Thoughts on a splendid day.

Today was a fun day. (Well, minus certain work hours of a certain job which is certainly not that other job). I started, rather continued a journey to find my true career potential, got a couple of books from the library (yay!) I had some trouble over the last few weeks finding a book, and was rather disappointed by one I had been particularly excited about. But just coming back from vacation, full of lake/riverside reading, I am prepared to be busy rediscovering the beauty of reading this and that. Before fall nonsense sets in, anyway.

Anyway, Jana, Laura, Chris and I also longboarded down the canyon tonight. Twice! Rather they longboarded and I scooted along on Jana's Razor. (I prefer to have a strong grip on whatever is moving me along). I felt a bit like a little sister, tagging along with the big kids and trying to join in on all the fun. Jana, Laura, and Chris have all gotten to be pretty good at longboarding, so I really was trailing behind most of the time. Being pretty much a pro at the Razor, everything was amazing and went off without a hitch. Ahem. Come on guys, you know me better than that! Actually, 95% of the time I was completely in control, showing that razor who was boss. Ha! And I had gone down the canyon once before: no problema. But...at the end of tonight's runs, I was going down the hill too fast for the parking lot turnoff. Rather than think of any number of other methods for stopping (don't suppose you've ever tried a Razor brake on a slope- impossible), I decided to jump and run which had been quite successful in the past. Not so all the time. I'm a bit scraped up all over, although my left knee got the brunt of it. But it's just a scrape, not a limp, so I think it'll be juuuust fine.

After that, Jana, Laura, and I tried out a new pizzeria in Orem that we had all heard a few somethings about. Best part of it? The bathroom to which I made a beeline so that I could clean up a little from the Razor experience. Hey, it was a really cool bathroom! I liked the sink. (wooden, I think?) Very modern- in a good way. We thought the food was alright but too pricey. Maybe a little less style, a little more emphasis on food? Perhaps burnt pizza crust is not such a good idea. Perhaps. But I have to give the place credit for its atmosphere. That was great!

Then, when I got back to the apartment, I decided to practice for this musical number my mom, sister, and I are working on. The mother/daughters trio is reunited! My mom and sister play the violin, and I play the piano, so my mom loves finding pieces for us to play together. This, of course, happened much more before I moved out a few years ago. My mom always "chokes up" and says that it's her dream for us to all play together. You'd think the idea had never crossed our minds, much less the actual reality. But Chelsea and I appease her and it's nice to have another excuse to work on a neglected pastime. Practicing and sightreading at my grandma's house this past week must have loosened up my fingers because some of my pieces from high school flowed more smoothly than it's been in a long time. And when you're a slightly discouraged and practice-lacking pianist, that is huge. It reminds me why I love the piano and music in general. It's a type of expression that is simply irreplaceable. Someone could play a piece uniformly, but it is when she really brings emotion into it that the music can be moving and provoke meaningful, individualistic responses from the audience and the performer herself. That's why some songs make you smile, cry, get pumped up, or feel...anything. I love that. It's beautiful.

On that note, bonne nuit!

Dunh dunh dunh...

Wow.  This blog is starting to look like my childhood journal: littered with forgotten promises of writing regularly.  The journal actually turned into somewhat of a record.  For some reason, with each returning entry after a prolonged period of absence, I felt it necessary to update the journal with the ages and happenings of the many people in my family.  I suppose I could do that now, but then I just might relapse into other habits, like forgetting to tell important stories.  And I simply can not allow that to happen, can I?

Important story #1:  A few weeks ago I was going to relate a fairly exciting incident that happened to me the day before.  Then I thought better of it and didn't, since it might not be what my mother would call "dinner table appropriate".  Well now, I've thought better of it again and will share the gist of it, primarily because nothing else exciting could replace the prepared space for a thrilling story.  How's that for honesty, eh?

Allow me to set the scene:  It's early on a Friday evening.  Feeling void of substantial exercise that week, I decide to go for a quick jog before that night's activities are to begin.  Now calling this a jog is a bit of a stretch.  Before letting anyone (namely my wonderfully athletic roommate) see the state of my current exercise routine, I make sure they know that LAST summer was simply the best I have ever been, why the me of LAST summer would be running circles around current me!

