Her and Him

 Though it seemed awkward to sit in the car outside of the hotel listening to music, neither one of us left. He put on one of his favorite Zeppelin songs, trying to prove to me the greatest drum solo of all time. "If you want to go inside you can," he said, "you don’t have to sit here and listen to this. You’re looking at me weird.” I argued, “I am not! I want to listen, I really do.” We stayed in the car for almost an hour listening to song after song. Finally we got out, and started playing with a slingshot he bought at a gas station that day. We shot rocks into the street for a while, he looked over at me and smiled, I felt nervous. Finally we walked to the hotel. His shoe had come untied so he lifted his foot and looked at me and without saying anything I bent down and tied it for him. We walked into the elevator, didn’t say anything as the doors closed and elevator went up. The doors opened, and I walked out to go to my room. As the elevator doors closed he said goodnight, then went up to his room.


  We were planning on hiking that Friday before we had to head back, but instead we ended up leaving early because of a snowstorm that hit up north. It took us eight hours to get home. On the road I played Mississippi John Hurt, and he remarked how he had never met anyone else who had heard of him. We stopped and had dinner at an Indian restaurant in the town I used to live in. He kicked me from across the table. I started texting someone and he told me it was rude to text at the dinner table. On the way back to the car, I showed him where my business had been, he smiled.

 The next Monday we went to lunch together. It snowed all weekend, and there were plies of snow on all the bushes outside the building so when we got back he told me to build a miniature snowman with him on top of the hedge. We made snowballs, stacked them on top of each other, stuck sticks in for arms and a nose. 

Everyday there were moments when he’d smile at me, push me, when we would tease each other and stare. We sat next to each other at lunch and at meetings, went to each other’s desks to talk, stuck together at company events. I asked him stupid questions just so I could talk to him, he called me for no reason. People started teasing me about him, assuming there was something going on between us, saying he had a crush on me. And though technically there was nothing going on between us, it felt like there was.

I read Asimov; he read Vonnegut. I listened to Neil Young; he listened to The Talking Heads. I talked about Mormonism; he talked about Catholicism. I gushed over Whitman; he gushed over Blake. We talked about the meaning of truth, talked about our families, met each other’s friends, discussed the news, shared a desire to make a difference in the world, went to concerts together. At the last one he found an empty space, took my hand and made me swing dance with him. "This is what friends do?” I kept asking.

  I told him about the rumors. I told him because I wanted to see what he would do, how he would react. I had no expectations. I thought it was funny. But he got upset, talked about how this could ruin his reputation, how he could get fired for these kinds of rumors. I had to calm him down, assure him that he would not get fired; all would be well because nothing had happened. But he was still upset. The next day we had a company meeting. There was an empty seat next to me. Normally he would have sat down next to me, but this time he didn’t. He went to the other side of the room and didn’t even acknowledge me. We ignored each other. 

It’s been two months since he’s been gone, and despite my attempts at keeping in contact with him, I have no idea what he is doing or how things are going in his life. He doesn’t share with me. He keeps his distance. He has his own friends in his new city in his new life and he doesn’t give me a second thought. He doesn’t need to anymore. I’m not around, no longer an obligation. I regularly hear about him from other people who he actually keeps in contact with. “You haven’t heard from him?” they ask, rubbing salt in my wound. When they talk about him, he sounds like a different person to me, or maybe my perception of him has changed, or maybe I never really knew him to begin with. Sometimes I wonder if he even existed; it feels as though I made everything up and our relationship meant nothing. I was just convenient. I was just fun in the moment.

And so I’m left behind feeling sad, empty, and delusional, trying to figure out how to let go.

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I listened to Remain in Light for the first time, at the perfect time. So many questions I’m afraid to answer of the time, late at night, a couple beers deep, synchronously during a text conversation with a friend on a similar subject. The music moves in and out; layers of melody and harmony interlaced with layers of rhythm that fit the conflict. Dissonance and chaos, coherence and simplicity.

I watch her. She is simple and complicated, frustrating and easy, carefree and moody, patient and short-tempered, clueless and intelligent. I want to be near her, I want to touch her, to talk to her, to look at her. I notice the curve of her body, the color in her eyes, her face in mischief, and in happiness, and in thought. She watches, brushes against me, smiles, shares, discusses, argues. We are electric, but we are silent. The timing is off, and we both know it, though neither one of us will say it. There is a dichotomy between what is palpable and what is desired, which leaves a gap that is evident but not acknowledged.

 There is something beautiful about the silence, something beautiful about leaving the gap unacknowledged. We keep living, interacting, and watching without the complication of making our feelings known by saying. We understand each other by how we act towards one another, how we look at each other. The mystery remains, the excitement intact. Words are futile. Expression through speech often leads to ruin, and we both understand.

