let it out, libs

Reaching

2011-04-08T14:10:00.000-07:00

She's been asking him to say the words

With hands reaching for her and his eyes reaching hers.

She's been begging him to say the words

With an unexpected arrival.

By mere suggestion she hopes to paint her insides the color of iron and her face with a fixed and nonchalant expression,

Amplifying the measure of distance between them that originated in particles and fractions of fractions of seconds and became light years spanning universal abysses.

By mere suggestion she hopes to dispense with the iron. It does not belong in her ever-changing and malleable insides of blood and thin, rhythmic membranes.

By mere suggestion she hopes to let herself act the vulnerability that pulsates through her and marks itself in brilliant red on her naked body.

Ah! What distance is there when she can understand the cosmos that reside within her?

Their distance is reduced to molecules even though his mind lies a world apart. She could never decipher the constellations that could navigate her through his troubled distress, because of her unwillingness to decipher her own.

But now she has been disemboweled by her own Scylla, and she has been enveloped in the emptiness and suffocation of her personal Charybdis and has come out barely alive. She is slowly and clumsily charting her troubled waters.

Still, she keeps asking him to say the words,

With hands reaching and eyes arriving.

Still, she keeps beckoning him to say the words,

With an unexpected arrival.

2011-02-22T21:35:00.000-08:00

I was just looking at some wedding pics of a good friend from high school that caused me to take a little trip down Memory Lane. I remembered how after graduation and moving to Chicago, I wrote her a letter bluntly admonishing her to love herself more. She was so depressed all of the time, and she seemed to loathe herself. I was honestly afraid that she was going to kill herself. So, I decided to show her some tough love and I told her that I had a hard time being her friend because she was always so hard on herself and I couldn't watch her do that anymore. I always felt bad about that letter, but I wanted her to know that she was amazing and that she needed to start seeing herself that way.

Well, I think she finally did. Her wedding photos seem to prove it. She and her husband went to Italy and had a small yet breathtakingly beautiful wedding. Michelle looked absolutely stunning and deliriously happy. She was more beautiful than I ever remember her being. But more importantly, the photos of her husband revealed an unabashed adoration for Michelle that made me cry. I realized that Michelle had learned what I had so desperately wanted her to learn: how to love herself. You see, I have learned that there is no way a man could love and adore a woman that loathes herself.

So, when I saw how happy Mr. Michelle was to have her in his life and how he seemed to cherish her, I cried partly because I was so happy for her, and partly for selfish reasons. I realized that I haven't gotten a taste of my own medicine. I haven't learned how to love myself yet. The proof is in the pudding: all of the men I have been in relationships with have never looked at me the way Michelle's husband looked at her. I have been taken for granted over and over again. I have never been cherished, and I don't know if I ever will be.

But perhaps there is something remarkably positive in this revelation that I can focus on. First of all, I see that there is room for improvement in terms of me being kinder to myself, despite all of the strides I think I have made in that area. So, I will strive to find even greater peace about me being me. Second of all, any time I feel like I have been cheated of experiencing true love, I will take it to God. Since I have always had a hard time believing that God loves me, perhaps He can reinforce His love for me by granting me peace every time I turn to Him about my dismal love life, as He has in the past. Then, once again, God is offering me a chance to learn how to fully rely on Him.

I guess I need to stop belly-aching and get on my knees!

2011-02-18T15:55:00.000-08:00

This morning I woke up with some major health issues. My lungs hurt to breathe, and I started dragging my leg while my left side got really weak. I had a hard time thinking clearly, and I couldn't get words out very easily. I felt like everything I went through the first time I had that stroke last year was happening again, and it scared the shit out of me.

I emailed my professor and let her know I wouldn't be coming to class, made Jonas breakfast, got him dressed, and took him to daycare. I came home and started to cry, because I didn't know what to do. Who do I call? Who do I tell? If I called my mom, she would tell me to go to the emergency room, which meant I would rack up more medical bills. My brothers have their own lives and are busy. My friends wouldn't know what to say and would just feel awkward. I'm a single mom, and I am old enough to know that I am not anyone's problem any more. This was perhaps the moment where I felt the most alone since my divorce. I skirted the internet, trying to have some sort of interaction with someone, however superficial it might be. I looked through my contacts on my phone, desperate to find a listening ear that wouldn't be burdened with my state of panic. I just wanted to be held, I wanted to know that everything would be OK. I wanted to be reassured that God wouldn't take me before my time because He knows I need to raise my son.

