've always wanted one. You're a dream come true, kid.

I love that just last week, you got so comfortable with sitting on my lap. We would go sit out on the front yard in the morning while you watched all the lovely people walk by on their morning walk. You love people, and if they wouldn't come to you, you'd always go to them. Then, you come galloping back to me, diving back into my lap. As humans get older, life holds fewer joys. Those moments when you came running back to me, almost tackling me as you jumped into my lap, will always be one of my fewer joys.

But kid, I failed you. Right now, we live with my granny and grandpa, and as much as they love you, they don't like dogs in the house. I looked for and found a place where we could live together. It took a while, though; not many people like the idea of a St. Bernard coming to live at their property. They put too much stock in movies like Beethoven and Cujo. They expect you to tear up the house and drool everywhere. They don't know that you only dribble when you eat or drink or when it's hot outside. They don't know how obedience is in your blood.

I spent last week moving in to our new place, and I got so excited about not having to close the door on you anymore, that I wouldn't have to draw a line that said, "Even though I love you, you have to stay there." After all, love isn't about drawing lines; it's about getting rid of them and feeling better for it.

Then, the weekend. Nobody could see that coming, kid. I had no idea how uncomfortable you would be with the place. Even though you liked watching TV, you just hated everything else. It was hell, buddy. It was absolute hell. I couldn't understand you to give you what you needed. And you couldn't seem to find a way to communicate with me. We tried, and tried, and tried to make it work. I cried so many times because I just wanted you to be happy. I cried when we went to sleep. I cried when we woke up. I cried when we went out for a walk. I cried when you wouldn't eat. I just couldn't help you at all. Everyone said, "Oh, give it time. He'll adjust. You just gotta give him time." I couldn't give it anymore time. I was cracking.

So, Pistol, Grandma, Grandpa, and I decided that it would be best to send you down to Texas to live with them and the dog at home. He's your cousin, Tristin. He's lonely for company too. You both whine when dogs walk by because you both want to play with them so badly. You're both such good dogs, and you'll be like two peas in a pod.

But kid, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry to put you through all this. I didn't think I was going to be the kind of pet owner that the Human Society targets when they say, "It's not just for Christmas; it's for life." I thought I was fully prepared to take care of you. I am such a fool--truly. Everything about this is a stressful and burdensome mess, except for you. I just can't seem to make you happy, and that makes me so sad. I tried to love and take care of you, I failed, and now I've lost a part of myself. We might say, "you're only a dog," but it meant so much to me to be able to take care of you and have you be a happy dog. I just feel so ashamed and so very sorry, kid.

Tomorrow, we'll take you to the vet to get your health certificate, then we'll put you on the plane to Texas to be with family. I'm sure you'll be a happy dog there. But me? My heart will break every time I walk by the back door, and I don't see you standing there, following me with your eyes. I'll cry every time I grill chicken, and I don't have you there to enjoy it. And my face will fall every time I go outside, and I don't hear the jingling of your ID tag against your collar as you come bounding up to meet me. I love you so much, buddy. You will always be in my heart.

Always,
Aaron

A moment or two to breathe...

2008-07-20T05:28:00.006+01:00

I got the bad boy home last night. From Erda to Provo, it was quite a ride for both of us. He took the whole situation like a champ, bless his heart. It was his first time away from his siblings, his first car ride, his first time to wear a collar. It was my first time to be responsible for another life. I was so stressed out.

When we got home, I unloaded the pup and took him to the back yard. He wasn't too sure about his new surroundings. Even though I had things to unload from the car, I wanted to stick around for a minute or two while he adjusted. I laid down on the grass. Two seconds later, he was curled up beside me, panting away in the kind of deep, heavy breathing that comes from being tired out of your mind.

After feeding my grandpa, I turned off the nightly schedule on the sprinkler system, then I took my blankets and pillow out to the back yard. It was a while before we fell asleep; he kept opening his eyes to see if I was awake, and I kept opening my eyes to see if he was still there. Every time he'd move, I'd wake up. Every single noise seemed to alert him. He was just so scared.

I woke up on the lawn at about twenty minutes to six. It was still half dark, but I could see his eyes through his black mask staring back at me. I wonder if he really slept much at all. He was just so tired today. He didn't want to go on walks, he only played for about five minutes before taking a nap, and he didn't really look amused at anything. In the middle of all my worry, I kept having to remind myself that he's probably reeling from the big change.

I got so stressed out just thinking about him, whether or not he would have been better off back with the breeders. I've never felt so freaked by responsibility before.

We both need time to adjust.

Neurotic Parents

2008-07-18T21:10:00.002+01:00

Picture a family of whacks, dressed up in their matching cashmere sweaters for a photo that will appear on their Christmas card, with some cheesy message about "Wise men still seek him" inside. The kids aren't allowed to eat anything that isn't organic. The children aren't allowed to sleep over at someone's house until they're 12. And none of them have seen a horror movie before they enter high school. It seems like a family situation straight out of a movie. Everyone rolls their eyes at the paranoid parents (quite often, just an overprotective mother) and wants to scream, "Back the hell off and let the kid grow up!"

I went shopping for Pistol on Wednesday night. I had to get a collar, dog food, crate, etc. in order to be able to bring him home today. As I started shopping, I found myself understanding those overprotective mothers. I looked at the ingredients on each of the doggy treats. I asked myself, is this organic? Are these ingredients going to make the kid overweight? I looked at the puppy foods and thought, is there too much calcium in this brand that will make him grow too fast and give him bone problems? Is the kibble small enough that he won't choke? I looked at the chew toys and put down the ones that he could choke on as well. I looked at the doggy crates and asked myself, is this one going to break his teeth or hurt his mouth if he starts chewing on it? Is there anything that will pinch his poor little body if he tries to get out? My mind ran through all of the dangerous possibilities.

I woke up today feeling really excited that I get to bring my boy home, but mostly, I just get so scared when I think about it. I've never been solely responsible for another life like this. Most people can accidentally kill a goldfish and not bat an eyelash, but this is a dog. There's more of a connection to a mammal of this kind. I just don't want to screw up another life. What if the poor boy gets lonely? What if I don't feed him the right stuff? What if I don't give him enough exercise? What if I spoil him and he never learns the kind of discipline that makes a truly happy dog?

I'm glad I'm being opened to new perspectives in life--the kind of perspectives that I used to scoff at. It's lovely to be able to develop that respect for different feelings and viewpoints.

Wish me luck. The kid is fully mine in less than three hours.

Baby Pistol

2008-07-16T14:01:00.003+01:00

Has anyone ever heard of Erda? It's a quaint little place--a small gathering of farm homes rather than a city or town. Golden wheat fields wave in the wind, streets don't have gutters, homes have porches large enough that you can actually entertain on them, every one owns at least one horse and knows how to shoe it themselves. It's a nice place to see, then get the hell out of because it's too quiet and small. Places like that always seem to make me sad. Some personalities can feel so peaceful and beautiful in that kind of setting. I always feel really small and alone.

I'm tired of being alone. I live in my grandparents' basement, and I mostly sleep. I have goals and pursuits to carry me, but I don't feel quite as fulfilled as I'd like. I feel most fulfilled when I have someone to take care of. Rather than talk to myself all the time, I'd rather talk to a dog.

I remember begging my parents for a Saint Bernard since the time I was ten or eleven. Mind you, this was before that movie "Beethoven" came out. But my parents, remembering our latest and only family dog we had as a child, couldn't bear the thought that another dog might be neglected. Plus, they didn't like the bugs that animals sometimes attract.

I'm twenty-six, for kripes sake! What's holding me back?