And yet satisfaction comes from expression.  At times I wish I could tell her how I think she is beautiful, but I don’t. I am afraid if we acknowledge the gap, the thrill will leave. Maybe we will find out there was nothing there at all, it was the secrecy holding it all together. The dichotomy works, it is what keeps the desire strong. I can feel her growing restless, attempting to vocalize what we have kept silent. I ignore her restlessness and keep my distance, hoping that will satiate her desire to talk. I don't think she understands what I could lose.

 When I go, I will say nothing. I will leave, she will stay, our lives will naturally separate, we will both go on to find others to love, others willing to acknowledge the void that we won’t, and it will work, and we will forget about each other.

River of Perception, Brook of Mindfulness, Stream of Consciousness

Have you ever felt the need to dance and cry at the same time? I did, so I did it. It was interesting to say the least.

57% of Americans voted in the last presidential election. Do you think that if the 43% of Americans who didn’t vote, along with the approximately 50% of the 57% of Americans who voted for the “lesser of two evils” actually voted for a third party candidate they believed in that it would make a difference at the polls?

If all works out, I will be moving into my own place very soon. Excited at the prospect. Can’t wait to decorate and have dinner parties. You are invited.

There is still glitter in my bed from when I went to Jam last Saturday. I keep waking up with it stuck to me. Time to wash the sheets?

Still trying to decide how I feel about whistleblowers.

There are times when I get really sad and I feel gross inside and I sort of forget who I am. You know? But then when I listen to certain bands/musicians I feel right at home again. It’s like I find myself again, and it makes me so happy I could cry. Thank the Lord for James Taylor, The Head and the Heart, Van Morrison, Wilco, The Avett Brothers, Old Crow Medicine Show, Justin Townes Earle, Josh Ritter, and Paul Simon. Down home, the lot of them. Thank Him and praise Him!

There is a lot of gray area. A LOT of it.         

Turns out it is really hard to bike up a steep incline going against the wind in 100 degree weather on 4 hours of sleep. Who knew?

I am going to read everything ever written by Cornel West. He is my new hero who I feel should have been my hero a long time ago. I’m a late bloomer.

Have you ever needed a good cry but you couldn’t get yourself to actually cry? It is the most frustrating feeling I have ever felt.

I want to be anywhere but here. I’ve felt this way since I was born. I wonder if I will always feel this way, no matter where I go. I worry this may be the case. I need to learn to be happy where I’m at. This is also a goal.

And PEACE.

A Hope in Things Unseen

The following is based on true events. Please be sensitive.

As has been pointed out, not since the LDS church came to fruition has there been so many people leaving the church, and they are leaving in droves. Personally, the majority of my LDS friends have either left the church altogether, are inactive but still believe, or are active but struggle with their belief. Many have to daily commit to the church in the midst of great frustration. I hate to admit to following the crowd, but I am one of these.

I grew up in a very strong, orthodox Mormon home, and I hold no bitter feelings towards my upbringing. My parents are awesome. They tell it like it is, always taught us that decisions meant consequences, and they taught us to be accountable for our decisions. They taught us fierce (perhaps to my detriment) independence and responsibility, both of which I am forever grateful. My mother is faithful and unwavering, my father a testament of how one can change. They both rely heavily on the gospel and the church, and I cannot fault them for that. They are amazing, down to earth, salt of the earth people willing to take anyone in, and they have. At one point, they took in a family from our ward for months because they were getting evicted from their apartment and had nowhere to go. Our house was and is a safe haven for everyone; Mormon, non-Mormon, black, white, bond, or free.

That being said, I have always felt a huge amount of pressure to stay active in the church, remain as mainstream as possible, and not falter. My parents are proud of the fact that their children have all remained active members of the LDS faith, which has added to the pressure I have felt. I must admit to doing a lot of church related things not because I wanted to, but because I knew it would make them happy, and I felt that if I didn’t, I would be disappointing them, betraying them, and therefore, unworthy of their love. As it happens, my parents love me almost perfectly. Since admitting to them some of my struggles, they have been willing to talk about things openly and patiently, reminding me just how great they are. My dad even started reading the Quran because I mentioned I had been studying Islam. They are fantastic parents to say the least. That being said, I still feel an incredible amount of pressure to stay active for my family.

On top of this, I have amazing siblings. I love being with them. I never laugh so much as when I am with my brothers and sisters. We have so much fun together, we all have a love for music and film and have such a great time talking, teasing, and joking with each other. All of my brothers and sisters are awesome, unique people, and I love them. They, like my parents, expect that I remain faithful to the LDS church, and I don't want to disappoint them.

My family is the biggest reason why my “faith-crisis” has been such a crisis. I have distanced myself from my family a bit because of it, because I notice anytime I bring up any sort of frustration, my sisters get annoyed and defensive. They think I worry about it and talk about it too much. My mom tells me to be more faithful. I don’t blame them for their reactions; I’ve been in their shoes, felt the same frustrations when close friends have struggled. That said, I have felt sort of alienated, and it has been hard. Luckily I have some good friends I have been able to turn to, and I am so grateful for those friendships.

