Peanut Butter Side Up

So...marriage.

There are so many things that I can say about my mere month and a half in this new world of two-becoming-oneness.

Surprisingly, while I am learning more and more about Robbie through our marriage (like how he has to have a turkey and ham sandwich with the ham on the mustard side and the turkey on the mayo side with a piece of cheese in the middle; or how he'll only eat his PB&Js peanut butter side up; or how he manages to not only steal all the blankets during the night, but also finds a way to steal my pillow in his sleep as well), honestly, he is who I've always known him to be--he is all the reasons for which I married him (I love him so much). But really, I feel as though I'm rediscovering myself more than I'm discovering him.

During all of the stresses in my life over the past year, including planning a wedding!!, I got so caught up in trying to "figure out" how every day would play out and if I would survive, I forgot some of the things that make me who I am--the things that make me happy.

As organization, peace, and happiness settle deeply into my daily life, I'm slowly digging up old treasures of thoughts, dreams, talents, and goals.

I found this quote on a blog today and it struck the cord my heart has been searching for--like a tune stuck in your head, but you don't even realize you're humming it until the words suddenly rush out of your mouth.

It also seemed an appropriate story to wed the topics of marriage and my rediscovery of my love of the written word.

oh, and ps. In my process of redefining myself as Anna Bullough, I'm looking to freshen up the blog. Ideas welcome. Should I change my URL and everything???


Date a Girl Who Reads by Rosemarie Urquico


Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.


Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.


She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.


Buy her another cup of coffee.


Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.


It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas, and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by God, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.


She has to give it a shot somehow.


Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.


Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.


Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.


If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.


You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.


You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.


Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.


Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

Everyone has a Story

I loved reading biographies on blogs, websites, and the inside cover of books--the short (or long) blurbs about the author. I don't know why the person is just as important to me as their work, but I always find I have this insatiable crave for more and more details about their history. One of my favorite little facts to search for is what said people are getting or have gotten degree wise, and where. I think that's because in my heart of hearts, I'm trying to convince myself that there are plenty of writers out there who have degrees in things other than writing (like me), who still find themselves publishing incredible works. But I also love to hear about where they live, how many kids they have, what their hobbies are, why they chose the topic they did, and why they love what they do.

People are so fascinating to me--both their told and untold stories. Have you ever just people watched? I love watching strangers (a little creepy, I suppose. but I feel I'm not the only one who does this, so somehow that makes it okay.), but I also love watching people I know as well. Comparing the personality seen through peoples words with the personality resonating from their actions always interests me.

I just love people so much. I love history on a global and personal level. I care about the individual, and their intricate part in this ever-complex web of life.

I wish I could help people tell their stories. This desire is such an integral part of who I am, it's the reason I majored in journalism, work as an interpreter, and want to write. It is me.

I hope you don't think I'm a total creeper for not only people watching, but completely psychoanalyzing everyone around me. I seriously need to stop doing that.

NaNoWriMo

Today is November 1. I can't believe October has already come and gone.

Not only does this month welcome in the beginnings of our winter season, today marks the first day of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month).

Think I can do it?

A whole novel in a month?! (Well, at least the first draft.)

1,667 words a day?!

At least a few minutes of every day I linger in the beautiful thought of one day becoming a published author.

Could today be the beginning of making dreams into realities?

I'm sure going to try...

Delete

I wrote a lengthy explanatory post about how I've discovered a new part of myself--a new facet of confidence, if you will. But I realized I was writing for me this time, and not you.

So, "delete."

I will summarize for you: I've discovered I like the personal essay more than the short story. And I don't need to become a famous author. And I'm happy with myself.

ps. I really like this song.
("They" won't let me embed the video, sorry. So, if you want to listen bad enough, you'll have to expel extra effort and click on the link.)

