Lately, I have been having some major health problems. At first, I thought I could ignore what was going on. I was more apt to believe a neurologists that treated me in the emergency, who implied that I was crazy and making it all up. Unfortunately, I am sure that she and I were wrong. As these episodes have become worse, I feel death is getting closer if something isn't done to save me soon. I remember my father describing what it felt like when he was dying, and sometimes I think I know what he meant. Just as he said, it seems to creep through your body slowly. First with your toes, and then up to your fingers, throat and then head. I feel like I am hanging on by a thin thread these days, that I have narrowly escaped death thanks to the miraculous power of God. I think being close to death like this has put things in perspective for me. Even though this all started a mere month-and-a-half ago, I feel like I have grown leaps and bounds since the first time I found myself in the emergency room with "stroke-like" symptoms.

Just a few months ago, I was more likely to believe other doctors than my own body. Now, I have learned that the first person I should believe about my condition is myself and my body. I honestly think I would tell a doctor to stick it where the sun don't shine if they were to tell me that my symptoms were psychological, and for anyone who knows me, that is quite uncharacteristic. I think I have learned how to become my own advocate and back myself up.

I also have a new-found drive to be a better woman. I don't want to give in to despair anymore when my exercises at self-improvement utterly fail. If I want to be a better mother, wife, friend, sibling... whatever, I want to take the chance to try, despite all of my foibles that I have to contend with. Even though I believe I will live through this, I still feel my life slipping away, as well as my chances to learn and become a better woman. I sincerely pray that I will not squander these opportunities when my second chance at life comes along.

I have also acquired a determination to keep making music. I have always felt that making music was the way I could make the world a better place. Despite the overall lack of enthusiasm my musical endeavors have received thus far, I will still go on making music. I have learned how reliable the advice you get from your gut feeling is, and my gut has always told me to make music, despite my lack of talent or fans. I firmly believe that I will create something that will make someone's life better. Maybe it won't happen in my lifetime, but it will happen. Therefore, I will keep plugging away at it.

The one thing that I have been unable to change through this is my attitude towards death. I don't want to be afraid of it. Before I got married and had a husband and son, I wasn't afraid to die, but now I am. I have lived in fear for too long, and a lot of that fear stems from the fear of death. I want this all to have been part of my hero's journey. I want to look death in the face without crippling fear. I think that if I can come out of this whole debacle unafraid of death, I can do all those things the scriptures admonish us to do. I can wake up, shake off my chains, and rise up from the dust; because, really, I haven't really lived until I have done that. I think it's time for me to finally live.

Fedor Sologub, a middle-aged, balding man who didn't really fit in.

Nick and I have been playing music around Salt Lake for almost five years now. That means that I have had interactions with MANY musicians. This is what I have found. For many musicians, being a musician is not about the music at all. It's about belonging to a movement. The same thing goes for fans of music, too. I can't tell you how many times my band mates and I have entered the room, and have gotten the stink eye from other bands and their fans. It's not because they hate our music, it's because we don't look and act the part. If we're playing with "indie" bands, we get in trouble for not looking like we grew up in the mountains with our hippie parents. How dare we wear running shoes! They must be sandals that you bought at a Farmer's Market! If we are playing with "hard-core" bands, we get laughed at for not walking around with a chip on our shoulder and for wearing bright colors. If it's the emo kids we are playing with, we are hated for not hiding our faces behind a strategically placed strand of hair and for conveying any sort of emotion besides self-pity.

Unfortunately, our inability to play the part seems to be a little detrimental. Some people are so turned off by our clean-cut, almost Mormon look that they don't want to hear the music. And they won't, even as we play right in front of them. Sometimes, as we are playing, I look outside and see a few ears taking a smoke break, and realize that the other bands have that glazed-over look because they literally don't have ears to hear. For others, our inability to dress cool makes them look for anything wrong with us. These types will act so repulsed by our performance, that they look like they are going to throw up. This always leads me to believe that they are phenomenally gifted musicians who are genuinely experiencing pain when their super sensitive ears are required to listen to us. My belief is usually proven wrong, however. When their turn comes to play, they range from either not-that-good to completely sucking, which leads me to believe that maybe their ears went out for a smoke break too, but didn't come back because they decided to go out for tacos.