Now, some may say this crisis is my fault, I have allowed doubts to enter my mind and influence me, I have not been faithful and diligent enough, I think too much, so on and so on.  And maybe they are right. Regardless, the things I am feeling are real, and they are distressing, and it would be nice for them to be acknowledged instead of thrown out the window and considered ridiculous.

Now with that background, I will tell you where all of this began. I have always felt very different from my Mormon counterparts. In fact, and I have told this story before, I considered Catcher in the Rye scripture while attending BYU, as I could relate to Holden as he observed the phonies that surrounded him. (Not to say everyone at BYU is disingenuous. There are a lot of great people at BYU.) I never got asked out by any LDS guys (and still rarely do), which, when temple marriage is what you’re told is the ultimate goal, is very discouraging. (I have since embraced the fact that I am not the type Mormon guys go for, and I have a pretty solid theory as to why. If you’re interested in hearing about it, let me know.) I listened to different music, watched different movies, thought differently politically, hated BYU football, really had no school spirit at all, to be honest. Even still, I carried on and managed to have a good time in college and remain in the mainstream for the most part.

A few years after I graduated, and coincidentally in the aftermath of all the Prop 8 drama, I met Alex. Alex has pointed out that he pursued me. Not to get excited: when I met Alex and we started spending time together, I thought, “either this guy is totally gay or he is just a really sweet, naïve Mormon kid who loves musicals.” When he told me he was gay, I was not surprise. And this was where the crisis truly began. If Alex, who grew up in the church, was active all his life, served a mission, did all he was supposed to do, but was gay, and felt that he had always been gay, why was homosexuality considered such a bad thing? Alex is one of the sweetest guys I know, and has treated me more gentlemanly than most of the guys I have dated. He is a good listener, he is funny, he is honest, he is good, he endures my rants. Since Alex, I have met many more people in the LGBT community who are some of the best people I have ever met. At this point I started questioning the church’s stance on gay marriage and on homosexuality in general. Despite what I had been taught, I came to this very unorthodox conclusion: people can be, and are, born gay. Though this may not be earth shattering to those outside the Mormon faith, for me, this realization rocked my world. I had always been taught that marriage was between a man and a woman, only in that partnership could children be conceived, so it was the only way. Homosexuality was akin to alcoholism or having a bad temper; it could be controlled and cured if the person was strong enough. To conclude that this was in fact not a realistic view and also totally false was a big deal for me with regards to my faith.

The second major experience that fueled my crisis has been my work at the Utah Food Bank. When I interviewed for the job, I had been applying to positions out of state and was looking to move out of Utah, but when I went in for my second interview and was introduced to the people working there, I had a great impression that I was meant to work there, at least for a while. At the Food Bank I have met so many amazing people who are willing to serve and give of themselves. I see goodness and kindness in them, and most significantly for me, a sincerity I think is sometimes lacking in LDS members. I think sometimes LDS people tend to be very passive-aggressive and insincere at times, so being around such genuinely great, and genuinely imperfect people was so refreshing for me. LDS people might benefit from embracing our imperfections. As it is, many of us hide under a guise of perfection and fake happiness that is not genuine. Getting to know these people has been awesome, but also a bit confusing because, as members of the church, we are taught that we have the fullness of the truth, that those who are members are happiest and most righteous. Yet these people, majority of whom are not members of the LDS church, seem much happier than many members I know. So what do I do with that? Maybe people don’t need to be Mormon to be good or to be happy. Why had I always thought it was a necessary ingredient? And why would I feel so inspired to work at the Food Bank if my faith was going to be rocked so much? I started questioning why temple marriage was so important. Why would God separate loving married couples just because they weren’t LDS and not married in the temple? I started questioning the Word of Wisdom. Why was it not okay for someone to drink a few beers, but perfectly fine for someone to eat an exorbitant amount of meat every day? Aren’t we supposed to eat meat sparingly? And why was it okay to drink soda, which is detrimental to our health, but not okay to drink coffee, which, when consumed in moderation, has some health benefits? I also started becoming very frustrated with the church’s focus on families. I understand why it is such a large focus, and realize that if I had gotten married at 21 and started a family, I probably wouldn’t be struggling like I am. But I was not given that life, and I was starting to get tired of the constant discussion on families, my role as a wife and mother, blah blah blah. What about ME? As a single person? Where do I fit? Where do I belong? 

Around this time I also started reading a book on Islam I had purchased a while back. In the intro to the book, the author gives a basic outline of the religion, and I couldn’t believe the similarities Mormonism has with Islam. There are some aspects that are almost identical with Islam, like the idea of Zion, the Law of Consecration, the fact that Mohammed received a vision from God and wrote a new book of scripture, and so forth. In fact, it is said that Joseph Smith referred to himself as the Second Mohammed. So even more questions came up. If Mohammed saw God and wrote scripture and considered himself to be the restorer of truth, what made Mormonism any more or less true than Islam? Maybe Joseph Smith and Mohammed were both inspired prophets? What then, of Buddha? And any other spiritual leader? Does the church really have a monopoly on the truth or a monopoly on inspired leaders, as many of its followers propose?