As far as I know, there are only two Saint Bernard breeders in the state of Utah: one in Cache Valley and one out in Erda. Erda is a half-hour drive from Salt Lake. I usually have to go to Salt Lake on Tuesdays for my harp lessons, so I figured I would go out to Erda beforehand so that I could see the puppies.

I passed by the Salt Flats and the Great Salt Lake on my way. Can you believe that I had never seen either? It was really fascinating to see a place like that in Utah. It was also really dangerous; I was driving and talking to my mom on the phone at the same time. It doesn't make sense to stare and multi-task in the car. Don't do it, guys.

In the past two months, these breeders have had two different litters. He opened the gate to let them out of their kennel, and the twelve puppies scattered like mice--so intent to explore the world and play. I sat down on the grass, and two puppies came up to sit on my lap, one started nibbling at my hand, another started chewing on my shoe, and the rest just ran around me, chasing and tackling each other. You've never seen a cuter bunch of nuggets.

Anyway, this is my boy, and nine week old male that I'm bringing home this Friday. I get really irritated when breeders will name their puppies, only to sell them away. What right do they have to name a dog that will spend the rest of its life with someone else, just because they happened to be there when the litter was dropped? These breeders don't name their puppies. He's all mine, and I decide his name. He's Pistol.

Flashback

2008-06-18T21:32:00.003+01:00

Yesterday was my first harp lesson in over a month. I've missed them. I really need another pair of eyes and ears (an experienced set of eyes and ears) to help me identify those areas where I can improve. It's critical as a harpist. Most people, bless them, are so enchanted with the sound and the aesthetics of the instrument that they rarely identify poor playing. You have to be a harpist in order to appreciate the work another harpist has put into his or her presentation.

So Carolyn, with all her praise and sharp instruction, is my best asset for where I want to go. We're both acclimated to the charms of the harp. We're far less likely to be blinded by its intrinsic novel quality. We can examine my abilities for what they are, then find ways to improve them so that I can become far more able.

It feels marvelous to be drifting away from simply spending my time dreaming and wanting to really practicing. Work will set you free. (I feel less apprehensive about using those exact words in English rather than German).

My teacher lives literally right around the corner from both The London Market and Elizabeth's English Tea Shop and Bakery in Salt Lake City. I went into The London Market to treat myself to some chocolate digestives (they're cookies, not laxatives), some blackcurrant jam, and a bag of sherbet lemons. I had the wildest flashback as I was walking out the door. The door surface is covered in magnets of Underground and London street signs of various sizes. Then I could hear Joanna Lumley's voice so clearly in my head, saying, "The next station is South Kensington. Change for the District and Circle lines to other destinations. Please mind the gap." The euphoric wave of memory was most welcome and pleasurable.

Near Comatose in the Morning

2008-06-12T13:46:00.003+01:00

Death. I'm so put out. I wanted to keep the "morning" thing going. For two weeks in London, I was in the habit of going to bed early and getting up typically at about six. I loved that. I have never been a morning person, but that kind of habit, once developed, was heaven. I had the most quiet and uplifting hours of the day all to myself.

Now, this morning, I'm up early for work (we open at six), and I feel like I've been shot in the head at close range. Damn. Maybe I just need another week or two of visiting places that all close at five to get myself back into the divine routine. I really hate that "The Golden Girls" doesn't come on until 11. I'm sure that doesn't encourage my early bedtime much.

I'm trying to find a comfortable sleeping position in these office chairs. There's not really anything to support the head, so I find it's more comfortable to sit crooked in the chair and just let all my limbs hang dead over the side. It works, until someone comes in and I actually do look like I've been shot in the head at close range.

I bought a journal yesterday. A small one with lovely flourishes and ornamentation. I can't stand that I spent $15.95 on a blank book when I can make such beautiful ones myself. But I just won't write in my own. I've tried it. I can bookbind so beautifully--this, I know. But writing in a book I've made myself has just about as much appeal as eating a meal that you've made yourself; someone else's always tastes better.

Half of the reason my trip was so lovely was because I wrote everything. I didn't have to keep some enigmatic collection of feelings and thoughts in my head. I got to make them real by writing them. Aside from its utility, I don't care for it much. It just takes too long, and my hand can't keep up with my head. But like it or not, it's a cunning little exercise that makes my life better. I can spend $15.95 in a heart beat in order to improve and bring order to my life.

I detest infatuations. They ruin everything. I love a nice, peaceful, uninterrupted life. You really like someone, and it's all turned on its head. Most people like to run with their emotions, feed into their intrigue. Me? I'd just like to get back to my "To Do" list. Passion is so unproductive.

My procession...

2008-06-06T21:43:00.004+01:00

Do you ever think about what it might be like to enter heaven? I'm not talking about feelings; we all know that it will be bloody wonderful. I'm talking about what it will look like.

I really hope heaven is plastic--that it becomes whatever people want it to be. I plan my own ascension just as one girl might plan her own wedding. I want it to have the feel and majesty of a stately procession or a coronation. I want to walk through rows and rows of gothic arches, as one might find in a cathedral. I want to be wearing white, naturally. And for kripes sake, I don't want my hair back. Heaven, to me, would simply be not having to shave my head. It will just stay shaved.

My sister had us siblings listen to some music in the car the other day when we were driving back from the airport in Texas. One of the songs was "Pie Jesu," a movement of Gabriel Faure's Requiem. Slow. Peaceful. It made the soul stand still in reverence. I thought to myself, "This is what I want sung as I meet the Lord."

Now, I just need to decide what we'll all have for refreshments afterward.

Big Headed Generation

2008-06-06T14:35:00.002+01:00

So, my aunt says that technology has made us arrogant. We're diluted into the notion that the world is interested in our lives, our blogs, our Facebook and MySpace pages. Ouch! Two people at the most read my blog--this I know. Even most of my own siblings couldn't care less, each of them having browsed through my postings maybe once, only picking up on anything every third sentence. This I am okay with. But I've been tearing myself apart, trying to figure out if I've ever "diluted" myself into thinking that people are checking my blog every morning to see what Aaron's up to. Nobody wants to feel that stupid.

I hope I'm one of the people that just blogs anyway. I have a co-worker who is about to give birth soon. I don't check her blog every day. I wonder how few or how many people read it. Even if no one did, it's one of the most beautiful blogs. She periodically writes letters to her unborn daughter, mostly talking about her baby kicking, straining her system, her preparations for the birth, and how she is so excited to meet her daughter that she can hardly stand it. If no one read any of that, she'd blog anyway. And it'd still be one of the most beautiful blogs.

My boss is about to leave soon. She's one of the most wonderful and well-rounded people I know. If I were ever going to have children, I'd want a daughter just like her--happy, kind, and always seeking for the wisest path. Her blog is just about the only way I'll be able to keep tabs on her and her family. Her blog is always a joy, filled with stories of her darling children, details on the progression of her and her husband's life and career, marvelously punctuated with moments of truth. If no one ever took the time to check in on her life, I hope she'd blog anyway. She needs to write such beautiful things.

Then, some people hardly write; they just post photos and videos. A former coworker of mine had twin boys last March (his wife had them, but he pays for them). They post photos and videos every now and then to keep their families updated. I'm so glad they have a blog. I never really had much to do with this former co-worker, so there's no way that I'd otherwise get to follow the growing up of two of the most precious little boys you've ever seen (no politeness, no exaggeration). If no one ever checked in to see how big those little squirts were getting, I don't know if they'd blog anyway.

Another co-worker of mine is bursting with ideas. He always keeps his mind working on what can be done to improve his life, improve the future for his family, and improve the nation and world. Not everyone agrees with his ideas, but he suggests them anyway. He blogs these ideas (just the one's that he doesn't have to worry about someone stealing) to get them down, out of his head. He lets his mind take him all of the good places that it wants to both in learning and creativity. With such a busy mind, he has to get these thoughts and ideas out. If no one cared to see what he was thinking or inventing, he'd blog anyway.