Sometimes our inability to fit in has caused me to rant and rave and act much older than I really am. I'll say things like, "I'm really worried about the direction music is headed to because kids today just don't care if the music is good or not, just if it's cool". That statement is funny for two reasons. First of all, a lot of these "kids" that I'm talking about are my age or only a few years younger. The other reason it's funny is because I make the mistake that lots of old people make by claiming that evil has only just emerged in this generation. Before that, everything was honky-dory, but then, the "young people of today" came along and made this world a big pile of shit.

Besides common sense, history can show us that this "old person" belief is untrue. It seems that the art itself has often taken a secondary role to an artistic movement. For instance, the other day, I was reading about Fedor Kuzmich Teternikov, aka Fedor Sologub, a symbolist writer that I am using for my thesis. (The Russian symbolist movement took place mainly in St. Petersburg around the turn of the century). By the time he came onto the Petersburg literary scene, he was a balding, middle-aged man who worked as a school superintendent during the day. He was commonly ridiculed behind his back by the other symbolist writers, for not acting and dressing like them. Most symbolists at that time traipsed about town in eccentric dress, speaking in a high russian that seemed a little impractical for the common man. Despite his attempts to hide his socio-economic background, the young, symbolist sons and daughters of Russian nobles and rich bourgeoisie could detect Sologub's working-class origins. Most symbolists didn't even have a day job because they lived off of Mommy and Daddy, which is why Sologub's job as school superintendent was so amusing to many of them.

What's funny about the symbolists' attitudes towards Sologub is that he is considered one of the "quintessential" writers of the Russian symbolist movement today. In fact, I would argue that Sologub was one of the only writers able to accomplish an important objective of the symbolist movement. Many wanted art to have a narcotic affect on the audience, so that they could help the spectators to transcend this reality and enter into another. For anyone who has read Petty Demon, they know that the experience is unlike any other they have had reading. Many scholars even claim that they feel they are descending into madness with the main protagonist, Peredonov. What's more, Sologub's working class background was part of what made the novel so affective. His experiences as a school administrator in many small provinces gave him the material he needed to show how petty and selfish human beings can be. So, years later, despite their belief that he did not belong, Sologub has proven to be more of a symbolist than many of his symbolist colleagues.

It seems to me that time becomes the "truth serum" of artistic movements, because almost all that is left to define that movement is the art that was left behind. Perhaps, one day, when Nick and I are old and still playing gigs around Salt Lake to practically empty rooms as we always have done, our largely unappreciated and ignored art will finally take center stage. Maybe a young person who got a hold of our CDs will be there to listen to us, and they won't give a damn how we look.

Lately I have been accused of coveting the things that those close to me have. I reacted like I usually do to false accusations. First, I cried and felt sorry for myself. Then, I began to fear that they were right. Consequently, I did a lot of soul-searching to find my deep-seated covetousness. I was unsuccessful in my search. I could honestly say that I was not covetous of things other people had.

But, I did find that I covet beauty, which is not a thing, which is why my accusers are still wrong. Some people might call it a virtue. I have many times tried to convince myself it is a curse so I wouldn't desire it. I am surrounded by women that possess it. When I go to family parties, all of the females including aunts, cousins, mothers, and sisters-in-law walk into the room exuding beauty. Their hair seems to be blowing in the wind while "Dream Weaver" is playing somewhere in the background. It's like the stars align every time they get ready to go anywhere, so that their clothes and their hair are perfectly placed around their faces and on their bodies to make them look like goddesses.