From there the questions just kept coming. I was referred to Mormon Stories by a few friends, and then discovered Sunstone, both of which have been good and bad. Good in that these sources are run by LDS people trying to make their faith work but who are willing to talk about hard issues. Bad because I discovered even more about the church I had never been taught before. Though the things I learned are factual, they were devastating to learn about, and why had I never been taught these things? For example, there are a few different versions of Joseph Smith’s first vision that are not entirely consistent with each other. Joseph translated part of the Book of Mormon by looking into a hat. He and Brigham Young shared a wife. In fact, the whole history of polygamy in the church, when examined closely, is quite disturbing.  The church went against women’s right in the 1970’s just as strongly as they went against gay marriage in the 2000’s, which doesn't make sense to me since Mormon women took an active role in suffrage, and women used the priesthood when the church was first born. I learned for the first time about the September Six (which I obviously don't know the full details of, so I probably should not jump to conclusions, but it seems these actions go against our ability to choose and the church's council to search things out for ourselves). So on and so forth. Why had these things not been taught to me? Did I even believe in Joseph Smith? Was the Book of Mormon true? If our leaders are so fallible, why are we taught to treat their words as scripture? What does it even mean to feel the spirit? The spirit I have felt in the temple has been the same spirit I have felt while reading a good book, looking at a beautiful painting, listening to a great song. What is the difference? Perhaps there is truth in all things, not just in one religion.

In the midst of my crisis, I had a very meaningful conversation about the Plan of Salvation with a co-worker. He and another co-worker were talking about Jack Mormon Coffee, and it’s motto to find the “celestial bean.” Finding that clever, I laughed and said “what’s funny is you guys don’t really know what that means.” My co-worker proceeded to ask me questions and I was able to tell him about the three degrees of glory, the idea that God was a man before He became God, that we can become creators of our own worlds someday, that we are eternal beings and have always been. While explaining all of these things to him, I felt such great awe at the power of this unique gospel. What a fantastic idea: we can all become creators of our own worlds someday. That is awesome.

This conversation has stayed with me, as has Elder Holland’s talk from last conference where he suggested that we hold on to the truths we do know. These things, along with this great article I read in the Student Review the other day, has led me to reflect on the things I still believe, and they are as follows:

I believe in a Heavenly Father and Heavenly Mother. I have felt their love and power in my life numerous times, and feel it right now as I write this. I feel it when I am hiking, when I see someone smile, when I serve someone else, when I listen to music, when I dance, when I laugh, when I see small miracles occur in my life and other people’s lives. They are there. I’m sure there is a scientific explanation for why my heart burns at these times, but where did science come from if not from God?

I believe in Jesus Christ and I think He is remarkable. I love that the gospel focuses a lot on His life as opposed to focusing on just His suffering on the cross. He was a kind, loving, and forgiving man who hung out with publicans and sinners. He loved His fellow men, no matter who they were. Jesus was the coolest.

I believe in love and in doing good, which is something the gospel emphasizes. From being taught that the second greatest commandment is to serve our fellow being, to King Benjamin’s address on service in the Book of Mormon, the LDS gospel puts such a great focus on love, kindness, and service which are things I can get behind 100%.

I love that the gospel teaches hard work and encourages constant learning. I believe in the idea of constant and eternal progression, the idea that everyone has potential, God will never give up on us, and we can always change. I believe in the idea of agency and the right we have to choose.  I love the concept of the Law ofConsecration, of everyone working together as a community and doing things for the common good and living in equality, all of which the gospel teaches.

These are all things I can get behind, things I can believe in and hold onto. I am not at the end of my crisis, not by any means. My questions and frustrations still remain. I am still working through a lot of things, and there are a lot of things I wish the church would address. For example, we live in an information age where answers to questions are right at our finger tips. People are not reading anti-Mormon literature, they are reading the facts and being troubled by them. People are not going to stop Goggling things, its just not going to stop happening. So this needs to be addressed in some way. That said, I am going to try to hold onto what I do believe in for now. The LDS church has a troubling history, but what religion doesn't, what country doesn't, what person doesn't? In Breakfast of Champions, Kurt Vonnegut makes this poignant observation on America: “1492. As children we were taught to memorize this year with pride and joy as the year people began living full and imaginative lives on the continent of North America. Actually, people had been living full and imaginative lives on the continent of North America for hundreds of years before that. 1492 was simply the year sea pirates began to rob, cheat, and kill them.” What do we do with that as Americans? If you're like me, you want to do something to change the way things are. I view my Mormonism as I do my Americanism; I could either leave altogether and give up on it, or I can stay and create change where I am at. I am choosing to do the latter, both in my country and in my religion, though I realize the journey is going to be rough and twisted. Yes, there are many versions of the First Vision, but does that mean it didn't happen altogether? Not necessarily.  Perhaps the Book of Mormon is a fiction, but it is still inspired, just as many of my favorite books are inspired, and there is truth to be found in it, even if not the absolute truth as I had been taught.

