Perfection

I don't know what I did to deserve my life. Maybe it was because when I was really little I would steal my baby brother's bottles out of his crib while he napped for my old sister, because she asked me to. Or maybe it was because one time my brother ran outside, naked, his underwear on his head, and I was down the street playing with the "big kids" on the street, and when they laughed at him I defended him. Or maybe it was because I thought pouring salt on slugs, or shining the sun onto caterpillars through a magnifying glass was a horrible and inhumane thing to do, and I wouldn't stand for it.

Today is my birthday, you see. I am 22. When I was a little kid, I never really had parties. I have a late summer birthday, and every one of my friends was always off on their last vacation before school started. The last time I tried to have a party was when I was 11. It was the summer between 5th and 6th grade. My only friend who was in town was Stephanie Ferguson. The two of us and my mom went to Fresh Choice. I sort of liked Winnie the Pooh at the time, and Stephanie gave me a fake silk vest that had Winnie the Pooh all over it. Let me just say that the second I laid eyes on that vest was the second I stopped liking Winnie the Pooh. That thing was hideous, and there was no way in hell I would be caught dead wearing it.

Needless to say, this attempt at a birthday party was my last.

My dad's been giving me a hard time for weeks about this BBQ I had tonight. He wanted me to be home with the family on my actual birthday. I recounted this story to him, about how I just wanted to party with my friends on my actual birthday since I never did as a kid. I don't think he really understood why I had to have this BBQ. It was just one of those things I had to do.

But tonight was one of the most perfect nights of my life. I was surrounded by my dearest friends (minus a few key members, plus the entire New York gang--I miss you guys so much), all joined together by good food, good conversation, and love. As Jesse Rex Tucker put it, it felt like what I picture heaven to be like. All of my worlds collided tonight, and I watched as my friends mingled and talked and tightened our web of love. Pure joy is a good way to define what I felt. Pure joy mixed with pure beauty mixed with pure, perfect love. It transcended earthly emotion. To feel so unabashedly loved by these people and to declare my love back. I'm pretty sure I beamed. I like it when I beam.

I also like being in love with nothing and everything, which only happens when life is good to me. Too good to me in this case.

Mama, Don't Take My Kodachrome Away.

Here are a few of those Kodachrome photos I promised you.

The East Coast girls are hip. I really dig those styles they wear.

I am not sure how it happened, but I think I might have turned into a prep.

My suspicions started a few days ago when I got this coat from Banana Republic for my birthday. It's sassy, but it's khaki. I've often avoided khaki for its resemblance to flesh tone, as well as its immediate association with Dockers and the "business casual" aesthetic. Granted, this lady looks like a dork, and I look more like Agent 99 when I wear this coat, but khaki should be reserved for safaris and jungle expeditions only. What am I thinking?!?!

Then I went to the Gap with my mom, and I got two blouses. Blouses--fine, but the fact I have a tag touching my skin that belongs to the yuppiest brand known to mankind has caused a rash on my neck. Granted, it's completely psychosomatic, but it's the Gap, People! They made the jumper popular! They desecrated Audrey Hepburn! They mass market shoddy construction! Their store is called the Gap!

I think the deal was sealed when I left my room this morning sporting a snazzy skinny jean, red shoes (as usual), one of those Gap blouses and my trench. The outfit was blazing, I'll tell you what. I looked hot. But as soon as my mother saw me (my mother who has tirelessly berated my choices in fashion since junior high, my mother who's asked me more than once "why I can't just dress normally," my mother who said in June "Well, you certainly don't dress like the rest of the family"), she said, "You look so preppy! It's nice."

I just about puked.

Moving along, my parents' town is full of high school hipster scum. The H&M-bargain-bin-slumming, riff-raff type of hipster. There's a stank throughout downtown Walnut Creek because of these kids. As my friend John says, "We will look back ten years from now and regard the hipster movement as distastefully as we do the 'hair metal' movement of the '80s."

I sure hope he's right.

My life doesn't stop getting better.