And then there's me. I come in hand-me-down clothes that don't fit me well and seem to accentuate my gigantic butt and my hideous muffin-topping hips, my saggy boobs (thanks to breast-feeding), with frizzy hair that I lost half of (also thanks to breast-feeding), and blotchy, diseased-looking skin. To top it off, breast-feeding also left me with another lovely memento: a dark pigmentation of my skin above my lip that makes me look like I have a mustache, Charlie Chaplin style. To throw salt on the wound, I am the fattest person in the room, even though I work ten times harder to lose weight than most of them.

Now, I know that everyone says beauty is in the eye of the beholder... beauty is relative... blah, blah, blah. But in Utah, beauty is a concept that lies within very definite parameters. Allow me to list some of the criteria for beauty. The hair has to be very well groomed, the skin has to have a certain tone depending on your hair color, and you MUST have a certain body shape to really be considered "beautiful". This criteria is identical to Hollywood's. This is not surprising if one realizes that a majority of Utah women comprise a microcosm of Hollywood. They watch all of the hip shows, they wear all of the hip clothes, and many have a adopted an innocent form of the Hollywood mentality that beauty is the ultimate power. For those of us without it, beauty exercised a destructive power in our lives.

In kindergarten, none of the boys wanted to kiss me when we played "boys chase girls". I clearly remember most of the boys screwing up their faces in disgust when considering the prospect.

When I was nearly sixteen, I was a hopeless romantic, and was so excited to go out on my first date with a boy. I asked a boy that I had a serious crush on to a dance. He said he had to work, but then went with someone else instead.

Some of the beautiful people in my AP Biology class made fun of me because I was homely and said I was stupid, which I believed because I had no self-esteem. I dropped out of the biology class a few weeks into the term.

My ability to repulse all things male continued well into my twenties. By twenty-five, I had endured countless set-ups, and NO ONE was interested. I had never been kissed or touched by a boy, (except for male relatives). With such an unusually dismal track record, I was convinced that I would never get married, and started making plans accordingly. Essentially, years of rejection had convinced me I was not getting to know, let alone worth marrying. I lacked the enticing exterior.

To be fair, there were always socially inept, rejected boys that wanted to go out with me. (Another destructive power exercised by beauty).They were desperate for anything with female parts to give them the time of day. I understood their plight, but stayed away for two reasons. First, they always ended up becoming stockers if you encouraged them too much. Second, they weren't interested in me, but in the idea of having someone, anyone. I understood their desperation, because I sometimes felt it myself. However, I was still a hopeless romantic deep down, and wanted to be desired because somebody saw me.

The destruction worldly beauty wrought in people's lives was perhaps most keenly felt by Joseph Merrick, aka, the Elephant Man. By the age of 12, he was already deformed by what most believe was a congenital disorder caused by errors in his morphogenesis while still in the womb. His stepmother hated Joseph and insisted he work selling goods, despite the difficulty he had walking and the teasing and name-calling of those he came in contact with. Realizing that he was unwanted at home, he went to a workhouse but could never obtain work. Finally, he became part of a circus freak show and was relatively happy. When sideshows were outlawed in England, he found a place in a Belgian circus. Unfortunately, his employer stole all of his money and kicked him out of the show. Nearly dead from a bronchial infection, he found Frederick Treves back in London, who took care of him at a hospital for the rest of his short life.

If you look closely at a picture of him, you will notice that among the excessive skin and bone growths, he has a perfectly formed, beautiful forearm. Many never noticed that, because they weren't looking for beauty on something they had already labeled repulsive. Their eye was single to seeing his ugliness, which was all they saw. How much insight can be derived from noting this small, yet simple contrast between a hideous body and a perfect forearm? Likewise, Joseph Merrick was a charming, kind, intelligent man. Those that took the time to know him loved him deeply. Yet most of the people in his life had never discovered this, because he lacked the physical appearance to invite acceptance. In fact, one had to make an effort to discover Joseph Merrick's true beauty. Since he had a hard time speaking, one had to learn how to interpret his utterances, which were often characterized as "chirpings" or "whistlings. "