For those of you who have left the church, I don't blame you one bit. Many times in the last year I have considered it myself. But I still believe the things mentioned above, and I can't deny those things, so I stay, and I am trying to make it work. For those of you struggling like me, let's talk! I need all the help I can get! For those of you unwavering in your faith, I admire you, and pray for your patience with me and those like me.

I do not know the church is true, and I don't know if I ever will know for sure. Maybe someday. But as of today all I have is a desire, and I'm working with that desire. My faith is as the tinniest mustard seed, and I am trying to make it grow as best I can. 

Amen and Amen.

Burn

My sister and I were talking about artists the other day, about how all artists have a little crazy in them. I said I would like to write a book someday and asked if I were crazy enough to be a real artist and my sister, without hesitation, said, “yes, Marie. You are crazy.”

I was a little taken aback by this. On the one hand I was pleased at this response, proud of my lunacy, but on the other hand I felt a little self-conscious. I do not really consider myself a crazy. How am I a crazy? What did she mean by that? I began to question her. She said, “Marie, you are always unsettled. You are always stirring the pot, even if it does not need to be stirred. You are never satisfied. You think too much. You are crazy.”

I am always stirring the pot, but in my mind, I am not stirring it unnecessarily. To me, the pot needs to be stirred, constantly.  I love this quote by Jack Kerouac:

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time. The ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles.”

Golly, Jack was a crazy, and I don’t agree with everything he did and wrote, but I couldn’t agree with him more about this. I want to be one of those people! I have always wanted to be one of the people who burn!

I think that is why I am fascinated with the 60’s and the hippie movement. I’ve always loved the music, the clothes, the hair, the beards, the free love, the craziness. To me, those people had ideals they were living for, things they were passionate enough to give their lives for, to throw themselves into completely. I was also really fascinated by the drug use and sometimes feel I could use a good hallucinogen. Even as a young girl they inspired and captivated me, though I realize my view of them is a sensationalized one. 

Walt Whitman wrote:

“To thee old cause!

Thou peerless, passionate, good cause,

Thou stern, remorseless, sweet idea,

Deathless throughout the ages, races, lands,

After a strange sad war, great war for thee,

(I think all war through times was really fought, and ever

   will be really fought, for thee,)

These chants for thee, the eternal march of thee.”

Maybe it is just the crazy in me, but I think we all long to fight for something, to be part of some cause. We fight for the cause! The war is the cause! What will our cause be?

Yesterday I was talking to my friend about identity. As a little girl I was always in my own world, singing and dancing to myself, saying really outlandish things. My mom used to tell me I was so weird and I’d always reply, “Thanks! I take that as a compliment!” In high school, I wore my hair in zulu knots, wore tie-dyed pants, stood on top of tables, made weird voices, shopped at thrift stores (before it was cool), did everything I could to make myself stand out. I did not necessarily want people to give me a lot of attention, but I did want to be different. I didn’t want to be like everyone else.

When I went to BYU, this desire became acute. I remember finishing my first year, and that summer reading Catcher in the Rye for the first time. I felt Holden Caulfield was my kindred spirit. Yeah, he is pretty whinny, but I remember thinking I didn’t want to be like all the other phonies. I wanted to be genuine, unique, totally me. At the time, there was a huge “hipster” (this word as no meaning anymore, but that discussion is for another time) movement going on at BYU; people started wearing skinny jeans and going to local shows, becoming more liberal politically, listening to underground music, watching indie films. There was a group of students who I imagine felt a lot like me; they didn’t want to be a bunch of phonies either, so they started getting into things no one else knew about as a way to stand out. And now I look at everyone and they all wear skinny jeans and everyone is listening to the next big underground band and everyone says they are into indie films. No one is original. I am currently reading a book called Immortality by Milan Kundera, and in it he says this:

“In our world, where there are more and more faces, more and more alike, it is difficult for an individual to reinforce the originality of the self and to become convinced of its inimitable uniqueness. There are two methods for cultivating the uniqueness of the self: the method of addition and the method of subtraction…Here is the strange paradox to which all people cultivating the self by way of the addition method are subject: they use addition in order to create a unique, inimitable self, yet because they automatically become propagandists for the added attributes, they are actually doing everything in their power to make as many others as possible as similar to themselves; as a result, their uniqueness (so painfully gained) quickly begins to disappear.”