You see, no one wants to inconvenience someone else for a relationship. I often wonder how those are formed anymore because there's just not time. We all have a routine for surviving the day. We most of us have an adequate safety net built up for when things crumble. Parents are only called if something's wrong. Friends are invited to come around only when we're bored. Siblings are for birthdays and Christmas. Any more than this and you feel like you're intruding. No one wants to ask for time anymore because we know from experience that everyone's just too busy trying to get ahead. We're working like heathens to get to a place where our "life can finally begin."

I'm glad people blog because I can still look in from time to time without taking away from what people want to do or who they want to be with most.

Me? I'll blog anyway.

Feeling Poetic

2008-05-24T03:53:00.003+01:00

My Oyster Card is still in my pocket. I didn't realize until today that I hadn't taken it out. Yes, that means that I haven't washed my jeans. There are so many other habits that make me a sicko more than the fact that I have only one pair of jeans that fits me well, and I haven't washed them in a week. The point is I now know that the Oyster Card is in my pants pocket, and I haven't the heart to take it out. It just makes me happy to see it when I rifle through my credit cards to get to my student ID.

Anything to preserve the bit of maturity and euphoria I felt at having been in the UK. Nothing helps more with that than my tea. The imagination always needs help, one bit of sensory stimulation to open a window for the mind to follow. I sit down with a pot of Fortnum & Mason Earl Grey, with some Pushkin blend from Harrod's, or some Twining's Earl Grey, and it just rockets me back to any place I loved on my journey. It's all at my fingertips when I take my tea.

I'm not one for poetry. I know there's some beautiful stuff out there, but you sure have to weed through a lot of crap. Any fool can rhyme, any man or woman can write meaningfully. But it takes such sharpness of mind and incredible deliberation to write words that resonate with a stranger. And so I'm very pleased that John Donne fell in my lap, because I wouldn't have gone looking for him.

He fell in my lap at St. Paul's Cathedral. Only one effigy from the original cathedral survived the Great Fire and the Blitz in one piece, and it's his. He stands toward the southeast end of the interior. The audio tour quoted probably his most famous lines:

"No man is an island unto himself; every man is a piece of the Continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the Sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a Promontory were... Any man's death diminishes me because I am involved in Mankind. And therefore, never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."

I edited it a bit to take out some of the Old English spellings that might distract. I might have intended to include a lot more of his work here, but I think that people are just too bored with blogs anyway. If you find yourself wanting more, you won't need my invitation. You'll go after it. You'll drink in every word. You'll seclude yourself so that you can enjoy his words uninterrupted. His poems are the most prayerful, the most erotic, the most contemplative, the most love sick, the most religious. Or for your personality, he might just be more of the kind of crap that you have to weed through to get to someone who writes for you.

My shift is almost over. One should never have to work six hours straight.

Phantom Limb

2008-05-20T00:26:00.006+01:00

I'm beginning to love mornings. I used to stay awake forever at night because I needed some alone time. Actually, I've mostly just had the worst time trying to go to sleep. I couldn't turn my mind off, or I had a little too much FMS pain to relax, or I just didn't feel like the day should be over. Regardless, I think that's changed recently, especially in light of the summer. I enjoy the mornings now. I have better alone time in the morning than I do at night. In the morning, the alone time is always solitary, never lonely. It's fresh, never heavy. It's brilliant, never empty. And the tea always tastes better.

So, I went to bed early last night. I just couldn't see straight. I had taken two Dramamine two hours before my transatlantic flight, and the antihistamines put me out for the whole day. They were only supposed to last for eight hours, but they spilled over into the next ten. Yuck. I got lost of needed sleep. But since I went to sleep early, I was so able to get up early.

It seems like every morning when I woke up over the past two weeks, I had to talk myself into the fact that I was in London. This is what a boy who has never been out of the country before must do for reality to set in. And this morning? I had to talk myself into the fact that I wasn't in London anymore. Such a rude awakening! I made the morning beautiful by having some of my Earl Grey tea I bought from Fortnum & Mason, some toast and jam, and watching BBC World News. It was always on the plasma screen downstairs in the breakfast room. And then, when I had shaved and showered, I did it all over again. Tea, toast, news. It made the morning lovely.

I had to get on the internet this morning to check my scheduled work time. While I was on, I decided to go to this blog page and look at the camera in Trafalgar Square. I could hear the noises in my head. I could smell the smells. I could see myself walking the areas right where I was looking. It was like I had Phantom Limb Syndrome. A huge piece of my body has been hacked off, and for some reason, it still feels like it's there.

Some have said, "It was only two weeks." Others might say, "Well, you're not British. This was your first time to go there." It doesn't take long for something to grow on you that just feels right. Everyone has the need to feel a part of something bigger, and we all define our "bigger" in different ways. Some choose a club. Some choose service. Indeed, we would all do well to choose service. Some choose sports teams, ensembles, or casts. London, while never romantically feeling so, fit that for me. Plunged into a circumstance where there is no one to take care of you but yourself, I felt grown up... for once.

I'm amazed at how I can drink the Fortnum & Mason Earl Grey tea with no sugar.

I've turned out to be something of a novelty at work. I should say that my tattoo has turned out to be something of a novelty at work. In a place where such boldness is startling, most were pleased, some just fascinated to see my tattoo. Yes, even I am still fascinated that I actually have a tattoo. Mostly I am please to have a permanent reminder of a life experience and a life change on my arm. Truly pleased.

I hate to think what I look like every time an airline stewardess walks by. I wanted to sleep, but I was really hungry. So I allowed myself to be startled by every attendant that walked past. Eyelids sticking to each other. A touch of drool on the left corner of my mouth. Top lip dried and stuck to the upper gums, exposing my teeth. A quick uptake of breath as I stir. And quick panicky speech, like I'm in a hurry to save someone's life. Was it really worth it to make a fool of myself in order to eat? I think so. Even for pesto hummus with limp peppers and a pint-size, undressed salad.

In the evening...

2008-05-15T19:38:00.003+01:00

More time.

I'm coming to the end of my trip, and mentally and emotionally, I feel like I'm scrambling to think of what I haven't done or seen yet. What a mess. I knew that this might happen. Instead of just feeling (like I wrote about--that was going to be my goal), I think that there is something I should be doing or seeing. To tell you the truth, a few places that I wanted to go see, like the Theatre Museum and the BBC Shop and some others, have been closed, and I moved some days around to accommodate for my FMS. And truthfully, other than the scheduled events like the concerts and the masterclass tomorrow, I'm done. I've done absolutely everything on my list already (except for waving to a select people from the web cam in Leicester Square). Everything. That's pretty lucky considering that I'm panicky about leaving. I have a whole two days now where I get to take things slow.

For practice, I tried taking everything really slowly after The Old Operating Theatre and Herb Garrett today. By the way, that's a really, really small but fascinating place. Apparently one of the most common--very common in fact--surgeries performed in the area of old was a lithotomy (where they remove bladder and kidney stones). The stones they had on display were huge, most of them two inches in length. These days, they can pulse your insides with hypersonic noise, pulverizing the stone so that you can pass it. Back then (oh, how I wish you could see the painful diagram), they had a tool with clamps that they inserted into the urethra--yes, even a man's urethra--to locate and clamp down on the stone while they made another incision to pull it out. Yikes! Poor guys. You ladies have enough room to pass a human child, if you need to. But shoving that kind of a metal tool through a man?! Well, they were barbarians back then. Everyone knows that.