1) My dad bought a slide scanner from B.H. (on 9th Ave. in NYC! It's a huge camera store. I would always go there after work. There and Strand Books or Academy Records, all within walking distance of work. Man, I miss midtown!!) So on Thursday, I spent my whole day scanning Kodachrome slides of my dad and my grandma and my aunt. (I'm going to post some once I can get them into Photoshop and resize them. They're all currently too large to post). I can't even remember a day that good. Kodachrome photos are so beautiful; they make me cry. The colors spark this emotional fuse inside my body that few things can ignite: mainly just Kodachrome, shooting into the sun, and...
2) Debussy. I've been practicing the piano a ton since I got home, primarily Debussy. "Arabesque #1" (or is it #2?) and "Reverie" and my theme song "Girl with the Flaxen Hair." Debussy definitely does it for me. Not so much when I listen to other people play him though, just when I do. Other people don't understand how he wanted his pieces to sound at all. You really have to put your soul into your playing when you play Debussy, or you just sound like you're playing Clementi or some boring composer from the classical era. For the record, Debussy is also my favorite to sing. Forget jazz--Debussy wrote some of the most gorgeous art songs for piano and voice. Maybe sometime I will sing my favorites for you.
3) Yesterday I took Phoebe (my mom's dog) on a walk around the Lafayette Reservoir. It's a place I frequented as a child: BBQs, walks with my dad, flying kites with my dad, fishing with my dad, a Christmas picture on this tree that grew horizontally for a little while so it's a big, airborne bench now--you get the picture. But last night it was just me, Phoebe, my Holga, and Katie and Kimba running. I started out on the path, the setting sun trickling through the trees on the far hill. Suddenly, I heard someone call out my name. "Lisa!" shouted a vaguely familiar voice. I turned, and it was Ms. Krug, my French teacher from junior high. I couldn't believe she remembered me. "I remember all my students," she said. She reminisced about my talents in French, what a natural accent I had, how she still shows my "Un Jour Dans Ma Vie" project to her students, and they ooh-and-ah at it, asking if it has to be that good. I say this not to brag, but to point out how good I once was at French. Now I can hardly say "My name is Lisa." I've been wanting to get back into it, I told her, and she told me to read translations of Mary Higgins Clark's books. Great idea! So I'm ordering some off the Canadian Amazon. I told her I'm moving back to New York, that I want to work for the BBC. She beamed. "I always knew you'd do something really cool, " she said. I like to think it's cool too. Ms. Krug provided my first exposure to international affairs, though indirectly. She adopted a girl from Nicaragua--Marita. She is seriously the coolest teacher I've ever had. And I think I was supposed to see her, because she confirmed for me all the paths I'm considering.
4) Today I spent the day at my grandma's house, packing up the last of her things. I packed up boxes and boxes of old postcards she'd written to my great aunts. Photos ranging from the 1910s of my grandpa and his gorgeous sisters, to the 1980s when my parents married. Anyone who knows me knows I am fascinated by all things old, and especially old photos and the people they immortalize. I found a wedding photo of Grandma and Papa. Neither is smiling, but they both have a glimmer of satisfaction in their eyes. They are a smashing couple, impeccably dressed. It's a black and white photo, but it looks like my grandma is wearing red lipstick to match her fiery red hair. I wish I'd gotten her red hair.

My dad has decided to nurture my love for photography, so he let me keep two old cameras I found among the remains: a 35mm point-and-shoot Kyocera with a Carl Zeiss lens, and an Olympus SLR that has a few lenses with it.

Right before I started writing this, I was playing Guitar Hero 2, and I played "Sweet Child O' Mine" on expert, and I scored over 300,000 points! I didn't think that was possible, but apparently I rock really hard.

The photo booth photos I posted are from Coney Island, the Wednesday a week before I left New York. That's me and Megan, and then me and Megan with Phil and Dan. Some of the best times of my life. I crave New York so very much. I think I am making a trip there in October, because I cannot comprehend a life that doesn't include a future with that glorious city.