I am guilty of this, and I now wonder what makes me stand apart from all the other phonies? Did I ever stand out? Maybe those “original hipsters” were all a bunch of phonies too! They probably were! So doesn’t that make me a phony?

To myself I say: No! Because I still sing and dance to myself! I still say weird things! Last time I was home for Thanksgiving, I went to the grocery store with my mom and was dancing down the aisles and she said, “You’re so weird, Marie. I forgot that you did this. I forgot I can’t take you out in public with me. You haven’t grown out of this?” And I replied, “Nope! Never! Thanks, Mom! I take that as a compliment!” I will be an old woman and still dancing down the grocery store aisles! This innate characteristic, this dancing and singing without qualm, keeps me from being a phony because I do it unconsciously. I don’t think about it. I just do it. It is me. Maybe we all have these quirks about us that we do unknowingly which keep us original. Maybe we aren’t all phonies afterall!

Though I value individualism, I also love when people become one. (What a contradiction!) A couple months ago I was in a coffee shop writing and “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” came on. The coffee shop was filled with people and from every corner of the place I could hear people singing along. I looked up and noticed people dancing. It was like being in a musical, and it was beautiful! How magical that this song connected us all! We all knew it, we all loved it, and everyone was happy in that moment, together! I love this contradiction: we all want to stand out from the others, all want to be unique, no one wants to be a robot, and yet we long for acceptance and familiarity. We are refreshed when we find people like us, and we love these miraculous moments when everyone connects. We are the world! We are the children!

(At this point I feel I must apologize to all of my good friends who endure my rants and philosophical stream-of-consciousness way of thinking. I am no good at small talk, and always end up having intense, long conversations [in person and through text] about religion, identity, society, culture, etc etc. My sister is right: I think too much.)

This identity crisis, this chronic identity crisis, is something I think myself crazy about. Here are some other things I think myself crazy about:

-Are we fully able to appreciate art when under the influence of religion, or does religion enhance our artistic experiences? Or both? If we look at a painted Nude, are we focused on the beauty of the painting and artistry of the human body, or are we focused on the fact that the person is naked, (which obviously equates sex), so we feel like we are committing a sin looking at it and finding pleasure in the beauty of it? If all we can think about is how nakedness is bad (which we learn from Adam and Eve), then can we really appreciate the beauty of the art and the human form (which is God’s art)?

-Do you think that because we have so much music/film/art/literature to consume, and we spend so much time consuming it, we miss out on the opportunity to create? We spend more time consuming than creating, when it should be the other way around?

-Is it better for you to go through life ignorant yet totally “pure,” or is it better to learn about and experience things, perhaps not staying as “pure,” but learning and gaining power from knowledge? Are we afraid of and unwilling to try new things or meet people different from us because they are unfamiliar and we have always been told they are bad? Why are people so uptight? I remember watching a rated R movie for the first time, not knowing what it was going to be like, a little afraid of what I was going to see, but then that film ended up being one of the most beautiful, profound, and uplifting films I had ever seen and I thought: “what else am I missing out on because I have been told it is bad?” I marched in the gay pride parade and I felt a spirit of love I hadn’t felt in a very long time. As the Mormon group making our love for the LGBT community known, people cheered, gave hugs and high fives. They were celebrating love! Khalil Gibran said, “When you love you should not say ‘God is in my heart,’ but rather, ‘I am in the heart of God.’” As I marched, I felt I was in the heart of God and the people who cheered and hugged me were in the heart of God as well. So what of that? Why are people leery of that?

-There are people who leave who I know I will see again, and so it’s not so hard when they move away, but then there are people who leave who I know I will never see again and it is really hard and sad when they move away. There are people I meet who I know, if given the opportunity, I could be the best of friends with, but the opportunity is not there, and it is frustrating. Missed opportunities of love and friendship are the worst missed opportunities, the ones that bring the most regret.

- I have never been baby hungry, but I do realize how I am missing out on the opportunity to love someone so unconditionally I would sacrifice myself totally for them. I want to experience that kind of love and selflessness. I am not so much baby hungry as I am experience hungry. I feel I am missing out on a great capacity to love and lose myself.

-What is truth? How many different forms of truth are there? Who is right? Are we all right? Is all truth?

-What does it mean to have an old soul? I've always longed to be told I have one because in my mind it equates wisdom and maturity. The older I get, however, the more I would rather be considered young at heart, and I feel being young at heart indicates wisdom as well. Think about children. They play and laugh and love. They are trusting and non-judgmental. They say exactly what is on their minds. I think there is something to be said for acting like a kid, and I have the most fun when I am acting like a kid! Here’s what I think: old people and young people have it figured out. When you are a child, you are too young to realize social do’s and don’ts and when you’re old you don’t care anymore. It’s us middle-aged folks that have it all wrong. We look at those age groups almost condescendingly when really we should probably be like them. They’ve got it figured out! They don’t let any expectations or cultural norms keep them from being themselves! So maybe to have an old soul means that one is young at heart?