I have had several blessings admonishing me to keep my body very healthy, otherwise there might be dire consequences in relation to whatever my condition is that has caused me so many problems. When I was younger and had my symptoms, albeit with more mild manifestations, I wasn't afraid to die. I was OK with God taking me. However, now I have a son that needs me, and I want nothing more than to be healthy and strong so that I can raise him.

So, I guess I have two ways of looking at this situation. First, I can feel sorry for myself and spend all of my time asking God why I had to have the health problems I have when I'm expected to be a good single mother, a good employee, a good student, a good friend, and a good family member. Or, I can look at this as an answer to my long-standing admonition to God to help me learn how to fully rely on Him. I think I'll choose the latter.

I suppose instead of skirting the internet or checking my contacts on my phone, I could have gotten down on my knees instead, which I eventually did. Feeling peace, I let my exhausted body sleep and I woke up feeling like I had nearly circumvented another debilitating stroke. Now, I will wash my dishes and pick up Jonas from daycare carefully, since I feel like I'm still not out of the danger zone. And tonight, I will pray for comfort before I go to bed, and God can give me another spiritual hug, even though a real one would sure be nice... I'm sure even God understands that.

Beauty From Ashes

2011-02-17T22:49:00.000-08:00

This is a poem I wrote for my dad while I was on my mission. I decided to post it because I want to write about God's ability to create beauty from ashes, and this poem helped me to see the good that could come from losing someone I loved deeply.

Again, I take comfort in knowing that no one really reads this blog, so I don't have to give a disclaimer for how lame the poem could be. It came from my heart and helped me work through some heavy stuff.

Of all the hours I made my music in that empty upstairs room,

My greatest of achievements was my audience was you.

You thought silently leaning in the doorway of my sculpted tonal shades

Would leave you undiscovered, but your spirit was too great.

You always walked through life like that, tip-toeing into souls,

You used those neglected verbs of truth, in a language now unknown.

How we had grieved when the world lost your loved and noble image,

Then light came on a breeze of truth: those you loved now speak your language.

I remember how one day I sat, inside our empty home.

I couldn't stand to see your pen and lap-top, laid there by your phone.

From a desperate act of confusion, I stood in front and stared,

At a Barnes and Noble, thinking I would find you there.

They didn't have your Tao book, or "The Hiding Place",

All they had to give me was a memory of your face,

And how your wisdom seemed so tangible, lighting up your soul.

Truth comes through the window: I hadn't lost you after all.

Sometimes I am a captive, and shroud myself in black,

I am blind to my full treasury, seeing only what I lack.

But if I reach and dip my hand into fearless, lighted beams,

Truth, once again, tears down walls much weaker than they seemed.

Ashes trailed your chapter, by the burning pain of change,

With mournful, heavy lingering, in the absence of your page.

But now a wind of truth liberates me, and in awe I searched and found,

From ashes, divine beauty grows up from fertile ground.

2011-01-26T10:22:00.000-08:00

I just recently broke up with someone, and this break-up was really devastating. At a moment when I was just about to start crying again, I went to the piano and a song started flowing out of me. I can't tell you what a relief it was to me to articulate my feelings in song. Singing the way I feel has a power, a sort of magic that makes me feel renewed and energized even in the worst situations. Once again, I see God's hand in my life when I'm feeling the most dejected.

Check out a really bad recording of a probably really lame song. As I have said before, I really don't care if anyone likes it. It helped me, and that makes it a really great song in my book.

http://www.myspace.com/libbyannwest

2011-01-24T12:40:00.001-08:00

Is it crazy for me to love having a blog that no one reads? I feel like I'm writing directly to God somehow. My blog presents physical proof every day how everyone is no one. No one reads my blog, and everyone doesn't know about my blog. Somehow, I feel connected to the whole human race by writing to no one, a large void of possible readers that will probably never be. The possibility of being connected to everyone while simultaneously being connected to no one...

So, to everyone and no one at the same time, let me say that my heart is broken and I'm tired, and I just don't know if I can manage anymore. I feel like my whole life has been punctuated with grief and loss, and I just don't want to take any more. I have definitely hit the wall, like I did so many years ago when I was training for my first marathon. I knew I couldn't take another step, and I still had 17 miles to go, so I prayed to God and let Him know that I just can't do any more. And I felt like someone was almost carrying me. I could hardly feel my feet touch the ground, and I made it. One step at a time.

Please God, help me. I can't do any more. I just don't have anything left in me. I'm so tired.

Libby Lennox's first album, "Ghost Runners" will soon be underway...