Dates

Sonnet 1

I walk alone along my path in life.
The men surrounding me are merely boys,
And will not be my match nor I their wife.
I flit from date to date with dancer’s poise,
But their left feet destroy the tandem flow.
My toes, they hurt! and I resent dim youth
Who will not take the lead that real men show:
to guide me forward with their moves—so smooth.
Someday I may just find my perfect match—
The glove that fits my hand with loving ease.
And when he comes into my life to catch
My eyes and ask me with a gentle ‘please,’
I will not hesitate to say I’ll be
His one true love for all eternity.

Joseph Featherstone 1

Trevor Dixon 1
Danny Rich 1
Branden Whiting 1
Matt Behunin 1
Sam Balaza 1
Steve Nelson 1
Taylor Summers 1
Todd Haskin 1
William Day 1
Jared Aida 1
Andrew Christiansen 1
Shem Hawks 1
Joseph Keeler 1
Brett Millet 1
Brad Bishop 1
Evan Grady 1
Bobby Richards 1
Brian Yarrington 1
Chad Steep 1
Chris Clark 1
Jacob Call 1
Trent Boulter 1
Mark Neilson 1
Brent Littlefield 1
Aaron Barker 1
Colten Hadabaugh 1
James Mitchell 1
Chris McLaughlin 1

Ephraim Olson 2-4
Eric Paat 2-4
Josh Worley 2-4
Parker James 2-4
Dan Rescke 2-4
Mike Bishop 2-4
Adam Simmons 2-4
Daniel Jones 2-4
Ryan Lacanienta 2-4
Billy Errico 2-4
Tyler Barber 2-4
Brad Reeder 2-4
Austin Russell 2-4
Brian Gibson 2-4
Dan Bean 2-4
Rob Shepherd 2-4
Jeff Van Hulten 2-4
Nate Amsden 2-4
Ken Clark 2-4
Kevin Taylor 2-4
Travis Boyer 2-4

Robbie Bullough 5-10
Zack Boman 5-10
Seth Wood 5-10
Chad Spencer 5-10
Marshall Jensen 5-10
Paul Montoya 5-10
Moe Smith 5-10

Eric Riddle 10<
Aaron Christiansen 10<
Jacob Hanks 10<
Andrew Fox 10<
Mike Morgan 20<
Travis Nixon 50<

Date? ...oh, I've dated.

Elang Test/Exam?

I'm not doing very (good/well) right now. Just thinking about this Elang usage test (affects/effects) my physical, mental and emotional well being. The (above/same) has (a/an) historic reputation for causing such discomfort. My professor (implied/inferred) (that) a good grade on this exam could (be) quite difficult to achieve. (If/Whether) I pass this test (and/or) get a good grade, I just might not feel so (bad/badly) about myself. I've (continuously/continually) thought about this test and considered (laying/lying) down to easy the ache at the base of my head; but I (kind of/sort of) think I should stay up and study more. I am (one of those anal types who stress(es)) all the time , and (whoever/whomever) tells me to "calm down" simply is (disinterested/uninterested) in (my) passing this (battery of tests). I (myself) know I'm going to be (all right/alright), but this test is just (different from/than) any other test I've ever taken. Often (one) feels as though they are drifting (farther/further) and (farther/further) away from (their) goals. But (due to the fact that) this test will have (fewer/less) questions than I originally anticipated, I'm sure I (ain't) going to do horridly. The (reason I get stressed is because), (between/among) you and (I/me), I'm simply not prepared. Tests sneak up on me (as/like) a monster in the night. I just (can't not) pass this test. I (shall/will) be successful!

Sonnet 1 -Revised

I walk alone along my path in life.
The men surrounding me are merely boys
And will not be my match nor I their wife.
I flit from date to date with dancer’s poise,
But their left feet destroy the tandem flow.
My toes, they hurt! and I resent dim youth
Who will not take the lead that real men show;
to guide me forward with their moves—so smooth.
Someday I may just find my perfect match—
The glove that fits my hand with loving ease.
And when he comes into my life to catch
My eyes and ask me with a gentle ‘please;’
I will not hesitate to say I’ll be
His one true love for all eternity.

See original poem here.