-There are so many wars I could fight for, so many causes. Which one do I choose? What do I focus on?  How do I save this world? How do I spread my love to everyone?

-Why am I such a narcissist? Why am I always so indecisive? WHY CAN’T I JUST LET MYSELF BE?

-But what about this? And what about that? And what about this? And isn’t that interesting? And look at that person there! Did you hear what they said? Isn’t that so interesting? How do I feel about that? And what about that? But what about this?

This, my friends, is why I have a hard time sleeping at night; this is why when I get in social situations I sit by myself quietly a lot of the time; this is why I am always stirring the pot; this is why I should probably seek counseling; this is why I say really weird things sometimes because I don’t know how to make small talk; this is why I prefer dance parties to any other kind of party because I can unabashedly let my body do the talking without making anyone feel uncomfortable with my intense conversations; this is why I get worried when people do come up and talk to me; this is why I am a crazy:

 I want to know and understand things! I want to feel and experience and love and sacrifice! I don’t want to waste my life! I am mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved! I burn, burn, burn, burn! 

Poetry is alive in the lyrics of songs

I hate the movie Moulin Rouge. Hate it. But here I am, proving my hypocrisy. See if you can name every song used.

I was raised up believing I was somehow unique; a snowflake distinct among snowflakes, unique in each way you can see. But now, after some thinking, I’d say I’d rather be a functioning cog in some great machinery, serving something beyond me. I wish I was a slave to an age old trade, like riding around on railcars and working long days. If I had an orchard I’d work ‘til I’m sore. I am going to blow up my TV, go to the country and build myself a home. Damn that television! We might be better off making up our own shows, which might be better than TV! I wanna touch the earth. I wanna break it in my hands. I wanna grow something wild and unruly. I wanna look at the horizon and not see a building standing tall. I wanna be the only one for miles and miles except for you.

I don’t want to be your friend; I just want to be your lover. No matter how it ends, no matter how it starts. I want to sleep all night in your soul kitchen. I’d like to inject your soul with some sweet rock n roll. I am a steamroller for you, babe. I’d like nothing better than to roll all over you. I want you to tell me “Marie, it was so easy to fall in love with you. It felt almost like a home of sorts or something. Home is whenever I’m with you.”  Because you are the life I needed all along, and I would say I love you but saying it out loud is hard, so I won’t say it at all. I worry that I am an animal trapped in your hot car, I am all the days that you choose to ignore. Take a second look and you'll see there is no one like me.

Untitled (for now)

(This was inspired by a text conversation with a friend. I have interspersed some of the things shared in our conversation throughout the piece. I consider this a practice in creative writing; taking the inspired words of another person and putting them in a piece that doesn't follow the original conversation, but works beautifully. Still not sure about some of the wording, but I'm quite pleased with it so far.)

I listened to Remain in Light by The Talking Heads for the first time, at the perfect time. So many questions I’m afraid to answer of the time, late at night, a couple beers deep, synchronously during a text conversation with a friend on a similar subject. The music moves in and out; layers of melody and harmony interlaced with layers of rhythm that fit the conflict. Dissonance and chaos, coherence and simplicity.

I watch her. She is simple and complicated, frustrating and easy, carefree and moody, patient and short-tempered, clueless and intelligent. I want to be near her, I want to touch her, to talk to her, to look at her. I notice the curve of her body, the color in her eyes, her face in mischief, and in happiness, and in thought. She watches, brushes against me, smiles, shares, discusses, argues. We are electric, but we are silent. The timing is off, and we both know it, though neither one of us will say it. There is a dichotomy between what is palpable and what is desired, which leaves a gap that is evident but not acknowledged.

There is something beautiful about the silence, something beautiful about leaving the gap unacknowledged. We keep living, interacting, and watching without the vulnerability of making our feelings known by saying. We understand each other by how we act towards one another, how we look at each other. The mystery remains, the excitement intact. Words are futile. Expression through speech often leads to ruin, and we both understand.

And yet satisfaction comes from expression.  At times I wish I could tell her how I think she is beautiful, but I don’t. I am afraid if we acknowledge the gap, the thrill will leave. Maybe we will find out there was nothing there at all, that it was the secrecy holding it all together. The dichotomy works, it is what keeps the desire strong. For this reason, we will say nothing. I will leave, she will leave, we will both go on to find others to love, others willing to courageously acknowledge the void that we won’t, and it will work, and we will forget about each other.

Still, she could have been the love of my life. 

The List That Keeps On Listing

(Here is a list. Perhaps inspiration/ topics for potential writing projects? Not sure.)

I dance with myself every night before bed.

I only like raisins when they are covered in chocolate.

I love looking at people’s hands.

I love men with big noses.

Hair in my food does not gross me out.

I talk to myself every morning when I drive to work.

I have a sex dream at least once a week.