2011-01-20T10:48:00.001-08:00

It looks like I will finally commence recording an album with Chris Moore's label, Arterial Records. I am so busy this semester, but I am going to make time for this. First of all, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that I will always regret passing up because of school. School will always be there, but this might not be. I mean, how many musicians have a friend that believes in their abilities so much that they are rounding together studio musicians and recording an album for you free of charge? I can't tell you how many times Chris has said, "I just want you to do whatever you feel like doing. You have complete freedom to do whatever you want. I trust you." I would be stupid to not take advantage of this.

I also know that I need to work through a lot of things with this album. One thing I've learned from years of writing songs is that they are a great personal teaching tool. I arrive at truths I never would have been able to comprehend without working through lyrics and seeing how they interact with melodies. I know I'm in a good place to make this album right now because I don't really care about how people will react to it. This is purely a labor of love for me, and I just want to make music. If I'm the only person in the world that enjoys it, I'm fine with that.

So, I will begin recording a song I wrote two years ago that has ended up being extremely comforting for me in recent months entitled "Hard Life". I sing and play it on days when I feel overwhelmed with grief or my feelings of inadequacy. Then, I think I'll move on to a song I am in the process of writing about a woman who systematically becomes a ghost. (I am obsessed with the idea of ghosts right now because I feel like I have spent most of my life trying to become one.) Then, I think I'll move on to a song I wrote a few months ago after a break-up. Its catch phrase is "I don't need someone to love me to love myself," which has become a mantra for me as I face the possibility of being alone for the rest of my life. Then, I have a few more songs on the backburner that I could move on to. I am so excited, I can hardly contain my enthusiasm, which is probably obvious in this post.

Anyway, my next post might be a demo of "Hard Life". I will link it to my new myspace website under my pseudonym Libby Lennox. So, stay tuned...

Hello. I'm Libby, a 2006 Honda Civic. Nice to meet you.

2011-01-13T22:46:00.000-08:00

So, my dating life has actually been pretty eventful since my divorce. This is what I've found out about how men view me from my experiences. Let's say women were cars, and I'm sitting on a car lot, patiently waiting for an owner to come along and take me. So far, the men come and give me a test drive. As the car salesman sits in the passenger's seat and asks what they think of me, they most often say nonchalantly, "she'll do" while they move the conversation on to more flashy, exciting cars that they had driven in the past. You see, I'm like a used Honda Civic. I get the job done. A pile of garbage habitually gathers in my back seat, and I'm lucky if I get waxed once a year. Men really want the red sports car being proudly displayed on the other side of the car lot. You know, the car that receives a thoughtful and enthusiastic vacuum and wax every Saturday not because it needs it, but because the owner loves to pay attention to it. The whole situation makes me want to not be bought at all, because even if I were to be bought by someone, I would always be a reminder of what they couldn't have.

Men want women that amaze them so much that they hear theme music as they walk in slow motion into their lives. So, where does that leave me, the boring, sensible choice? Well, it leaves me single forever. It leaves me in a precarious situation every time I'm in a relationship with someone, knowing that at any moment they will realize that I'm not enough. It makes me feel like I'm lucky to be dating anyone at all, while simultaneously wanting to give the whole dating scene the proverbial middle finger and leave it forever.

2011-01-07T16:37:00.000-08:00

So today I finally took Jonas to the Treehouse Museum in Ogden. He had an absolute blast, and so did I. I really enjoyed watching him run from one exciting adventure to another, and I will definitely be taking him there more.

We took the Frontrunner down and back, and that was a lot of fun, too. On the trip home, we sat behind a little boy right around Jonas' age, and they shared toys and played the whole time. I love watching Jonas interact with other kids. He smiles and laughs in a way that he doesn't really do with me and other adults.

For me, the trip home was entertaining, too. I had forgotten that it was Friday evening, and that some people use public transportation when they go on dates. The first couple that I saw on a date were already sitting down in their seats holding hands when Jonas and I arrived to start our journey back to Salt Lake. From the bits of conversation that floated towards me, I could tell that this was probably one of the first times, (if not THE first time) they were meeting face to face. There was this strange mix of awkwardness and familiarity between the two that led me to believe that they had probably met on the internet. They were both probably in their late forties or early fifties, and they both seemed pretty ready to be physically intimate (don't ask me why I thought that, I just did). At first glance, I wanted to be happy for them, but then the man checked me out rather obviously, and I got major creepy vibes from him, and I realized that this could be the manifestation of a typical relationship between a man and a woman. As they sat there holding hands, resting their heads on each other, and talking occasionally, she was probably thinking about how he could be her soul mate; and he was probably thinking about how good she would be in the sack. How depressing.