Sounds of my Mother

***Penguin Cafe Orchestra: “Music for a Found Harmonium”***
For my mother, the sun did not rise with choirs of angels, but with an alarming beep, beep, beep, beep. That moment, when her slumber was cut short, began the repetitious tedium of a mother’s daily schedule which wore on her like a song on repeat, or a melody without dimension. The score for this part of my mother’s life was “Music for a Found Harmonium,” a song of few notes and even fewer instruments. The song’s almost monotonous recurrence of the same few quickly paced violin tones could be heard playing over and over as she lifted loads of laundry, chauffeured anxious children, and scoured daily dishes. But my mother heard this same song differently than I did. “Listen, listen,” I remember her saying. “Here comes the change in the music.” Her eyes would close, and a small slit smile would cut across her face as she soaked in the variation of melody heard within the same “Music for a Found Harmonium.” A few key changes and the occasional trill brought my mother pleasure. The music was simple but she enjoyed it nonetheless. She found magic hidden in the ordinary; and she discovered its power. My mother didn’t get bored with a simple violin like others, because it wasn’t about the violin; it was about the music as a whole. Violins aren’t what remind me of my mother, but the changes in melody like those she heard when no one else could. And I won’t find her in the monotony of washing daily dishes, but in the occasional plastic popsicle stick leftover from homemade popsicles—the trill that caused the smile. She taught me to find harmony through the magic of ordinary days.

***Blue October: “Into the Ocean”***
But I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. While I can always hear the sounds of my mother, it’s not constantly through sweet changes in violin melodies while happily doing the dishes. Sometimes, she would spin, “colliding into sound, like whales beneath me diving down.” I can remember the days the black hole mess in our bedrooms would suck her in and consume her, when “the lighthouse beam [had] just run out.” It didn’t matter how many times we all worked on organizing the girls’ room; somehow a whirlwind managed to sneak in every night. Shoes were in the bed and dolls were under it, and no one knew where the bed blankets were. By ten o’clock at night we were all frustrated and even mom was near tears. Again and again the black hole would try to eat my mother. But instead she would fall “Into the Ocean,” and drift on the waves of a heavy beat; the rhythm took her away with drums and guitars and men with liquid voices. She would listen to it in the car and in the kitchen, and she would listen to it in full volume; the beat of the song helped her conquer the abyss.

***Imogen Heap: “Hide and Seek”***
However, more often than not, I tended to out-stress my mother. At times of high tension, a different tune was sung and happiness seemed like a game of “Hide and Seek.” I remember coming home from school very frazzled; and frazzleness often came in the form of Brittney B. It didn’t matter how hard I had tried, she always had to be better than me. I can remember the way she would turn and flip her dirty blonde locks around in Dance Company. Strands of hair would fly, and then settle as she cocked her head to catch my eyes with a sideways glance. She wanted to see if I had watched. I would come home completely exhausted from play practice, Dance Company, and class with Brittney; lack of sleep and high stress easily overcame my emotions. All I needed was to let off a little steam with my mom. She would crank up Imogen and I would sing the words I couldn’t say: “Where are we? What the hell is going on? The dust has only just begun to form crop circles in the carpet. Sinking. Feeling.” I would dance around the kitchen; most of the time this resulted in me hitting some appliance or dish with either a foot or an arm. One kick to the back, right into the cupboard, and a flick of my own hair, right through the spaghetti sauce, and a sideways glance to see if mom was watching. She always was. We played “Hide and Seek” after school, and she always knew just where to find me.

***John Butler Trio: “Better Than”***
She taught me lessons from my stressful moments, lessons I’m still working on learning today. Sitting on a bar stool with my elbows pressed into our lime green countertop, I listened to the sound of my mom sing words of wisdom: “All I know is sometimes things can be hard, but you should know by now they come and they go. So why, oh why do [you] look to the other side? 'Cos I know the grass is greener but just as hard to mow. Life's not about what's better than.” The “grass is greener,” but on my little patch of shriveled grass, I could giggle with my mom, my best friend, about John Butler Trio’s “hot hip-action;” somehow that was fertilizer for my soul. Life wasn’t about being “better than” Brittney Bowman; I will never be able to raise my leg up above my head the way she can. But sounds of my mother became the power by which I got through the hard times.