My brother and sister are awfully crabby these days. My sister because she's stressed about going to college. An understandable fear, of course, but she'll be in Provo with me and our older sister and her family, so really she has this amazing, pre-assembled safety net. I didn't have that. I had my sister, who I was not close to at all, and Tom. Then there's Michael, who, at 16-almost-17, feels like my dad thinks he's stupid. This is not the case, but as a hormonally tumultuous young man, he can't seem to shake that feeling.

I know I'm past my teenage anxieties and mood swings because I think my parents are funny now. I used to think they were idiots--the stupid kid. My dad was acting like an idiot today, but the funny kind of idiot. And I just, I, I love them so much. I keep thinking back to when I was a little kid and it feels so recent. I was looking out my grandma's living room window today, watching my brother and dad working outside, and I had a flashback to when I was a little kid and we'd come to my grandparents' house every weekend to play in the pool that had this giant black octopus made out of tile at the bottom and in the yard and maybe do some yard work. And I felt like a kid today. I felt so young and so naive but at the same time so mature and ready for adulthood. It was the oddest feeling.

Life doesn't stop getting better.

It's time for a revolution.

My mom's dog is the stupidest dog ever to walk the face of the earth. Her name is Phoebe. She's a one-and-a-half-year-old black and tan mini dachshund. She likes chewing on things. Bones, dehydrated bull testicles (her favorite), green bones shaped like toothbrushes. My shoes. My stuffed animals (granted, their purpose is only to deal me a dose of nostalgia). My brother's video game controllers and memory cards. Phoebe is mostly stupid because she pees in the house, even after she's just gone to the bathroom outside. She will only pee on green rugs and green grass. She just pooed in the hallway that leads to my bedroom. My mom won't yell at her, but I will, so now Phoebe runs under my bed where I can't reach her every time she does something wrong. I seriously hate this dog. She is 11.14 pounds of mischief and loathing.

Home is good. Tonight I attended a Relief Society recipe night with my dear mother, who serves as RS president. Most people I talked to were astounded by a) how great my hair looks, b) how great I look, and c) with the fact I am not engaged, not married, not dating anyone, and no closer or further away from serving a mission than I was the last time they talked to me. So what if people my age from my home ward are engaged? So what if girls who are younger than I am are "beating me" in serving missions? (Granted, this comment was made by the mentally-ill woman in my home ward. I slyly retorted, "Well, I didn't know I was in a race with them, so they're not really beating me.") The pressures of 20-something Mormon culture never cease to disgust me. I don't know why the lot of us "rebels" haven't started a revolution.

(For the record, I've always found my home ward brothers and sisters to be very fair, understanding, and altogether supportive of my chosen path. Tonight was a rare occurrence as I was surrounded by a handful of women I did not know, and now don't care to know any better).

Alas, home has been very nice. A cool high-70s/low-80s, sunshine, Guitar Heroes 1, 2, and '80s, Kevin's copy of Moonshadow. Not to mention my dear mother spoils me rotten.

My favorite times have been riding in the car with my brother Michael. Windows down, radio blasting Dio's "Holy Diver." I also enjoyed my walk with Katie and the dogs last night. I saw Ryan running on the trail. Ryan my ex who I saw in New York a few weeks ago. Then today I saw Sloan. Sloan my first love. I randomly see him every time I come home. It's odd.

lies, lies, lies

This morning is the first morning I feel very homesick. I've had a fun few days in Utah thus far, with minimal grieving, and lots of joyous reunions. (Of course, I've been staying inside as much as possible, because this way I can fool myself into thinking New York is outside). But this morning I want to go home. Luckily I'm going to California tomorrow. That sort of counts.

I watched the meteor shower last night. Phil, Cade and I went up to my special spot in the mountains and watched it. It was really cloudy. That was disappointing. But we still saw some meteors, and I came back to my sister's house and watched it some more and saw some of the hugest meteor streaks I've ever seen. A few streaking across the entire sky. I want to ride a meteor.

