Long time, no blog

 Yeah, blogging seems like a thing of the past... a relic from happier times when enough was going right in life that I felt like volunteering information. Doesn't really happen anymore, does it?  A brief look to the left column of my page reads like a museum, listing links to friends' blogs that similarly haven't been updated in almost a decade, even for the most recent. Glad to know I'm in tired company.

But there's something about writing down thoughts that's extremely healthy. Even "bro-podcasts" like Rogan and Huberman have episodes about the mental health benefits of certain journaling protocols. I really want to be in the habit of writing. So, I have to begin again, even if I do it badly.

So much internal resistance, though. I even had to air-fry a couple pounds of tater-tots to persuade myself to sit for a few minutes and just type.

Am I the only one hanging on to life by the skin of their teeth? It doesn't matter the domain; my health, my finances, my happiness... it's all teetering on the edge of an abyss, and I have to spend all my resources each day to balance the contents and keep them away from what feels like an inevitable plummet. Is this adulthood? Is this what we all signed up for? I don't even have kids, yet every day usually feels like the last two miles on an empty tank, praying the fumes maintain your momentum before the next petrol station appears on the horizon.

How do people do it? How do they succeed rather than survive? Was there a step that I missed, or are those people perhaps not dealing with past traumas? What are you sneaky bastards that enjoy life doing that makes it seem like your flying with the Jetstream at your toned and cellulite-free asses?

And without children or significant relationship, what do people do to make their lives meaningful?

While I find answers, I'll go back to my daily tasks that seem a little like playing pretend, pantomiming the real version of what everyone else is doing.

Adopt this boy!

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.

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

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...

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

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.

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!

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...

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

"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....

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

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"

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

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.

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

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

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

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!

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

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.