Then, on the trax up to the university, a girl came on the train with a boy doggedly following behind her. As she sat down, she let him know in no uncertain terms that she thought he was a total loser and that he could not take her home. I looked behind me and made eye contact with the boy, who looked back with a face that both betrayed his pain at being rejected so decidedly and his anger that I pitied him for it. I turned around and tried not to look back at him again, knowing that my unspoken consolation would only be throwing salt on his wound. I realized as I sat there in my banishment from looking behind me that I just witnessed one of those moments in a teenager's life that could possibly influence everything he did from that point on. What if the girl's caustic words haunted him for the rest of his life and hindered his ability to be happy with himself and his life? How depressing. Another potentially sad love story afforded me via public transportation. Are the fates sending me some sort of cosmic message here?

Shortly after the incident with the boy and the girl, a couple in their twenties sat in the seat directly behind Jonas and I. By this time, I think I was a little jaded. As I listened to them exchange flirtatious remarks in a we-are-intellectuals-so-we-won't-be-silly-even-though-we-are-being-silly sort of way, I found myself scrutinizing every word and every gesture that I could decipher from my position. Within ten minutes, I was convinced that the man was too arrogant to really care about anyone, and that the woman was acting less intelligent than she was to keep him around. "Dump him," I would say to her silently as I shamelessly eavesdropped on their conversation. "He just needs someone to laugh at his remarks and reassure him that he is as awesome as he thinks he is as you hang on his arm. You are better than that! Find someone who wants to KNOW YOU!"

After reflecting on my rather violent reaction to a harmless second-hand encounter with possibly innocent love, I think I've realized how distrustful I am of the concept of romantic love. I used to venerate it, until my dad told me that arranged marriages have a lower divorce rate than those that "marry for love." (Consequently, I tried for the next two years to muster up the courage to ask my parents to arrange a marriage for me.) I wonder if it is because both partners involved in an arranged marriage are aware upfront that entering into a relationship such as marriage is a sacrifice. When people are "in love" they are both selfish, because being with the other person makes them feel so good. Where is the real love in wanting to be with someone because they make YOU feel good? I feel the most love for someone when I am acting on their behalf and not on my own. Can't romantic love be both? Can't people enjoy each other's company but also be genuinely concerned for their welfare as well?

If I wasn't completely wrong about the couples I saw on the train, that means that I saw people being hurt or potentially being hurt because one of the partners was only concerned with fulfilling his or her needs. We are selfish by nature, so does that mean that relationships will always be painful as long as we cannot master our inherent nature to think only of ourselves? How depressing.

On the upside, on the train ride over, a man was talking on his cell phone about an acquaintance who had passed away that looked like, "a smurf or an elf or something." It's good for me to know that smurfs might walk the earth. They don't seem selfish by nature. I wonder if their divorce rates could rival that of arranged marriages. Or, maybe it's still common for smurfs to enter into arranged marriages. That might be the secret to their seemingly harmonious existence with each other.

The Joys of Poopy Diapers

2010-06-01T21:05:00.000-07:00

This morning I knew I was going to be in trouble. By 11:00 AM I was acting like I belonged to the short bus. My poor husband suddenly had two belligerent children on his hands. I don't remember much of what happens when my mind goes. I know that I get really restless and keep trying to get up, yet I keep falling because I am too weak. I get really emotional and weep a lot, too. I get fixated on colors and names, and repeat them over and over again.

Sadly, when my mind finally comes back, I have to lay down and watch Nick take care of Jonas. It used to be a relief, but now I miss even being able to change poopy diapers. You see, Jonas has become my reason to live. I'm not a super great mom, and I probably never will be, but I would like to believe that he was sent to me for a reason. I would like to believe that I can offer him something that nobody else could, something that he needs to be happy and strong. So, the fact that I was feeling good enough to cook, clean, and take care of my Jonas the past two weeks was really a miracle. I'm really grateful that I was able to give him baths and feed him good food. I was so happy that I could chase him, even if I looked like Igor when I did. I got to make sure he was brushing his teeth, and I got to clean up after him. I even had the pleasure of taking him on a little walk. We talked about the trucks that drove by, and the rocks and the trees... We even watched a mother bird gulp down a worm for her babies. As she flew away, Jonas said "bye bye bye buh."

I don't know if I would have enjoyed motherhood as much if I had never gotten sick, but if there is anything my illness has taught me, it's not to take the little things for granted. When I get better, I hope I won't grumble about the mundane tasks associated with motherhood as much, but rather be grateful I can take care of them. After all, Jonas gave me a reason to live. The least I could do is change his poopy diapers.