I have been kissed by two boys since I've been back in Utah. Well, one is more of a man. The other is a bit more of a boy. I can tell one is more of a man because he's not intimidated by my maturity, the level of which is rare to an almost-22-year-old. The boy is. "How are you so dang mature, Lisa?" he asked me yesterday. But I've always been this way.

I saw my old friend Colin at an art opening I went to with Phil on Saturday. For about two years, Colin and I hung out all the time. We were really great friends, until one day last year. I'm still not sure what happened. I was living with Margaret at the time. I was messing around at home with Thayne, when Colin, Margaret and Joey come in. Thayne and I left soon after, not because they came home, but because we were headed somewhere. A while later I was looking through my myspace friends and noticed Colin had deleted me--not his profile, just me. By that time, we didn't hang out much anymore and I was over it. I never knew what happened, what I did. But then I saw him Saturday. I was so surprised. This is a kid who swore he'd be in Utah for only three years, to get his MFA and get out. I figured he was long gone. Yet here he was. I called out his name a few times. I know he heard me. He completely ignored me. He was wearing a cowboy hat.

I had a satisfying laugh about that one.

Yesterday morning I had a dream that someone came into my sister's house through the front door while I was sleeping. I yelled, "Who's there?" in the dream. I heard the door close again, and the person seemed to be gone.

Then yesterday after I got home from church, I noticed the front door was unlocked. I found this odd, considering I've hardly used it since I've been here, and I'm an obsessive compulsive door locker, and no one else has a key. Anyway it was weird because I dreamed it and then it happened. Get it?

My parents and my friend Tom's parents have been plotting our marriage for years, since the beginning of my BYU career. He lives in Arizona now though. Yesterday my mom called and told me I should probably go to Phoenix to visit him. "I'll bet now that they're not in the same town, they'll realize how perfect they are for each other," his mother said to mine at church yesterday, among many other silly things.

YAY!! I am listening to Pandora, and a song from "Once" just came on! Happiness abounds.

And so it goes.

Normally I wouldn't dare quote Vonnegut, so I added the "And."

But so it goes, Friends. I leave New York today. You all know I'm sad. You all know I'm nervous. I'll spare you.

This summer I earned a young man's affections in Provo. I'm seeing him tonight. My outlook on love and relationships is objective these days: if it works, fine--if it doesn't, it wasn't meant to be. Some of the stupidest mistakes I've ever made have been wasting my time with guys who I knew either a) weren't good enough for me, or b) just weren't compatible with me. Those days are over. I am almost 22, for crying out loud!! My marrying days are almost over!!

I had an interesting dream the other night. It's rare I remember a dream in the first place, but even rarer I remember a dream with this much symbolism.

So you see, I was sitting by a window. I think it may have been in my bedroom in Provo, but I never saw the whole room. But this bug--this big blue and black bug--kept flying in the window. It had a long metal skewer-like beak coming out of its mouth. It kept flying toward me, and after a few good looks I realized it was not a big blue and black bug, but a big blue and black hummingbird. I was holding my left hand out, palm facing down, and inexplicably, the hummingbird kept poking its long, syringe-like beak into my hand. It hurt! I would grab the hummingbird each time it did this, removing its beak from my tender skin with a quick swoop and thrusting the bird out the open window. But the bird always came back, and each time it came back, it poked my hand in a new place, and each time I thrust it out the window, it came back. After about seven rounds of this, the bird finally disappeared. I'm not sure where to. I thought it was over, until I stared at my delicate hand. Simultaneously, each hole the hummingbird had made began streaming blood--the reddest, silkiest, most intoxicating blood you've ever seen.

Having such a weird dream, I turned right to a dream dictionary to diagnose my crazy mind. Apparently, dreaming about your hands represents your relationships and how you connect with the world. Specifically, the left hand symbolizes a person's graciousness and feminine, receptive qualities. Injured hands denote an attack on your ego. Blood on your hands signifies guilt. This all makes sense because a) I am a woman, and b) a friend called me on something the other night, saying they were a little disappointed, and that bruised my ego, and c) I feel guilty pretty much all the time, mostly for stupid little things, but it's still a valid emotion.