I got done early with that museum, and that was it for my list. Most everything was closing in the next hour, and I thought, 'Holy crap! I have to hurry and catch something!' Nope, I just had to sit. The restaurants here seem to help you with that. The waiters, they leave you alone. It's not that their lazy. Most of them have more tables than you might have as a waiter in the US. But no one demands attention. No one. They even seem to consider an attentive waiter as bothersome. They dine out in order to have so much stillness, conversation, and relaxation. That's really been interesting to watch my eating habits adjust with the routine of dining out. Because it takes longer, I leave feeling more satisfied. And when I think I should be hungry later, I think to myself, 'No. I don't want to eat right now.' As far as that's concerned, all good things must come to an end--sadly.

I loved the London Eye this morning. It's been a foggy day in London Town today. Delicious! I wanted one of those days. At least one. Some people might think it a waste not to be able to see for miles and miles on the London Eye because of poor weather, but it was the ideal day for me. I wanted the city to be blanketed in mystery. I wanted London to be connected to the rest of the world only by its diverse, multicultural population. Everyone else in my capsule was snapping pictures, but I just sat, looked, and pondered. Other people need to take pictures in order to remember. If my eyes are always looking through a lens and my mind is always on what might be a good camera angle, I will miss everything and take home nothing. I think in pictures, and I think in feelings. I've tried to get as many of both as I could. Though, I must say: for my mother, who I constantly think 'I wish she could see this,' I feel so badly for all the pictures she won't get. For her, I wish that there would have been more people obliging to take a moment for my photo. I wish that I would have been able to capture more atmosphere that I could somehow take home for her.

I walked around slowly. I took a stroll over to Pudding Lane to the spot where the Great Fire started in 1666. I sat and thought. I walked back by St. Paul's Cathedral. Awesome sight from the outside. I secluded myself so that I would worry about looking like a tourist. And I just looked at the building. I just stood there and looked and thought. And now I'm here, typing away so that you and I both can feel better about life because there are experiences like this to be had in life. That the world is so much bigger and smaller than we think. That this life is so short, yet it takes forever. That we each are worth everything, yet we mean nothing. I didn't mean to sound poetic. Quite the reverse. The truth of these statements just makes me think, 'Oh, shit.'

I bought an hour of internet at an internet cafe, just to write a few things before turning in early for tomorrow. I want to make sure that I have enough energy for my second to last day here. So, I'm done writing. I've said everything I want to say. But when I put things through exchange rates, I can't believe I just spent two dollars to use the internet when I can steal it from the neighbors for free back home! So out of principle, I'm using the time that I have left.

I'm glad that I bought a little notebook at Paddington Station before I went to French & Saunders last Tuesday. It's small. It was cheap. No fancy decoration. A simple, brown cover with lined pages. I've been writing everything. I think it's my favorite souvenir because it has all my thoughts, everything I've tasted, everything I've seen, everything I want to remember in it.

Twinings has never been my favorite tea. My favorite brand of Earl Grey (I always end up backspacing when I accidentally type 'Early Gery'--always) is Harney and Sons. But everyone serves Twinings here. When you order tea at a restaurant, 9 times out of 10, they will bring you Twinings. And it's grown on me. I do love my tea, and sometimes the best fix in the day is when I sit down somewhere to take tea. It's just bliss, I tell you.

Oh my goodness! Let me tell you about the show last night! Never in your life have you seen such a show! I've never seen so many pains taken to make a show that absolutely sucks you in like that. 'Lord of the Rings: the Musical.' Sounds ridiculous, right? Well, the music and the acting was rather mediocre. But I was riveted. Absolutely riveted. The whole theatre was covered in forest overgrowth. You remember from Jumanji when the house grows into a forest? That was this theatre. They had old tree branches (fake, of course) growing over the balconies and up through the ceiling. About fifteen minutes before curtain, when staff is selling ice cream and programs in the isles, hobbits start to trickle in--completely in costume and character. One starts trying to catch a firefly (not imaginary, a real floating light), another jumps under your chair trying to find insects, another starts walking through the isles collecting their apples, and over your shoulder comes another one walking toward the stage on your seat backs! It's absolute entertaining chaos in the theatre. Then seamlessly, the production begins. They have all kinds of puppeteers on stilts that control the heads of their horses (ring wrathes), and in the scene where Gandalf fights the Belroc, the whole house, and I mean the whole house is a whirlwind of smoke and debris. I'm not kidding. You are always in the thick of the action.

Ooop. I wish I could write more about it, but my computer just gave me the one minute warning. I'll write more about it later. In the meantime, you should follow my link on the posting where I talk about it, and watch their 'Lothlorien' video to get a taste of what it was like.

Anyway, good night.

In the morning...

2008-05-14T08:30:00.002+01:00

I'm getting so tired lately. My FMS treated me very well at first, keeping most of the pain and fatigue at bay, but now it's all catching up with me. I came home early after my trip to Dover yesterday (so wonderful to see the sea), and I went right to sleep. I needed it. I didn't even have my caffine pills with me yesterday to help ward off most of the fatigue. I did enjoy my time anyway. At one point, I was the only one in the Medieval tunnels. It was so creepy. It's exactly one of those scenes where everything is almost completely dark but bathed in a eerie blue light, and something satanic bolts out to suck out your soul. I scrambled out.

I really liked seeing the White Cliffs of Dover, though. No one tells you this, but it's kinda difficult to see the White Cliffs when you are actually walking on the White Cliffs. Yep, I didn't think about that before I came.

Libera was so wonderful. I didn't think that it would be my favorite performance so far, but it was. I can't tell you how heavenly (quite literally heavenly) it was to hear their voices live. One of the most beautiful sounds that can fall on one's ears. It brought tears to my eyes several times during the performance. Their voices do a better job at reaching the soul than the harp does.

I really hate this hostel. I really, really do.

I'm out of time. I know this post was short, but I have to go. Love you all!

After Day 3

2008-05-08T20:26:00.003+01:00

So, my third day here. Rough start at first. I couldn't sleep one bit on the plane over, but I wanted to so very badly. They said on their travel tips (personal video on the seatback in front of you) not to fight it; just catch up on a few movies and try periodically to relax. When I arrived, I was sick to my stomach. I can't stand flying. I wanted to yack all over.

The hostel didn't let me lock my bags up early. Damn. I thought for sure I'd have to drag it around everywhere with me. The very idea was stressful. But, I remembered reading that the cloakrooms at the British Museum allows you to check oversized bags. Perfect! I knew I could move things around.

I noticed that the British Museum brought out my prejudices. Why? I just wasn't interested in the Asian or African exhibits. Everything that I wanted to see had to do with Western culture (Egyptian exhibits excepted). On top of that, I only started asking Americans and Brits (or those who looked like Americans and Brits), to take pictures for me. I got enough people who didn't understand what I wanted a picture of, so I have a lot of cut off photos and such. Stupid and inaccurate assessment to make, but there you are. Interesting to see the prejudice so pronounced. Now I know how it shows up, I can work on it.

All the time, my anxiety was at a high. I just needed more sleep. I got it that night.

My tattoo appointment is scheduled for next Friday afternoon. Frith Street couldn't fit me in, so I had to go to a shop in Camden Town. Still a really nice shop, and they seemed a little more friendly.

I got done early with my day today, so I went to the British Museum again. I thought up the most wonderful joke. I saw too many Roman or Greek figures missing their privates.

Q:What do you call a Roman male whose penis has been broken off.
A:Abbreviated.

I don't like curry. It's like the UK's version of Mexican food. Everyone in the states seems to love Mexican food, and they pass around the names of all the good and authentic restaurants. It's like that with Indian curry over here. I don't like Mexican food, and I really don't like curry.

I'm getting more used to the city people. You have to butter them up. Some people don't give a damn, but most, when you are so genuine to them, follow you around museums telling you what things not to miss, offer you all the good deals on merchandise, find merchandise for you in the back, smile so big at you when you come back to ask for a spoon or napkin... They just love you if you treat them kindly. Otherwise, they appear so very cold. They're definitely not an emotional people.