I think the world's sense of beauty is destructive to almost anyone's soul. Not only was it destructive to me, but it can be destructive to those who are considered beautiful. How much pressure would an aging woman feel if her defining characteristic were beauty? Even young women are altering their bodies and faces for the sake of beauty. And for what? A lifetime of injections and alterations so that you can look like everyone else? If I ever have a daughter, I pray that she won't let the world's definition of beauty hurt her self-esteem as much as it did mine. I hope she can learn a lesson that I learned too late. A focus on physical beauty will fill you with darkness. This is because your eye is single to something that is not of God, which is irrelevant. All these years of seeing myself in the mirror and hating what I saw because I prescribed to an empty definition prevented me from seeing and comprehending truth. (D&C 88:67-68) With that in mind, my coveting of beauty is just as grevious a sin as coveting my neighbor's car. So who cares if I'm the frumpy-dumpy relative? I have a wonderful husband who lets me know that he loves me every day. I have an amazing little boy who makes all that beauty stuff seem stupid anyway. His innocent eyes are single to God, and he smiles when he looks into my face.

"Give me 20,000 Cossacks and I will conquer the whole of Europe, and even the whole world."

-Napoleon

I think someone should make an action film about Cossacks because they are the ultimate bad-asses of the universe. Like their name connotes, the cossacks have always been "adventurers" and "free men". Sometimes they were hired as mercenaries by the Russian government, and sometimes they fought against them. It just depended on what they wanted to do. The point is, they always maintained their freedom in a very unfree region. They were also sent by the government to settle Siberia, and instead of killing off the whole population, like their european counterparts did, the Cossacks integrated themselves into the indigenous population. How cool is that? They don't even need to prove their bad-assism by killing everyone in sight.

But let's get back to them always fighting for their freedom. The Soviets constantly repressed the Cossacks because of their desire for autonomy. But that didn't stop them from being Cossacks. They still lived in their communities, and sometimes even fought back. For example, many of the Cossacks of the Don region joined Hitler's army during World War II, because they thought the Germans would be able to liberate them from Soviet oppression. It was a choice between two great evils. Though Hitler killed over 6 million Jews, it is estimated that Stalin killed almost 20 million of his fellow countrymen during the purges. They were severely punished for their insubordination. Their communities became one of the purge's primary targets. Let's just say that Dirty Harry Callahan doesn't hold a candle to a Cossack, because the man he reports to might scream at him and tell him he's going to lose his badge, but he won't kill him. The Cossacks, on the other hand, do what they please, knowing full well that they might lose their lives because of it.

Though I admire some aspects of the Cossacks' communities today, I am sad to say that many of Russia's current Cossacks are known for harassing and beating other ethnic minorities. I guess that comes with the territory when you are a vigilante. You are constantly walking a tight rope between being a hero and a villain. Maybe it would be better if a movie about the Cossacks is left unmade. I probably wouldn't enjoy it for the same reasons that I don't really enjoy action flicks in general. There really is a fine line between hero and villain when it comes to violence. As Marshal Rose Hood said in gunslinger, "men like Wyatt Earp are really just cold-blooded killers that are just on the right side."

When I was in junior high, it was customary to give little gifts out to all of your friends and schoolmates the day before Christmas break. To me, the accumulation of such gifts rivaled the accumulation of valentines on Valentine's Day. If I recieved a lot of gifts, that meant I had a lot of friends. Unfortunately, I didn't always recieve a lot of gifts, and I would be left feeling sorry for myself. On one such day, I was roused out of my depression when a kind girl named Clarissa gave me a beater with hershey's kisses in it, a popular gift that year. I was stunned, because I didn't really know Clarissa that well.

For the rest of the year, Clarissa and I exchanged very friendly greetings. I felt very grateful to Clarissa for making me feel like someone worth knowing. I think I really loved her. She was the kind of person whose eyes revealed everything about her soul, and I knew she was pure goodness. On one of the last days of school, Clarissa and I saw each other in the hall between classes. She smiled at me as she said hello. I smiled back, returning the greeting. However, the moment she passed, I was struck with an awful premonition. I knew that would be the last greeting we would ever exchange. I would never see Clarissa again. That summer, Clarissa went on vacation and was killed in a hit-and-run while biking with her family.