2010-04-10T22:48:00.000-07:00

I think my grandma is going to die tomorrow. I knew she only had a few weeks when I first came to my grandparent's house to straighten out their medications just over three weeks ago. She wanted so badly to die even then because she was in so much pain. This past week, however, her pain was so bad that I had been begging God to let her die, too. Now, the signs are too hard to miss, and everyone knows that her death will be soon. First, the agitation and anxiety set in, then the death rattle sounded when she breathed while sleeping. I knew she had only a few days left when I saw how child-like she had become. I found myself talking to her like I did to Jonas when he was a newborn. "Come on Grandma, open up your mouth like a baby bird and gobble down some of that yogurt... Good girl, Grandma."

Some people who know how sick I am get angry when they find out that I had been my grandparent's primary caretaker up until last week. I don't want to appear to be a martyr, and I know that they don't want a huge narrative, so I don't say much in response. But there were reasons I took on that responsibility, and they were all self-serving. First of all, my pain and my bouts of diminishing mental capacities have left me self-centered. I didn't realize it until my mom recounted how self-centered and cantankerous her father had become before he died because of his pain. I was so worried about becoming like him that I prayed and asked God to help me think more about others. The next day, I found out how much my grandparent's health had declined, and I went over and started to work. It was refreshing talking to doctors and nurses about them instead of about myself. I loved completely absorbing myself in their lives. I actually derived a small sort of enjoyment out of organizing their lives for them.

But the biggest reason I enjoyed taking care of them was because I had no other way to pay them back for what they did for me and my family. Despite being very private and enjoying having their own space, my grandparents moved out to Illinois within a week after my father's death. They helped my mom move back to Utah and let her and my youngest brothers stay at their house while my mom saved money for a house and my brothers finished high school.

Later on down the road, they helped Nick and I when we felt like life couldn't get any worse, (it got WAY worse, so we were kind of silly). One day, we arrived unexpectedly on their doorstep and started to unload on them all of our problems. We told them how both of us were being bombarded on all sides with the suggestion that we deserved our financial problems because we needed to be punished for the mistakes we had made in the first years of our marriage. We explained how people said that we were being punished for being artists, and that we needed to stop making art and start making more money. I cried like a baby when I told them that I believed so much of it, that I stopped asking God for help with our financial problems (much less any other problems), because I was making unwise decisions by frittering my time away making music, and we didn't deserve help. I thought they would agree but still offer comfort and love, but we got so much more than that. For the first time in Nick's life, two responsible adults whom Nick respected told him to be a writer and encouraged him to keep plugging away at it. Nick felt like a caged bird that had finally been freed. They also told us that shit happens whether or not you are always acting responsibly, and that we weren't the sole cause of our problems. Instead of lecturing us, they counseled us with love. Instead of tearing us down, they built us up. That night, Nick and I drove away from their house feeling hope and confidence, emotions that we had not felt for a long time.

On a more personal note (if it could get any more personal), my grandma always showed love and support for me. She had always been petite, beautiful, and fashionable. With my constant battle with weight, my hopeless fashion sense, and my not-so-outstanding genetics in terms of beauty, you would think that I would be a disappointment to a woman with so much poise and grace. However, my grandma ALWAYS said that she thought I was SO BEAUTIFUL. She always supported me in my musical endeavors, and seemed to genuinely enjoy coming to my performances. She always called me "Libby Wibby" and would kiss me on the cheek.

So, on Wednesday night, as I cradled her head in my arms and coaxed her to take her pain pills ground up in yogurt, I wanted so badly to say "thank you" in the most eloquent way I could. What I did say was"OK Grandma, open up your mouth like a baby bird and gobble some of that yogurt down." But what I really meant was "thank you." When I was wiping her ass in the bathroom, I said "I know it stings, I'm sorry, we'll put some desytin on that", but what I really meant was "thank you." When I said, "drink that whole glass of water with your dinner, Grandpa", what I really meant was "thank you."

Even then, we weren't even, because my grandparents kept thanking me back, and they kept finding ways to give. When I checked on Grandma in her bed, I sat down and stroked her head and said "I love you, Grandma." Though she hadn't been able to say as much as "yes" or "no" the whole day, she responded with labored breath and in words hardly audible, "I love you too, I have always loved you so much." She always said things like that in a way that made me feel like I was somebody special, and that God put me on this earth for a purpose. This time, the feelings was magnified, and I felt a little bit of hope again. I need to thank her for that.

So, tomorrow morning my supportive and wonderful husband will take me to my Grandma and Grandpa's house. This time I hope to cradle her head, kiss it, and say "I love you" again. But I won't forget to say "thank you", either.