I loved being able to see French & Saunders. They announced last night (as I'm sure they've told everyone over the course of the tour) that they're retiring from 'French & Saunders.' So, I feel so very privileged to have seen their last live performance together. It was the last night of their tour, and the very last night of French & Saunders. Period. Lucky SOB to get in just under the wire.

I hate that no one ever has paper towels in the bathroom. Nope, you gots to stick your hands under the dryer. I've always hated those. Sure they save trees, but they never get your hands dry. And what if I want to blow my nose or dry off my sweaty head? It's just too bad. But, on an interesting note: you've all seen the commercials for Dyson, the one where he introduces his airblade technology? Well, they had them in the pay bathroom in Paddington Station. I got to try them. I wanted to have someone take my picture, but I figured we'd both be arrested if we've got a camera out in a public toilet.

I loved the Tower of London. That's been my favorite place so far. Everything there is so fascinating, and there is so much to see and do. You'd never be able to take it all in. You can see everything in a half-day just fine, but you couldn't take it all in. I find that I get in that mode sometimes. You see so many interesting and historically significant things, and after a while, you're on overload. You can't really appreciate the significance of everything because your mental energy is spent already. So, I try not to force appreciation. I just save it for the unique or attention catching things.

And this? This is a trip in and of itself. I'm sitting in an internet cafe (never done that before) in Bloomsbury, listening to the city buses and pedestrians go by as I type away. We all like to pretend that we're tough and metro enough to be city people. We think that there is some kind of status in what big cities we can fit in with. I've been to very few big cities before, and I'm just as interested and amused as can be. No pretensions--I stick out like a sore thumb, I'm sure.

Two Weeks in London

2008-04-25T15:07:00.001+01:00

So I had it in mind to involve people in my trip; those who couldn't come with me would still have some sense of where I was going and what I'd be able to experience. I thought it would be a great idea to blog for each day that I was gone, but soon after I decided it just doesn't make sense to spend time on the computer while I'm in London. I may have time once or twice to type a few words, but for the most part, I just won't want to waste the time.

The alternative has been to post my itinerary online. A few directions for you: Where possible, I've hyperlinked the time of each planned event to an official website. If you want to know more than what I've stated in each time slot, just click on the posted time and explore the website.

You'll notice that I say "we" and "us" a lot. I seem to have a Gollum complex because I'm simply referring to myself singularly. Yep, I'm going alone. It's quite alluring. I get to see what I want, I get to do what I want, I don't have to wait on or hurry for anyone, and if I get kidnapped by terrorists, why then I don't have to worry about it ruining anyone's trip but my own. Just curious--I wonder if I did get kidnapped by terrorists, would they take kindly to my asking for a copy of the ransom photos so that I could scrapbook them later? After all, that would be quite an experience, and you'd want evidence of it to show all your friends back home (assuming you would make it back with your head).

What do I want most to take from this trip? I'm not very good with "quick." I never have been. I like to take my time because if things go by too quickly, I can't think. I can't process. I'm so interested in getting a small taste of how other people live or have lived, and I've planned almost all of my trip around that idea. And on previous trips, I've simply been so overbooked that I never get a chance to really feel or experience. I get too eager to go back to the hotel and sleep. So, this time, I'm drinkin' it in. I really want it to become a part of me, however small.

I'm not too fussed about food, really. There are other priorities for me, and I feel like food is one of the bits of the trip that should largely be spontaneous. I have a few restaurants I would like to hit, and those are mentioned. But I mostly don't have exact times or places planned for meals.

For those of you that stumble upon my blog and have been to London, for heavens sake, tell me if I'm missing anything particularly grand on my itinerary. For everyone else, check back here in the days following my trip for stories, photos, musings, etc.

Enjoy!

London Itinerary: Tuesday, 6 May 2008

2008-04-25T02:10:00.000+01:00

6:35a I fly into London Heathrow. It’s rather early in the morning—I hope the jetlag doesn’t kill me. On top of that, I can’t check into my hostel until 2:00p, so I’ll have to cart my luggage around with me. Most places don’t open until 9:00a or 10:00a, so I’ll have some time to kill. After I catch the tube into the city, I’ll find some place to have breakfast.

9:00a The Royal Academy of Music. I’m going to go to school here, you know; it’s just a matter of time. It’s not just because it’s the Royal Academy. I really like the way their harp department is set up. You’ve got one professor (among many) for your personal instruction, then you’ve got separate teachers for orchestral, opera/ballet, and jazz studies. On top of that, they have many big-name professionals that come in to do masterclasses many times a year. If you’re going to learn something in the arts, you might as well have exposure to as many ideas and people as possible. That’s why I want to go here.

So, I’m taking the oppor-tunafish to look over the facilities, walk through the area, look at the international student house, talk to the admissions counselors, etc. There’s really no sense in spending all the time and money to come back for auditions if I just have a really bad feeling about the place. Better to check it out before hand. Let’s hope that they’re kind enough to let me stick my bag in the office while I look around. If not, I’ll pop over to the British Museum; their webpage says I can check oversized bags in the cloakroom for £1.

2:00p I’m ready to check into the Ace Hotel in West Kensington and shed this heavy and awkward bag. Then it’s back out on the street A.S.A.P.

3:00p Handel lived in London for the last twenty or so years of his life. Did you know that? They’ve since restored his house and opened it to the public as a museum. Every so often they even hold concerts in the recital hall. Handel isn’t my top favorite. That place belongs to Bach. My cello teacher used to say, “If you’re a Christian, you read the New Testament. If you’re a musician, you play Bach.” But oh my goodness! Handel is an oh-so-close second. Rock stars just go crazy with their guitar solos. Playing Handel on the harp is just like that, if you can believe it. I move my hands in patterns that are just so different than with anything else I play. He lived in London, and I have to stop by to pay homage. For everyone who doesn’t like classical, the house still holds some interest—Jimi Hendrix lived on the top floor in the 1970s.

8:00p Every so often, you hear about such-and-such actor playing in such-and-such play on the West End theatre district (the London equivalent of Broadway). So, I wondered if anything like that would be playing while I was in London. My first choice was to see Vanessa Redgrave playing in The Year of Magical Thinking in the National Theatre. But wouldn’t you know it—they’re sold out until June. It’s a bloody shame. I rather prefer Vanessa Redgrave as an actress. But the next best that I could find is Ralph Fiennes playing in God of Carnage at the Gielgud Theatre. It’s a bit of a stretch for me just to go see a play just because it has a celebrity in it; I would rather go see a play simply because of its story. But this is part of the London flavor that I wanted to sample while over there.

London Itinerary: Wednesday, 7 May 2008

2008-04-25T01:03:00.000+01:00

9:00a First few through the gate at the Tower of London. I don’t want to have to fight the huge crowds that could accumulate later in the day, so I’ll jump in on one of the free tours given by the yeoman warders right when I walk in. I'm not sure if they let people just roam freely if they're not on a tour, but I'd like to do that afterward. There's only so much that one can soak in while they're on a half-hour tour, so I'll take the time to revisit some of the places within the compound. Plus, I promised Kaitlin (most willingly) from work that I'd lay a rose for Anne Boleyn.

Very normal people with huge names have been inside these walls on less pleasant terms: Anne Boleyn, Lady Jane Grey, Elizabeth I… I’d be stupid not to visit a place so thick with history. Let’s hope the tour group is small enough and that the guide goes slowly enough for me to picture how I might react to spending my last few hours here. That’s a piece of life I want to take with me.

1:30p After eating, we’ll stop by the Museum of London. They’ve collected hundreds of years of history—all about England’s capital city. They even have a simulation of The Great Fire. I’m in London, so I must learn about what it must be like to live in one of the worlds oldest and largest cities through its many faces. I'd like to have this time to sample those little slices of life.