The hummingbird suggests that small ideas or concepts may possess great potential or power. It also indicates flighty thoughts and frivolous ideas (aren't those two completely contradictory?) Alternatively, it may be a metaphor for one's inability to commit to a relationship. (These definitions all fit me pretty well). Though something I'd like to pursue in the future, the idea of marriage at my young age really bothers me. I am much too independent. I mentioned the hummingbird was blue and black; these colors happen to be the color of a sweater I bought here in New York, so I'm leaving that one to coincidence.

Windows signify bright hopes, vast possibilities and insight--all accurate, considering my recent job offers.

Anyway I have an hour before I need to leave for the airport, so I guess I'll see ya.

I was meant for the city.

Right now I am listening to Sonic Youth and packing. Sonic Youth because they fill my heart with an inexplicable happiness, even on my shoddy laptop speakers. Packing because I have to leave New York.

I have four bags--a suitcase and duffle bag to check, plus a carry-on suitcase I bought today for $15, and my laptop bag/purse. When I arrived in New York City, I had about 100 pounds of stuff between two suitcases and my laptop bag. I'm not sure how much I have now, but the new suitcase I got basically only holds the 27 albums I've bought here, plus a few normal-size books, and Geoff's book. So that excludes everything else I've bought while I've been here. Not to mention the ten pounds of PC Magazines I have to keep because they contain my bylines. I'm trying to stuff clothes into the perimeter. I'm trying to stuff anything I can into the perimeter really. Bloody hell.

I'm using my dad's backpacking packing mantra, which is: "Every ounce counts." My dad is one of those crazy backpackers whose backpack for a week-long, 50-mile trip weighs six pounds before food. Yes, six pounds before food. So basically I am throwing away anything possible. Papers, pens, almost-empty bath products, shoes, lacy underthings--even my favorite polo shirt (sure, it saw me through four years of college, but it's full of holes. Too bad I'm such a sentimental sop, and a pack rat. It's a horrible combination. I don't recommend either habit). Of course, I have perfected the clothes roll, which is a major space saver. And I brought stupid stuff when I came out here, like nuts from Costco, and soap. (I haven't used soap since the sixth grade. I use body wash. I think I took my dad's other motto, "Be Prepared," a little too seriously). So yeah. I'm hoping I can throw away enough that I can keep enough, if that makes sense.

As for my sanity, it is slowly leaving me. I grow increasingly sicker to my stomach, which means I'm not eating, which means I'm going to die in two weeks or less. As I've told everyone who's asked, I am zero percent excited to leave New York, which means I am 100 percent nervous to go back. I've already made it clear to most of my friends that if I don't call them this first weekend I'm back, it's nothing they can help--I'm just grieving.

Okay really I'm just pretending about all this drama queen stuff. Sort of. Ten percent pretending.

I love being alone.

I am sick of touching strangers. I touch them all the time, every day. On the subway. On the sidewalks. In the grocery store. In restaurants. Waiting in lines. Lines! When I first got to New York, I was overwhelmed with all the standing in lines I do. I would joke, "When people ask me what I did in New York, I'm going to say I waited in line!" I'm used to waiting in line now, but I still don't like touching strangers. Luckily I'm pretty good at maneuvering my body through tight spaces without touching anything, like the tweezers in Operation.

I've decided to make a big change in my life. It's going to affect some people. I'm not sure if they'll like the change, but I will. Sometimes you have to do things for yourself. I've learned a lot of things about myself this summer.

My dad has this phrase--his catchphrase, I guess you could call it, but he directs it toward me exclusively. A few months ago, I was struggling with certain things, and my dad said to me, "Fly with the eagles, Lisa." I didn't take this to heart. He bought me a ceramic bald eagle statue from Cabelas, and when he gave it to me, I laughed. It hurt his feelings. We fought about this. We always fight when he knows I'm struggling. Last night I was talking to my mom and I told her, "You know Mom, I've been flying with the eagles all summer, and I'm not going to stop." She called me a few hours later as I was falling asleep to tell me that Dad was proud of me. "Why?" I asked. "Because you told me you're flying with eagles. He asked if you really said that, that you were flying with eagles like he said, and I told him you'd really said you were 'flying with the eagles.' He was so happy you'd said that."