I was tormented with guilt when I found out. I felt responsible. Maybe my premonition could have been used to warn her. I could have told her to be careful that summer. Maybe my premonition had even caused her death. I had grown up in a family that firmly believed in the power of suggestion, maybe my mind put the thought in The Universe and it had floated around until it could be enacted. I was so torn up about it, that I didn't go to the funeral. I was afraid to meet her family. I felt I had failed them somehow. That was when my intimate relationship with death first began.

When I was in my mid twenties, I was trying to start my own house-cleaning business. A mother of a friend referred me to her next-door-neighbor, Pam. Pam had been a woman on the fast-track for twenty years when suddenly she found God and slowed down. My friend said that Pam was a hard woman who would never talk to her when she was young. She showed a clear aversion to children. She seemed consumed with her job and accumulating wealth. After she found God, she became soft, giving, and even loving. I met her shortly after she had been diagnosed with cancer. I would like to believe that the immediate kinship I felt with her was mutual. I am almost certain it was. Within a few weeks, I felt an overwhelming love for Pam.

Pam spent hours outside on her back patio, reading the bible, enjoying the birds, meditating and praying. She made getting to know God her first priority in those days. She had faith that God would heal her, and that she could live another forty years. However, I knew she was close to death. I could feel the Next Life emanate from her. She was going to die soon. I cherished every conversation I had with her. I tried to remember every detail of her face, or the way she looked as she watched the birds on her back patio. When she died, her sister said that Pam saw their mother, and that the room was filled with peace.

Between Clarissa and Pam, there were many others. Our neighbor, Charlotte died from lung cancer when I was in high school. My mom and Charlotte were really close. Then, my mom's brother, Lynn died unexpectedly. He had just become a trucker, which was his dream job. He had just happily remarried, too. On his first big rig drive, he had a heart attack and died. My mom was close to Lynn, too. My mom's father died next. His death was expected for at least twenty years. It seemed to me that my grandfather had been wanting to die for as long as I could remember. Then, my mom's mother died. Her death wasn't wholly unexpected, either.

I didn't mention my father's death. Chronologically, his death lies between my uncle and my grandfather's deaths. However, because he was my father, I find it hard to put him in a list. It's hard to categorize the death of someone that was that close to you. I will say that my experience of his death was similar to my experience with Clarissa's death. About three months before that unforgettable day in January, I wept uncontrollably for hours at my bedside. I had a premonition that Dad was leaving soon. I grieved for his loss and asked God for the strength to deal with it. The next morning, I laughed it off and chalked the whole event to me being dramatic. I placed the premonition at the back of my mind, which is why I was so shocked when the police came to our door at about 9:00 PM on that Monday in January and told us that he had died. You see, after hours of searching with dogs and helicopters, they hadn't found Dad, but rather his body. Dad had already been somewhere else for a while.

Why this whole blog about death, you ask? This is why. The night before my dad died, I was watching a movie with my parents. (I even remember the movie, it was "The Horse Whisperer".) During the movie, I looked over at my dad, and I suddenly felt overwhelmed with love for him. He met my gaze with an obnoxious, (self-aware) condescending smile that he always used to tease us with. However, in that gaze, I knew that he knew how much I loved him, and I knew that he loved me. That was a gift. The next day, when he died, I knew that wherever he was, he knew that I loved him completely. His death wasn't as hard to cope with knowing that.

Sometimes, when I am waiting for my husband and he is late and won't answer his phone, I panic. I automatically remember the day my dad died. First, we waited for him to get back from his bike ride. Then, we waited for him to answer his page. Then, we waited for the police to come. He had been dead the whole time we were waiting. So, when I'm waiting for Nick, I start to ask myself, "what was the last thing I said to him?", "does he know that I love him?" When Nick does show up, I am so grateful that he is alive and well. I take the opportunity to let him know how much I love him. I say it like it might be my last chance. I can't help it. That's what death has done to me.