5:18p My train leaves for Oxford. I decided not to make a day trip out of Oxford. There’s not really anything there that I want to make a priority out of seeing, except…

7:30p The highlight of my trip! Before I saw this show advertised, I had it in my mind that I was going to save money on the trip and not go to any shows. I can't keep such resolve in the face of Dawn French and Jennifer Saunders. This is their first live show since 2000. I can't tell you how much I love these ladies. If they weren't married, why then I would marry both of them so that I could always have the pleasure of their company and wit. If you haven't watched British television at all, then you probably don't know who or what I'm talking about. If you find yourself excessively bored with life one day, check out Absolutely Fabulous or any of the French & Saunders specials or The Vicar of Dibley. I can't say that any of you will, but that's okay. Just trust me--they're hilarious. Some of you might recognize Dawn as The Fat Lady on Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban or as the voice of Mrs. Beaver on The Lion, Witch, and the Wardrobe. Others might recognize Jennifer from Muppet Treasure Island or as the voice of the Fairy Godmother from Shrek 2. Other than that, they don't cross over much.

Anytime I get tired of anything or everything, I can watch Absolutely Fabulous and somehow, metaphysically, I just feel so good about life. I feel comfortable in my own skin. These ladies have a knack for creating characters and stories and jokes that just fit "me" so incredibly well. I couldn't be more excited that I get to see them.

10:30p Time to catch the train back into town. I have to make sure to sleep on the way back so that I'm not zapped for Stratford-upon-Avon tomorrow.

Stratford-Upon-Avon Itinerary: Thursday, 8 May 2008

2008-04-25T01:00:00.000+01:00

7:20a Unless you want to leave the night before, 7:20 arriving at 9:37 is the best you can do for getting to Stratford-upon-Avon (almost typed "Stratford-upon-Acorn"). It's not too much of a problem but for the fact that I wanted to walk around a little before things open. We make do.

10:00a Shakespeare's Birthplace, along with the attached Shakespeare Center, opens. My travel guide says: "You can visit the bedroom where Shakespeare was born, the living room, the fully restored Tudor-style kitchen." I'm inclined to insert on the end (knowing the disposition of hard-core Shakespeare scholars and fans): "...the bed that Shakespeare was conceived on, the place where Mary Arden's water broke, the pot that Shakespeare was toilet-trained on..." Shakespeare is revered as a god to some; there's bound to be bronze plaques everywhere, commemorating where he took a piss.

I'll dispense with the negativity. I give the impression that I don't want to see any of this, and I do. Who doesn't love Shakespeare?

11:30a I've had an early day. I'll have myself an early lunch. But get this: to make it quite unique, let's get the meal a-la-carte and rent a boat. Rather than take one of the half-hour cruises on the river Avon, I'll rent a row boat (I have it on good authority that there are at least a few rental places nearby) and paddle to some secluded part of the river where I can eat and think away from the crowds.

1:00p Most everyone is still thinking about lunch, so I'll walk on over to Anne Hathaway's Cottage. This is Anne Hathaway the wife of Shakespeare we're talking about, not the Anne Hathaway that felt like she had to show her boobies in an Ang Lee film (Brokeback Mountain) just to have a serious acting career. Here, Anne lived for her early years until she married Shakespeare at age 25 (he was 18, folks).

3:00p It's a mile walk back to the remains of New Place, Shakespeare's retirement dwelling for the last six years of his life. Some nut tore the place down in the 1700s in order to avoid property taxes and the crowds that showed up at his door to see "Shakespeare's House." Yep, he's now on more than a few dirt lists. It's a good thing he's dead because someone would kill him, no doubt.

4:00p I must end the Stratford trip with a walk over to Holy Trinity Church, where Shakespeare is buried. Who that spends a day all about Shakespeare can avoid looking at his famous gravestone: "Good frend for Iesvs sake forbeare, To digg the dvst encloased heare. Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones, And cvrst be he yt moves my bones." (No, those aren't typos. That's how the bloke wrote it).

5:42p Catch the train back into town. I might get there in time to go by some shop, as all the museums and historical sites will have closed.

Side note: You ever wonder why we can call Shakespeare "The Bard," but nobody else seems to have a similar kind of pop-star name. Why don't we call Jane Austen "The Dame" or Charlotte Bronte "The Wench" or Oscar Wilde "The Queen"?

London Itinerary: Friday, 9 May 2008

2008-04-24T23:11:00.000+01:00

10:00a I always hear everyone come back from London and say, "Oh, that British Museum! You could spend a whole day in there!" Why the hell not? "The sun never sets on the British Empire": you can see evidence of this archaic saying in the British Museum. Having had a white-knuckled grip on almost every land of ancient peoples and artifacts at one time or another, they've chipped off a piece here and there and carted it back to the island with them. We can roll our eyes, thinking "how unfair," but we probably owe a lot to them. Look at the Parthenon in its current state. Years of warfare and exposure to the elements/pollution have made the ancient temple an absolute wreck. So, if the British hadn't had the sense or nonsense to remove the friezes and sculptures of deity from it, we'd have so much less than we do now. So no need to complain. They may have been imperialistic culture-thieves at one time, but now we have the marvelous convenience of seeing so much of the world's history in one place.

The British Museum has some 3 or 4 cafes and restaurants located within its walls. You have no reason to leave before the museum closes at 8:30p. I can get there right at 10a, look at exhibits. When I feel peckish (I'm going to London, so now I have license to use those Britishisms without seeming pretentious), I can just go to the eating facility appropriate to my price bracket. When I feel intellectually drained, I can go browse the gift shop until I feel like hitting the exhibits again. I can always leave and see something else in town if I get bored, but it's much harder to add a whole day that I haven't planned for the museum. But I don't think I'll have that problem.

London Itinerary: Saturday, 10 May 2008

2008-04-24T21:59:00.000+01:00

8:00a They say that you have to be there when the market opens at 7a in order to find all the deals and not have to fight the ridiculous crowds. I'm just there for the local color. We used to watch Bedknobs & Broomsticks all the time when I was little. So, how could I not stop by the Portobello Road Market? It opens every Saturday at 7a and stretches almost the full length of the road through Notting Hill. With the exchange rate from pounds sterling to U.S. dollars being as high as it is, I don't think I'll buy anything of note. They do, however, have a fruit and veg market in addition to the antiques, so I'll pick up a little something to tide me over until lunch. By the way, I'll be so disappointed if there aren't people in turbans and others in kilts waiting to sing and dance for me.

12:00p Madame Tussaud's is always crowded, from what I hear. So, we've put that off for today when the weekend crowds won't make much of a difference. It's just a bunch of wax figures, so I don't think I'll get too perturbed if people get in my way. How weird to stand beside something that looks so much like a real person, but they don't breathe or move. Don't get me wrong--I want to go even though it sounds like I'm complaining. This is the closest that I'll get to seeing the relative height and likeness of most of these celebrities or historical figures. And it's art, for kripes sake. People make people out of wax. That has to be interesting. I wonder if anyone will notice if I leave my teeth marks in Oprah's forehead.

2:30p I wanted most of the afternoon to do this. St. Martin-in-the-Fields has a brass-rubbing center. "What is a brass-rubbing," you ask? I had the same question when I first read about it. It's quite the novel medieval art form. One uses all shades of soft metals and other color pigments to produce a figure (lady, lord, knight, etc.) on heavy paper. It's just unique enough that I've made this a priority on my trip. I love to create, and this is one of those activities that I want to fully experience while I have the opportunity. No hurry. No other place to be. Nothing on the mind but appreciating the originality within myself.