I have really amazing parents. One of my lifelong goals is to be as good of parents as they've been.

It's funny how our emotions change as we get older. When you're a kid, you really only feel happiness and sadness. I'm sad because my fish died. I'm happy because I'm eating a popsicle. Those are really the only realities. Once you hit puberty, you've added maybe 30. Awkwardness, self-consciousness. By the time you're an adult, you've added hundreds of emotions to those initial two. Confusion, betrayal, depression, elation, jubilation, annoyance. Life grows more complex, but we grow better equipped to handle it. At least that's the goal.

Tomorrow is my last day of work. I'm going to play Nintendo Wii and Guitar Hero all day.

I am nervous to go back to Provo. My life is no longer there.

I am happier than I've been in a very long time. Genuinely happy. Full of peace and joy. My life is on a very good path.

What can you do? We're through.

I predicted accurately that Tuesday would be a good day. First, I e-mailed a guy from this Web site I just reviewed that's based in Lindon, UT: footnote.com. The site has a partnership with the National Archives and a few other libraries, and they're digitizing EVERY document in their holdings. (There are about 9 billion documents in the National Archives alone!) At any rate, I sent along my resume, inquiring if they had any open positions I'd fit into. I got a quick e-mail back saying, Yes! We do! And it's only part time work, which is exactly what I need! It's not a sure thing, but it's at least out on the table. I was so happy. Then, one of my editors at PC Mag asked if I wanted to do some freelancing once I'm back in Utah. Heck yes, I do! Then Phil and I played Marry Boff Kill for three hours and laughed and hollered and had a blast. My favorite option Phil gave me was Billy Corgan; he had an upside-down mouth, suffered from seizures every 30 seconds, and he was a highlander. Genius!

Last night I went to Coney Island with Megan, Phil and Dan. We rode the Cyclone! Phil and I rode it twice! Once again we laughed and hollered and had a blast. We ate at Nathan's. We took photos in the photo booth. We played Marry Boff Kill. Megan and I started our stop motion short film. Yancy was sad he couldn't come too. So were we.

Tonight after work I bought a white dress. Then I went record shopping (go figure). Then I went to a guitar shop that had the most beautiful collection of hollow bodied Gretsch's, and the guys who worked there just sat and played a different guitar whenever they wanted to (keep in mind they're playing $3,000-and-up gems!!). Then I relaxed on a bench in Washington Square Park for awhile. There was a man playing guitar and singing songs, and he was VERY good. He started playing the great love song "I'm Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter," which he must've known is one of my favs thanks to Sara Vaughan. The last line of the song says, "I'm gonna sit right down and write myself a letter and make believe it came from you." As he sang that, I turned to look at him, and he sang that last line to me! It was so cute and I threw my head back and tossed my hair and grinned a big grin as I do when I really think something's funny, and he fell in love with me right then and there. Then I saw "My Best Friend," aka "Mon Meilleur Ami." It wasn't as good as I'd hoped.

All I know is that if adulthood is anything like this summer has been, I've got a great future ahead of me.

Make sure you listen to this.

Here is a list of my favorite songs that are so beautiful they make me cry.

Jussi Bjorling--"Morgen"
Gavin Clarke--"Never Seen the Sea"
Yann Tiersen--"La Terrasse"
Chet Baker--"I Get Along Without You Very Well," "Little Girl Blue"
Loney, Dear--"Where Are You Go Go Going To?"
Daedelus--"Muggle Born"
(Smog)--"I Feel Like the Mother of the World"
The Moody Blues--"Nights in White Satin"
Nina Simone--"Wild is the Wind"
Petula Clark--"Downtown"