***Matt Nathanson: “Come on Get Higher”***
***Eurythmics: “Here Comes the Rain Again”***
***Safety Suit: “Someone Like You”***
***Loreena McKennitt: “The Mummers’ Dance”***
The sounds of my mom pick me up and carry me. When I walk across campus alone, when I lie in bed at night, when I turn on my music “I miss the sound of your voice. And I miss the rush of your skin. And I miss the still of the silence, as you breathe out and I breathe in.” “I want to walk in the open wind. I want to dive into your ocean. Is it raining with you?” “If I were strong enough, if I were wrong enough to be someone like you, would you have let me come to be with you?” I can’t remember a time when I didn’t hear the sounds of my mother. And together in the music, we will always “link our hands and dance round in circles and in rows.”

This, I Believe

Much of my generation seems to have forgotten the simple, but unfailing values of gratitude and respect. Religion is seen as weak, and obedience as blind. Our selfish and lazy attitudes demand instant rewards others have reaped only after many years of hard work. We are immature, and uninformed. I know these faults are not exclusive to my generation, but we have attacked values at their very foundation and our ability to stand has begun to falter. Crime is on the rise. Divorce is on the rise. Bankruptcy has skyrocketed. And we have forgotten our God. I believe in the significance of the basic but most important constants. While clothing fads come and go, gas prices rise and fall, and new meanings develop over time, some values never lose their worth.

I attend a school with at least thirty-four thousand young adults of my own faith; and although religion tends to dictate one’s value system, my standards have been questioned and compromised here as much as anywhere else. I have been exposed to immoral and degrading media content; I have seen absolute and utter disrespect for one’s elders; and I have been deeply hurt by the uncaring egocentricity of others. Even the general state of our nation’s economy can be directly linked to the selfishness of bankers and the need for instant gratification by the borrowers. Many of our government leaders have been uncovered as corrupted, and all future hope rests on the shoulders of a people who do little more than text message and listen to their ipods.

I believe dedication to values would solve many of our world’s biggest problems. Government bodies and reformists must understand that the professed ‘change’ they hope to cause won’t be solved in a White houses on the hill and can’t be bought with large price tags. Change is of the heart and begins in the home.

A lot of lessons are learned within one’s own family. Parents should teach their kids to pray, say ‘thank you,’ and be patient. Video games are not a good babysitter. And Family hugs are important. We have developed such an unquenchable need for the constant go-and-do, we become too busy for these simple but important value-teaching actions. The value of motherhood is lost in the dollar sign, and our kids are suffering because of it.

I can remember learning how to waltz while standing on my dad’s feet; giggling with my mom while the smell of home-made bread wafted from the oven; and walking across a half acre lawn in a foot of snow to feed the chickens and in the scorching summer heat to weed the garden. I’m not perfect, but I am who I am because of the values my parents taught me while in my youth.
Parents, teach your children. Children, listen to your parents. Values create character, and character is the foundation of a better world. This I believe.

Sonnet 1

I walk alone along my path in life.
The men surrounding me are merely boys
And will not be my match nor I their wife.
I flit from date to date with dancer’s poise,
But their left feet destroy the tandem flow.
My toes all hurt and head throbs with despair.
A lucky few get close but then they go
And tear my heart to shreds beyond repair.
Someday I may just find my perfect match—
The glove that fits my hand with loving ease.
And when he comes into my life to catch
My eyes and ask me with a smile and ‘please’;
I will not hesitate to say I’ll be
His one true love for all eternity.