God Must Love Me!!!

2010-03-17T13:51:00.000-07:00

Thanks to a very kind good samaritan who is also a sound engineer, my creative juices have been flowing and I have recorded a whole song all by my lonesome! It is the first song off my new album that I'm working on called "Ghost Runners." Check it out on my new myspace page.

2010-03-09T20:06:00.000-08:00

Here is my new myspace.

When Life Gives You Lemons...

2010-03-09T17:46:00.000-08:00

When Life Gives You Lemons...

Dear Lil Jon,

My name is Libby West and I would like to crunk in your next video. I realize that there are probably plenty of eligible candidates that you need to consider, but I need to let you know that I have got what it takes to be your next crunking star.

Why, you ask, am I destined to be a groovy crunking sensation? Because not only do I have a large posterior region, but I know how to shake. Out of all the Latifahs, Valginas and Aishas that you may come across, what girl could boast that they shake ALL THE TIME? I am one serious shaker. I do it from the moment I wake up to the moment I retire to bed, and even shake in my sleep. I can outshake a Baptist on a Sunday morning.

With skills like mine, I will be like the vodka that laces your crunk juice. Then, crunking will become more than a beverage that makes a meal more fancy. I will make crunking a party in a cup. My talents afford an opportunity that comes once in a lifetime. Take it, Lil John. Take it.

So, Lil John, if you know what is good for you, you will have me on a plane to Las Vegas or LA within the week. And when I dance for you, tears will come to your eyes and you will know from your Nike Air Max shoes to your gold teeth that I have the makings of a crunking star. I will be anxiously awaiting your call.

Sincerely,

Libby "The Shaman" West

phone: 801-532-2002

email: crunkshaft2010@liljohnfanclub.org

PS. I require little payment, just a diamond-studded gold necklace that says "Libsteroni Pizza", and a vanity cup that I can pawn off when I get back to pay medical bills. Also, I will not engage in any hanky-panky or wear slutty clothes. I am a very moral woman.

2010-03-05T18:32:00.000-08:00

Veronica Mars is suhweeeeeeeeet!!!

Delhi 6

2010-02-21T11:29:00.000-08:00

Here is the next installment in my Bollywood series. The film is "Delhi 6" and here is a synopsis from Netflix:

Although he was born in America, Roshan decides to take his ill grandmother back home to India. Arriving in Chandni Chowk, the ancient walled city of Delhi, Roshan finds himself on an unexpected inner journey as he learns about himself and his roots. Director Rakesh Omprakash Mehra based the film on experiences during his formative years in the Chandni Chowk area of Old Delhi.

*Just as a little side note, I just found out that Roshan is played by the son of the most famous actor in India, Amitabh Bachchan. He is also married to one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen, Aishwarya Rai, who is also a Bollywood actor. I just saw her in an AWESOME film called "Jodhaa Akbar". But I digress...

At first, I didn't want to watch the film because I could tell that the production value was pretty dismal. But, I am glad I continued to watch the film, despite my first impressions. When it is revealed that Roshans' mother was Muslim, and his father was Hindu, I got sucked in. (I've been reading about the volatile history between the Muslims and Hindis in India lately.) The fact that Roshan is half Muslim and half Hindu plays an important part in the film. This tension is paralleled by the black phenomenon. When Roshan arrives in Delhi, reports of a "black monkey" have begun to circulate. At first, the black monkey is accused of merely causing mischief, but as the film progresses, it becomes a murderer, which causes massive hysteria in the area.

When Roshan and his grandmother first arrive, the people are loving and kind, and do all they can to assist them. Surrounded by so much selflessness, Roshan falls in love with the people and realizes that Delhi 6 is where he belongs. However, as the black monkey wreaks more havoc in the area, the dark underbelly of Delhi 6 begins to emerge. The Muslims and the Hindis start becoming suspicious of each other, assuming that the other has unleashed the black monkey on the other. As tension rises, Roshan isn't allowed in either the Hindu or the Muslim temples, even though he was initially welcomed in both. His half and half blood incriminates him. Roshan is disappointed to see people who were once friends attack each other because of superstition. He realizes that the people of Delhi 6 will kill each other if he doesn't do something. Because he loves them so much, he dresses as a black monkey and makes sure he is seen. As the people see the black monkey, they forget their differences and join forces to catch him. When they capture Roshan, they nearly beat him to death. A man that was also an outcast for being slow and also for being of low caste tells them to stop. He explains that Roshan had dressed as a black monkey to save them. He tells them that the black monkey dwells in everyone, just as God dwells in everyone, and that the people had given in to godlessness. The crowd looks at Roshan, nearly dead, and mutilated, and feel ashamed of their actions. This time, they unite their forces to save Roshan's life. They clear the streets and rush him to the hospital.