7:30p I'll have finished at the brass-rubbing center at 6p and found a place nearby to eat. I'm still in Trafalgar Square, so I go back to St. Martin-in-the-Fields for an evening concert. I've never heard of the Festive Orchestra of London, but take a look at their program! It's all famous works. You almost never get that lucky with concerts. I have recordings of my favorite concertos, sonatas, etc., but I want to hear that stuff performed live. And nobody does that. It's the music that everyone knows, but in order to be musically diverse and interesting, the orchestras choose something obscure. Now, I get to hear some of my favorites performed live. And I just love them for this: it's a candlelight concert. That's all you need, isn't it?! If they're performing such lovely music, they have to add such a delicious ambiance through candlelight. Great music, candlelight, a beautiful and old church--it's a feast for the senses. I can't wait.

London Itinerary: Sunday, 11 May 2008

2008-04-23T15:25:00.000+01:00

9:00a The Hyde Park Ward meets at 64 Exhibition Rd. in South Kensington. I never really had the benefit of a mission when people get to see that "the church is the same, everywhere you go." I'll be a bit disappointed if I go, and it is the same. How can it be the same? People are different, everywhere you go. The doctrine, I'm sure, stays the same, but it just doesn't feel the exact same to everyone. People have different needs, different pieces of the church that comfort and inspire. So, I want to see that part--the part that these people in this particular ward carry in their hearts.

12:00p The Dickens House Museum opens. Even though Dickens was a man of his time (he had a mistress for years), I consider him a deeply moral and spiritual man. So, we go to look at his London house on Sunday. Apparently his house is filled with literary allusions--windows, objects, rooms that appear in the books he wrote or finished while living in St. Pancras (I want to type "St. Pancreas"). One of my favorite books is A Christmas Carol, and though he didn't write that one here, I have to stop by and look at the life of such a famous and favored author.

3:00p Two hours until the British Library closes--just enough time to catch all the good stuff. They have a line of noteworthy items on display: the Magna Carta (1 of 4 created), a Gutenberg Bible, Jane Austen's writings, Shakespeare's First Folio, and musical manuscripts by Handel. History is all about artifacts, for me. To look over a letter and think about who touched it. To walk around in a house and imagine who's feet walked the halls. So, the perfect activity for this Sunday afternoon: a few hours of quiet contemplation and consideration.

7:30p Where did I hear about them? I can't remember. I think I was just browsing different versions of "I Vow to Thee, My Country" on iTunes one day years ago, and I came across a boys choir called Libera. Now, unlike the usual boys choir, this one is made up of a collection of kiddies from South London that might otherwise be without opportunity. It's not like they're destitute, but they do live in an urban area and could be filling their time with less than legal and productive activities (sounds extremely dramatic and presumptuous of me to talk as though I assume that most of them would be involved in such things if they weren't involved in this choir). Tonight, they're performing at the South Bank Center, and I'm eager to hear them perform live. Check out a little sample of their music.

London Itinerary: Monday, 12 May 2007

2008-04-23T14:39:00.000+01:00

9:30a I need to be at the doors when Westminster Abbey opens. Otherwise I'll hate myself later when I have to battle all the crowds that don't really care about seeing anything but what was mentioned in The DaVinci Code.

I have to admit--I really don't know what one is supposed to do at Westminster Abbey. I know that this is one of the places to see, so I've put it on my itinerary. I'll catch one of the tours to get the high points of the Abbey and the museum, and perhaps then I'll be able to recognize more of the significance of the place (other than just the general fact that it seems to be the religious structure that hosts every state ceremony--coronations, funerals, etc.--for the last so many centuries). But for absolutely certain, I want to stand at the foot of Elizabeth I grave in the crypt and melt like butter in my shoes. I love to read about that woman. She grew up without a mother. Her life was threatened many times by those closest to her (half-sister, cousin, lover, etc.). She was so socially obnoxious at times. She was just a normal person, in all respects nothing remarkable. But she became on of the greatest leaders in history because she said it was "her duty." Lovely and fascinating.

1:00p The next tour over at St. Paul's starts at half-past, so I need to make sure I'm there in time to buy my ticket and be in line. Another tour, we ask? I just don't know what one does here either--even less than what I know to do over at Westminster Abbey. I still want to see everything, though. I love visual stimulation, and this cathedral is probably an eyeful. But I also need someone to take me around the place and say, "Okay, this is what you came here to see, whether you knew it or not."

3:30p The tour is over, and I have a little bit of leeway until my evening show. It's a particular point of my trip to feel the city, so I have a few hours to do whatever. It's in those moments where I'm still that I can really drink in an experience. So, slow down, dude. Let's take a moment to let everything sink in.

7:30p I'm one lucky SOB to have gotten a ticket to the opening night of Tosca at the Royal Opera House. I don't know much about this particular opera, but I know I really like the works of Puccini. And I know that this opera is one of my older brother's favorites. Knowing his taste, I had to grab a ticket to one of the performances. If you see him, tell me if he still looks green (with jealousy).

London Itinerary: Tuesday, 13 May 2008

2008-04-23T13:44:00.000+01:00

10:00a The Globe Theatre opens. It's strange to think that this structure wasn't rebuilt until 1996 by an American. Why an American? You'd think that with Shakespeare being one of England's national treasures they'd have rebuilt his theatre themselves and rebuilt it a lot sooner.

Small world: I watch this BBC comedy called "My Family." The actress who plays the mother in that series is Zoe Wanamaker. Some of you will recognize her as Madame Hooch from the first Harry Potter movie. I was reading up on the history of The Globe Theatre one day, and they say that an American director, Sam Wanamaker, whilst on a trip to London, was so disappointed to see no other sign of the theatre on the South Bank other than a plaque. So, he spearheaded the rebuilding of the theatre. I wondered if there was any relation, and what do you know! Zoe is Sam's daughter. Useless information, but I can't think of The Globe now without thinking of her.

1:00p What a sucker. I'm on the South Bank. I'm so close. I just have to stop by Holywell Music. They're the largest distributor of harps, harp music, and harp accessories in Europe. I'll have been over a week without my instrument, and I have to get a fix somehow. Besides that, they're bound to stock some harps in gold, and I don't get to see those that often. They make you want to curtsy out of respect.

3:00p The Old Operating Theatre. This place was used for medical and surgical demonstrations for centuries. I can't imagine being thrown on a slab and cut open while people watch. I'm the one on the table, I should be able to sell and collect on the tickets. I wonder if it's kosher to have concession at an operating theatre. A resident feels a little munchy while watching brain tumor removal, so he comes back to watch with a slurpie and Cheeto's in hand. It's got to make it more comfortable to be there for hours on end.

So this place has the flair of antiquity and the interest of medicine. I had to put it on my itinerary for that reason.

5:30p I really don't want to go to Dover on Thursday if it's supposed to rain. So, this whole day is designed to swap out with Thursday, if it means avoiding bad weather in Dover. Thus, nothing is permanently scheduled in the evening. I can eat, go to Harrods, walk around Hyde Park, go some place really seedy and teach the discussions (just kidding--I'd be shot), or I can use this evening to go to Soho and get my Union Jack tattoo at Frith Street Tattoo. So, TBA.

London Itinerary: Wednesday, 14 May 2008

2008-04-23T13:15:00.000+01:00

9:00a I think I've planned to hurry somewhere every morning so far: "Gotta get there by the time it opens" or "Have to be the first few through the gate to beat the crowds." Well, this morning I plan to not have anything especially pressing to go to. What do Londoners look like in the morning rush? What would I do with myself on a relaxing morning in Londontown? I'll find out today. I walk slowly, eat my breakfast slowly. I'll open the door for someone. I'll look in the windows (of businesses, not houses). I'll kidnap myself a little unattended human baby. All things that can make life pleasurable. (Just kidding about the kidnapping).