Grandpa

I didn’t know my grandfather very well; I was only six-years-old when he died. And even before that, physical handicaps prevented him from communicating, so I only knew him from a distance. I felt awkward around him as a little girl. I couldn’t remember what he was like “before.” I only knew him as he was—no fingers because of a firecracker, and no feeling because of a stroke. My grandmother had to feed him, help him get to the bathroom, and wipe the drool from his chin. But she loved him just the same. Everyone loved him. They loved him now, and they loved the man he was even more. But I didn’t know. Something within me told me I loved him; I’m sure I did. He was my grandfather for goodness sake. Then he was gone. I got a new dress to wear to the funeral. It was pretty. I still have it. But my excitement over the dress faded as we arrived at the funeral. I didn’t know what I felt when we got there. Then we approached the coffin, and I still didn’t know. My mind was racing. Everyone was crying—everyone but me. Why? I didn’t know. I must have loved him, I know I did. I wanted to cry to show my love, but I couldn’t. My dad lifted me up to see him. He was different—plastic-like. It wasn’t the grandpa I knew. He was different then what I knew. I guess I did know part of him. I was only six when he died, but he is still my grandpa and I knew him. I just couldn’t cry; that’s all.

Tears streamed,
But my cheeks were dry.
Others mourned,
But I felt pretty.
I didn’t know,
But I still loved him.

Happy Pioneer Day!

It sure is great to live in Utah and reap the benefits of such a unique holiday.

It's been awhile since I've posted (which seems to be a habit of mine, posting in spurts I mean). I've really become attracted to the handwritten word and emphatically taken up journal writing once again. Don't worry; I'm not neglecting my revitalized love of journal writing for the impersonal internet publication of one's self-declared important thoughts and feeling. I've already written in my private treasure chest of life. I just thought that I could make the time to post every now and then as well.

I've decided that my personal life is not meant for the internet, and it was rather juvenile of me to believe otherwise. Now don't judge me harshly, as I'm sure anyone reading this is also a blogger of their own personal experiences. This is just a personal decision that I'd like to experiment with until further notice.

My intentions when initially creating this blog were to have an outlet for emotional venting and a motivator to improve my writing skills. I really want to become a good writer, and would greatly appreciate if I could shut my mouth a little more often and wait until I could get things down in writing. But I realized that mostly the negative moments of my life are elaborated upon and posted for all to see, but that is not entirely who I am. Everyone has good moments and bad; but I have no right to pollute the already infested internet world with more garbage.

I just wish that I wasn't so tired all of the time. Life looks a whole lot better when you're looking through wide open and alert eyes. Yet here I am, awake and up late once again.

But life is good. And I'm working to make it better.

This is No Place For a Child

A child has no place in a world of hate. Her fragile body is not meant to cope with the sting of its pain and will wither away. A girl with no name lies crumpled in a dark corner. She is stripped of the warmth of love, and shivers at the remnant of all that now surrounds her. She grasps her knees tightly and sways back and forth. She feels lost and lonely but fights back the tears of utter despair with a blanket of rage. Her efforts have gone to naught. A heavy drop falls from the corner of her eye and caresses her scarlet cheek. Her emotions are too strong to suppress, and a flickering light reveals the glistening of streaming tears. Such a young girl contemplates the value of her own life as she continues to sway back and forth with the rhythm of the ticking clock. Tightening the grip on her legs, her back curves over and reveals the bones of the hungry. Her shadow tells the tale of a haggard old woman, yet her life only measures that of eight years. Her withered body is not graced with words of wisdom and wrinkled skin, but words of hate that scar the child and welts of pain that cause her wrinkles. She is hiding in a dark corner, but mentally continues to run; never feeling safe from the monster that haunts her soul. This is no life for a child; nonetheless, she and many like her are forced to continue living it. She is relentlessly chased, and believes that rest only comes when one lies in the grave. She did not ask for a life like this, no one does. She too was born into the comfort of a gentle mother’s arms; yet learned all too quickly life can change. As she rubs her decrepit fingers down her shivering shoulder, her soul cries out for all that is good. A life of hate can be as cold and hard as ice. This is no life for a child.