I can't believe how much this reminds me of Jesus Christ. People can say that they don't need a god, and that's fine. I've been there. I've thought that. But I think anybody in their right mind can also say that they aren't perfect. Every person on the planet can look back at their life and regret at least one thing, and that one thing probably involves hurting someone else. Sometimes, the consequences of those regretful actions have far more impact on someone than we could ever have known. Case in point: my great-grandmother, a wonderful woman, once called me a "stupid, stupid girl" in a flash of anger. To this day, her flippant remark haunts me. I believed her. Too often, I have to encourage myself to try something despite my lack of intelligence, because I am a stupid, stupid girl. My great-grandmother had no idea how much that hurt me. If there is an after-life, which I strongly believe there is, I think she wishes she could take it back. Another case in point: a friend of mine from high school says that I ruined his high school career. He won't tell me why, but I am still responsible for making someone miserable for at least three years. I REALLY wish I could fix that.

That's where a Savior comes in. People suck, and they give in to their dark side all too often. In a just world, none of us deserve to be happy. If we make someone unhappy, we should be unhappy too. This is when the whole Savior thing makes sense. If there was someone pure enough and powerful enough to be miserable and feel pain for everyone because we make each other so miserable, then we can be happy, even though we don't deserve it. Those people in Delhi 6 were dicks. They nearly killed each other, and then someone innocent, who had nothing to do with their sins. But, to save them from misery, Roshan sacrificed himself to take the consequences of their evil actions. He did it because he loved them.

Thank you once again, Bollywood. You think you're watching something totally campy, and your like, "oh too bad." Then... BAM! POW! Pearls of wisdom hit you in the face! And then you're like, "wow."

What I Needed to Know Today

2010-02-19T21:02:00.000-08:00

Sukkot (Hebrew: סוכות or סֻכּוֹת, sukkōt, also known as Sukkos, Feast of Booths, Feast of Tabernacles) is a Jewish holidaycelebrated on the 15th day of the month of Tishrei (late September to late October). The holiday lasts seven days, including Chol Hamoed and is immediately followed by another festive day known as Shemini Atzeret. The word Sukkot is the plural of the Hebrew word sukkah, meaning booth or hut. The sukkah is reminiscent of the type of fragile dwellings in which the ancient Israelites dwelt during their 40 years of wandering in the desert after the Exodus fromEgypt. Throughout the holiday the sukkah becomes the living area of the house, and all meals are eaten in it. During the holiday, some Jews recite the ushpizin prayer which symbolises the welcoming of seven "exalted guests" into the sukkah. These ushpizin (Aramaic אושפיזין 'guests'), represent the seven shepherds of Israel: Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, Aaron, Joseph and David.

-Wiki Pe Diasite

"Why has the Lord commanded us to stay in the succah? Not only stay there, but everything: eat, drink, sleep, all in the succah. God wanted us to feel that just as the succah is a temporary dwelling, so is this world, temporary, passing, where we are merely guests."

-Moshe Belanga in the film "Ushpizin"

"When a man changes something within himself, he progresses, right? He thinks he has earned some rest. It's then that he's given an even harder test. No rest. No rest in this world."

-The Rabbi in the film "Ushpizin"

How do you make God laugh? Tell Him your plans.

-Nick reiterated this age-old adage

Flatland Hotel

2010-02-16T13:15:00.000-08:00

Here are some lyrics for a new song that I have written called "Flatland Hotel" about how high school can often incorrectly establish social hierarchies that we are condemned to live with for the rest of our lives.

Barricade doors, rampart wall,

Deceptive answers resound these halls.

Pilgrims trek this monument,

Where the mortar's "us" and the bricks are "them."

Cornerstones in every room,

From doctrines honed with caustic brooms.

Sonic waves that block the sky,

Are trapped responses to "who am I."

Leave these shadows, leave your fears,

This is not your world, this is smoke and mirrors.

Forge your own way, feel the elation,

You exist for you, not for demarcation.

I see the flaws in your roof, in your walls,

and I'm leaving it, Flatland Hotel.

Rooms of seven times seventy

Arrange themselves in seven rings.

Blood is required to obey

Wall idols that give and take away.

Outcasts dwell the passageways,

No place for masters, just for slaves.

From their towers lords appear,

To suck their blood and drink their tears.