(I'll have you know that a large black spider with far superior speed than I could ever hope to acquire has now skittered across my grandmother's desk twice.  For that very reason, I have relegated myself to typing on her wooden chair and am praying that it won't return from whatever crevice it may be hiding in.  Yes, I am 21 years old and am hiding from a spider.  Well, was.  I'm back up.)

So anyway, back to Friday three weeks prior.  I went out for a jog in the beautifully maintained college residential area of Provo.  No, no, that must have been my fantasy self.  I was out and about in the typicality of student living- mostly fairly to barely decent complexes and houses, with a few over-the-top affairs to mix things up, keeping the social strata strong.  I ran into a friend as I looped back in the direction of my apartment.  As we walked together, I noticed that I began to itch both of my wrists, but I didn't think much of it.  Not until I got home and drank a glass of water while watching some people set up for a show at our complex.  That's when I saw the bumps.  Hives.  And what's more, when I got into my bathroom, I saw that my eyes were completely swollen.  My throat wasn't too far behind.  Goodness.  An allergic reaction!  To what?  I still don't know!  

All I know is that I felt like a kid with chicken pox who also got in a fight (the eyes) and also had strep (the throat).  And I was alone.  Kind of a scary thought when you're thinking, 'This could be nothing.  Then again, some people DIE from allergic reactions.'  The good news is I didn't die!  Luckily I have awesome next-door neighbors with even more awesome Benadryl, the miracle solution to most/many of your allergy needs.  And a loving mother who swept in to sweep me away to my conveniently near family home.  

So what does this add up to?  Dunh dunh dunh... Mold spores.  I haven't yet been to an allergist, but I considered foods, then pollen levels, and was led straight to mold spores.  Apparently on some days, they spread around much more than on other days.  Unfortunately for some people that might include me, that means outdoor activity on such a day must be limited, else the dreadful hives and swelling might return.

How's that?  Now I suppose I'll have to give an update when I finally traipse over to the allergist to get jabbed 32 times in the back.  Goodness.  Bon chance to the jabber.

Caught in the ebb and flow of the written word

I had almost written another blog several times before today. And I even started one once. But I always have excuses for not continuing with it- too tired, creative juices just ain't flowing, could not possibly convey the intricacies of different situations due to the boxlike nature of writing...and trust me, I could go on. But the explanation which I always claim the most is the latter one. Why try to draw something out when it is so much easier for it to sink into your brain, filling up your head with the vague shadows of memories? The answer- Because what is life if it is not the accumulation of our experiences? I hate vague shadows of funny moments, of restless tides of emotions, of so-called unforgettable experiences. When something amazing happens, I want to catalog it away, ready for those instantaneous, memory-relishing times.

...To be continued after I do some thought-sorting. And word-remembering. Dang it! But not to worry, I have an oh-so interesting story to share.

La joie de l'été

Hey guys!

Been a while, eh? I know, I know. C'est la vie. That's what spring term does to you, I guess. Talk about a load off my shoulders when I left the testing center at 8 p.m. on Thursday night! (last night of finals, baby!) I felt free and alive and fabulous. Physical Science, the last science class I'll EVER have to take (pleeease don't come back to haunt me) is OVER! Caput! Fini! Done and done.

Anyone who had the pleasure of running into me during the spring term knows how much I disliked it. But now it's great! Except for the fact that I have to job search. Oh dear. I haven't had to do that in a year and a half, and as much as I like change, I've discovered why some people stay in one position for so long. It is such a pain! Luckily I have my part-time job to hold me down for a bit.

But back to spring term being over. I love it! Hopefully one of these job apps will work out so I can end the summer unimpoverished!! (That would be ideal).

An Excellent Accompaniment to Summer 2008

What is it? The new music mix I just created, of course! I am fairly proud of it- check it out on the side of the page and enjoy the eclecticism! Of course, the music might not be to everyone's tastes-I tend to satisfy my own palate. But I like the songs on there, and that counts for something, right? It's been a good, if a semi-productive (school-wise) weekend.