11:00a I'll have lunch over at the cafe at Sotheby's auction house on New Bond Street. I could never ever get addicted to the trill of gambling; it's just not a thrill for me. I'd be so sick about the prospect of losing that I wouldn't enjoy myself. Auctions are it for me, though. I have, in the past, gotten addicted to those. That's the perfect thrill of winning. Sotheby's has nothing that I could bid on and win, but I'd love to step in to the showroom after I've eaten and see everything on display--taste the flavor of a real auction house. I'll wish that I had a numbered paddle I could wave in the air like everyone else, though.

1:00p Stroll right on over to Covent Garden. This district has Benjamin Pollock's Toy Shop (a kind of antique toy shop that sells authentic old toys and reproductions of the good and wholesome variety--in other words nothing that needs batteries), The Tea House (stocking all kinds of imported and domestic teas as well as novel tea related paraphernalia), and is right next to Chinatown. We'll take a moment to browse each of them.

3:00p I wish I still new where Megan Hinmon was. I had her two years ago for History of Theatre to 1600 during Spring term and History of Theatre from 1600 during Summer term. I learned so much in that class mostly because she was just a grad student so very fascinated by her subject. Anyway, she'd be proud that I'm going to the Theatre Museum. As much as I picked up in that class and that major, how could I not?

7:30p Okay, I will admit that making a musical out of The Lord of the Rings sounds so stupid. Whose move was that? But you have to click on the link above and check out the spectacle. It looks like something right out of Cirque du Soleil. So, where we may be lacking in mechanics, they make up for it in visuals. That's mostly what I like to see anyway. Why go to London if I'm not going to catch a production that no one anywhere else can afford to fork over the financial backing needed for special effects?

On top of that, this production is being played at Dury Lane. This theatre is the oldest operating theatre in the UK. I wanted to stop by and look at the theatre anyway; now we can kill two birds with one stone.

Dover Itinerary: Thursday, 15 May 2008

2008-04-19T06:42:00.000+01:00

Okay, I thought about all of the day-trips that I could make from London, just to get a taste of the UK from outside of its capital. It's so hard! You feel like you have to go see everything. I wanted to make the pilgrimage out to Winchester to visit the grave of Jane Austen (kiss the plaque above her grave in the cathedral and think about the marvelous work she's shared). I wanted to go out to Salisbury to see Stonehenge (you know you can't even go in the circle of stones--you have to look at it from a paved and partitioned walk-way?). I wanted to see the historical sights in York (the home of Guy Fawkes--"Remember, Remember the fifth of November..."). In the end, you just can't see everything because then you'll miss everything. So I had to choose.

Just look at the White Cliffs. Can you imagine standing on those mountainous white cliffs capped with lush green, smelling the salty air, feeling the wind on your face, listening to the whistles in the harbor, and imagining every sovereign and dignitary crossing the English Channel being greeted by such a sight? This could be zen, guys. I really want to check it out. Dover won.

10:00a Dover castle opens to the public. 70 acres worth of history here, so there's as much to keep busy with as I might want. Because of its geographical location, Dover has been the most important defensive point on the British mainland; its the closest to France. Most every army invasion, most every VIP, most every immigrant in times of old has come through Dover after crossing The Channel. As such, one of the oldest structures in Britain is a stone lighthouse built by the Romans that now stands at the very center of the castle. The compound has a maze of underground tunnels, some used in medieval times and other created for the World Wars. An old Saxon church is contained within the castle walls. The castle stages battle reenactments daily. There's so much to keep busy with.

At some point during the day when the sun is high, I'll exit the castle temporarily and take a short walk over to the trail head that leads to the White Cliffs. I'll have lunch at the tea shop conveniently located at the top of the White Cliffs, then I'll stroll and meditate as long as I want or as long as I don't want. It's all up to me. The trip is drawing slowly to a close, after all, and I do want to take the time to think about everything. This trip was, is, and has been for me. This is time to use my senses and really let myself have as much of this time and scene as I can.

When that's over--I don't want to force the experience or stay too long and overkill on the experience--I'll head back to the castle and finish seeing the parts of the castle that interest me.

5:00p Everything closes, so I'll head back to the train station and catch the next train headed back into town. I dearly hope I'm not exhausted; I'd like to be able to enjoy the experience of the train ride back to London. It's not everyday you get to do such things.

I'll make it back into town just in time for all the shops to close. Depending on what I feel like, I may turn in early, or I may get brave enough to explore the night life (if it's cooth for someone to do that on their own without seeming like a predator).

London Itinerary: Friday, 16 May 2008

2008-04-19T05:44:00.000+01:00

10:00a Take a short browse of the Geffrye Museum. It doesn't look like this is one of the most popular museums in London. I circled it in my travel guide because it had a unique premise: a "living" museum. The museum is divided into areas to show the typical living quarters of Londoners from different time periods and from different SES. They even have three/four gardens to show, for example, what a typical Victorian garden might look like. I find it more difficult to picture myself in a particular time period and setting when wax figures are standing in the way. They're just too distracting and creepy. So, this seemed like a good spot to stop and imagine what it might be like to be someone else.

12:00p It's no secret. I love my tea. It's the highlight of my day when I can sit down to a pot of Earl Grey. Such a release of tension, such a respite from apathy... I absolutely love tea. So, why not stop off at the Bramah Museum of Tea & Coffee on the South Bank? I can pick up a little FYI about my dearest routine of the day, and I can sample everything in sight in their tea room. The museum will probably be boring, but I wouldn't be satisfied if I didn't at least stop by.

2:30p What a time to have planned a trip to London! Not only is Marisa Robles (one of the world's premier harpists) serving as a visiting professor at the Royal College of Music for the next few years, she's giving a masterclass today. Let me translate this for the rest of you "rock stars" so that I don't get a lot of rolling eyes: you get the chance to sit in on a guitar lesson with Bruce Springsteen. She's harpist royalty. Check out a sample of her recording of Handel's Harp Concerto in B-flat Major.

4:30p Let's fill a few minutes with the Victoria & Albert Museum in South Kensington. I'm not the biggest fan of art and design museums, but as I do remember my time as a costume designer with fondness, I will enjoy their reputedly large collection of period clothing.

7:30p I love period orchestras. I bought a CD of Renee Fleming's not too long ago. On the album, she sang with a period orchestra called The Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment. Everyone plays on period instruments. Their sound has the kind of richness one can only get on gut strings. I just love it--quite thoroughly. Tonight they play a whole program of music that Handel composed while living in London. I am going to die! As much as I love Handel anyway, I'm going to be slapped by the kind of richness in sound produced by the amazing acoustics in the chapel. The custodians can just mop me up afterward.

London Itinerary: Saturday, 17 May 2008

2008-04-19T05:27:00.000+01:00

I wanted to keep this day completely open. No concrete plans. I imagine that I'm going to love the city. Really, I'll probably be more in love with the fact that I've been on vacation, and I don't want to have to go back. So, I really need that day of closure--a day when I can do whatever. There always seems to be one place on a vacation that I loved especially, and I leave wishing that I went back at least once. Perhaps there ends up being one place or thing to do that everyone local highly recommends, and I didn't plan enough time in my itinerary to make it there. This is my day to do that: to see "it" one more time, to make it "there"finally, to gain some closure to my trip, to say goodbye-for-now to the city.

7:30p I'm in my seat to hear my favorite ensemble: the Academy of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. I died when they came to Salt Lake, and I couldn't get tickets. Now, I get to hear them on their home turf, in the chapel of St. Martin-in-the-Field. The perfect end to my fantasy vacation. I think I'll walk home afterward rather than take the tube. I might get killed on the way, but the contemplative walk back is worth the risk of a violent death.