Leave these shadows, leave your fears,

This is not your world, this is smoke and mirrors.

Forge your own way, feel the elation,

You exist for you, not for demarcation.

I see the flaws in your roof, in your walls,

and I'm leaving it, Flatland Hotel.

Bollywood Balm, anyone?

2010-02-15T20:53:00.000-08:00

I have been addicted to Bollywood films lately. It is much easier to find a Bollywood film online to watch than an old musical, and Bollywood films fulfill me like an old musical does. There is always a love interest, and a conflict that is beautifully resolved. Admittedly, there are more obvious aspects of Bollywood films that a majority of Americans could find repulsive. Their incredible length (most Bollywood films are at least three hours long), the overacting synced with incredibly dramatic background music (reminiscent of a Mexican soap opera), and the songs and dance based on rhythms and music that seem almost alien to us makes a Bollywood film seem like a cinematic nightmare.

Luckily, I was not deterred by those elements. I love long movies and books because it leaves enough room for sufficient character development. I love the overacting because I grew up on old movies where the actors were still using movements big enough for a stage yet too big for a camera. I just lived with the incredibly dramatic background music. I had watched enough Mexican soap operas to not be completely surprised. As for the music and rhythms, a wonderful and unfortunately lost friend of mine had exposed me to great singers like Lata Mangeshkar, accompanied by the tambura and the entrancing rhythms of the tabla. So, I was set. I had the recipe for success. As I said, I only watched Bollywood for the same reason I watched musicals. When I needed a good, old-fashioned pick-me-up, I looked past the absurdity of "Calamity Jane" and let it make me feel good. That was all I expected of Bollywood films: a silly and absurd balm to my soul. However, The extensive and austere library of Bollywood films has provided much more for me than a simple pick-me-up.

A few months ago, I happened upon one of the best Bollywood films I had ever seen called "Banaras: A Mystic Love Story." Not only was the music absolutely exquisite, but the cinematography revealed the compelling, ethereal elements of the holy city of Banaras. But best of all, the film was spiritually instructive. The film is literally oozing wisdom out of its pores. One of these pearls of wisdom manifests in the scene after the hero, Soham, is found abandoned on the banks of the Ganges by a sweeper woman, who raises him. The hero at this point is about ten years old and is crying. The sweeper woman asks Soham why he is sad, to which he replies that the teacher at school was hitting him because he was of a lower class. The sweeper woman asks Soham "who is the biggest in Banaras." Soham replies that the Ganges is the biggest in Banaras. She then asks if the river ever discriminated against him by not letting him dive in, or calling him low class. When he replies in the negative, she says "This means that only low class people talk of such low grade things. Not big people." Ahhhh. Beautiful. It makes me never want to look down on anyone again. The Ganges showed unconditional love to Soham, despite his low class. What an eloquent way to show that "the earth, and all things that are upon the face of it (Alma 30:44)" denote that there is a God, and even reveal part of His nature.

Perhaps the most profound offering of wisdom in the film was it's use of forgiveness. Soham grows up, is hired at the university to teach music, despite his low class. It is in music class that he meets and falls in love with one of his students, Shwetambari, whose father is a brahman priest and therefore of higher class. You probably know where this is going. Her parents freak out, but consent to Shwetambari marrying Soham because they can see that they are very much in love. A few days before the wedding, Soham is found murdered. Shwetambari leaves Banaras and does not come back until her father is on his deathbed, seventeen years later. After his funeral, Shwetambari's mother tries to drown herself in the Ganges, but is saved by her daughter. Her mother laments that she was saved, exclaiming that she had sinned against Shwetambari. She admits that she had had Soham killed. She couldn't stand the thought of her daughter marrying someone of lower class. She begs her daughter to punish her. Shwetambari tells her mother that she needs no penance from her. She had forgiven her. She knew seventeen years ago before she left that her mother had Soham murdered because she had found Soham's engagement ring in her mother's drawer. She then tells her mother to look and see who has come to see her. Her mother looks through the mists, and Soham's spirit smiles at her. She knew that he had also forgiven her. "But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses. (Matt. 6:15)" I really need to remember that, and I have so little to forgive!

Oh, I could go on and on... Which is why I think I will start a series on this blog. (Even though only you, Nick, read it, and I don't even know if you have time anymore.) But I will try to spread the love, and impart some of the wisdom from these movies to others. I can't wait to write about the film "Delhi 6"...

2009-10-18T20:36:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-08-11T15:10:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-08-11T14:59:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-08-11T14:57:00.000-07:00

"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."

2009-08-11T14:53:00.000-07:00

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.