Man, I love the sounds of summer. And summer itself. And the fact that it's not really summer, but it still is at the same time. This pseudo-summer will be particularly great by the time my birthday rolls around, because by then I'll be done with spring classes! (You know, the ones I just barely started...)

sweet, sentimental, and lovely

Okay, I have a dirty secret. Actually, it's neither dirty nor much of a secret. I love the You've Got Mail soundtrack. I do. Now that is something that is rife with happiness and the carefree nature of summer. Except for Harry Nilsson's version of Over the Rainbow- which is just sweet and sentimental and lovely. And bound to provoke imagery of the closing scene of the film- which is also sweet, sentimental, and lovely. The majority of songs on the soundtrack are classics that almost make you feel nostalgia for a time you never lived in. (Much to the chagrin of de Zengotita, the author of Mediated- a book with a couple of great one-liners, but not quiiite worth keeping).

So I'm not going to lie. I wrote that bit a couple of days ago and have since slided away from the You've Got Mail tangent. Far away.

I don't know what to do with myself these days. And I graduate in a year and a half. I don't know what to do with myself those days either. That's my job this summer: find my future and pratiquer mon francais. Among other things. Many other things.

Open Road

I read/wrote this waaaay back in the day (okay, a year ago) when I had another outlet for posting blogs...but I gave up on that site. I valued this article too much to give it up and just found the blog on my parents' computer (since I've spending tons of time here)! I thought it appropriate for now since I've been thinking a lot about how the future is affected by choices we make today. And also because I've actually been driving this past week. (It's a rare occurrence, my friends).

From the New York Times:

"[I]t seems to me that my generation was defined by the open road, and the accompanying hope that a promise lay at the end of it. The almost trance-like experience of driving down the soft tunnel of a dark highway at night was something I relished. At most, there would be the distant red lights of a car far ahead, and always the murmur of the glowing radio, the hiss of the tires and, at a certain speed on narrower roads, the fizzing past of telephone poles with their rhythmic whiplash.

Late at night, in most places I knew, there was almost no traffic and driving, a meditative activity, could cast a spell. Behind the wheel, gliding along, I was keenly aware of being an American in America, on a road that was also metaphorical, making my way through life, unhindered, developing ideas, making decisions, liberated by the flight through this darkness and silence. With less light pollution, the night sky was different, too — starrier, more daunting, more beautiful..." - Paul Theroux, New York Times, 12/31/06.

Finding this was completely an accident, and it would've knocked me off my feet, had I been standing. I've never heard a night drive described in a more articulate, beautiful way: "Behind the wheel, gliding along, I was keenly aware of being an American in America, on a road that was also metaphorical, making my way through life, unhindered, developing ideas, making decisions, liberated by the flight through this darkness and silence."

I am keenly aware of being an American in America. I am aware of it when I open the newspaper, homepage, whatever it be, and read of 30 fatalities resulting from a suicide bombing in Iraq, Israel, Afghanistan, what have you. I am aware when I open the paper to read a remarkably similar story the next day. And I am aware as they continue counting deaths of those Americans not lucky enough to be in America.

There are two halves to a life. There is the half of the individual, his story, his triumphs, his sorrows. From the memorable to the forgettable, and all that we wish could be forgettable, all things personally related to him are covered. It is the way he spends his time, who he spends it with, and where the time is spent. It is his dreams, his goals, his deepest thoughts and fears. His convictions. But most of all, it is him. How he defines himself, casting a shadow on other unnecessaries.

And then there is the half of the world. Sometimes, many times, this half is left behind. Some people would like to think that Iraq and its problems don't exist, or that all is well in __________. But then when it is acknowledged, where to begin? Africa, the Middle East, Asia, South America, all places have their own unique stories. And America too.

I find refuge in Theroux's words, finding hope in the idea that I, too, can be "liberated by the flight through this darkness and silence." To find escape from the collision of these worlds, and to relish in the simple beauty of the night.