I think about sex all the time.

I am no good with little kids.

I love teenagers.

I want a puppy more than I want a baby.

I want a boyfriend more than I want a husband.

I want to save the world.

I want to grow a garden.

I’ve always wanted to go to Afghanistan and Argentina.

I’ve always wanted to live in a really big city.

I’ve always wanted to live on a ranch in the middle of nowhere.

I want to sell my car and buy a bike.

I want a horse.

I am fascinated by people who collect wolf paraphernalia.

I am fascinated by people who love dream catchers.

I love my mother for this reason.

I love cutting my toenails.

I find the blackheads that are extracted by Biore strips fascinating to look at.

I use bobby pins to clean the wax from my ears.

I can’t snap.

I can whistle. Like a boss.

I’ve been someone's boss. I've been some people's boss, actually.

I want to paint a picture using my ponytail as a paintbrush.

I want to cover my body in paint.

I love doing laundry and washing dishes.

I always play with my hair.

Growing up I wanted to be a chef, an author, a teacher, and a singer.

I have done three of the four.

I physically can’t sleep past eight in the morning.

I make cookie dough just to eat the dough.

I hate mushrooms.

I love dreams where I am naked.

If I could get away with being naked all the time, I would be.

I don’t think being naked is sexual. Or it doesn't have to be.

I love being barefoot.
I love driving barefoot.
I love barefoot walks/hikes.

I love being surrounded by flowers.

I write with my right, kick with my left.

I love puns.

I smell books before I read them.

I read the last paragraph of books before I read them.

I love writing lists.

Technology scares me.

I collect lipstick, books, flowers, and typewriters.

I like vegetables more than fruit.

I used to sneak green olives and banana peppers from the fridge as a kid.

I could eat an onion like an apple.

I love raw potatoes because they taste like dirt. 

Radishes too.

Forrest Gump is my favorite movie. Maybe.

I’ve always felt like I should have lived during the sixties.

I've always wanted to be a hippie.

I want to start a commune.

Ringo is my favorite Beatle.

I like The Beatles.

I think The Beatles are overrated.

I love to sweat.

I can’t wink.

I love being winked at.

I love riding the bus.

Strangers come up and talk to me on the bus a lot.

And in the grocery store.

And at coffee shops.

And on the street.

I want to have an endless supply of dollar bills so I can hand them out to every homeless person I meet.

I don’t care if they’re faking it.

People are my passion.

They fascinate me.

I like to watch them.

I’m watching you.

Mormon Girls Are Cool Too.

My crush senior year had long wavy hair, broad shoulders, a large Roman nose, nice smile. He wore the same outfit everyday, a white shirt and blue jeans, until one day he showed up in a western style jean pearl snap he was given at a yard sale, then he wore that everyday. He was funny, he was smart, he was a smartass, he was rebellious. At sixteen he had already started smoking cigarettes. He listened to Stevie ray Vaughn and Led Zeppelin and he played the guitar and drums. He was mysterious, he was a jerk, he was kind, he was lovable, and every girl had a crush on him, but he didn’t realize it. He never gave me a second thought, though I couldn't stop thinking of him.

That year I started spending a lot of time with some people who my mother was leery of, and perhaps rightfully so. They smoked, drank, used bad language, told dirty jokes, watched bad movies. But I was fascinated by them. I was drawn to them. I was the awkward Mormon girl in the corner who they tolerated having around and I was grateful for their tolerance. I ended up being their punching bag a lot of the time, but I endured the abuse because I found them more interesting than my other friends, more interesting than my family. Oftentimes they would question my overly-joyful countenance, telling me I was the happiest person they’d ever met, questioning why I was so happy, asking me questions about my religion, laughing at my answers. Any time they swore when I was in the room they would turn to me and say, “you make me feel so guilty for saying bad words,” to which I would cautiously respond that I never asked them to change their behavior for me, that they shouldn’t feel self-conscious. I wanted to prove to them that Mormon girls were cool too, that we were deep and thoughtful, that we listened to good music, and though perhaps we were sometimes ridiculously happy, we were sad and pensive as well.

I spent a lot of time sitting in my bedroom listening to Abbey Road and writing really bad, angst-ridden teenage poetry that would become the lyrics to my overly dramatic angst-ridden teenage songs.  Though on the outside I was a loud, cheerful, self-proclaimed weirdo, inside I was restless, uncomfortable, always a little ashamed of my religion, always feeling limited, and feeling very misunderstood. I felt so different from my family, so different from the snobby kids I met at church activities, and so different from my school friends. I didn’t fit with anyone.

There have been moments of reflection in which I see how much I have changed. I have matured, I have progressed, I’m not as loud and obnoxious as I used to be, I have made best friends who will always be my best friends, I have done things and been places and experienced things that have changed my perspective. But there are also moments of reflection in which I shamefully realize that I have not changed at all. Twelve years later, and I am still drawn to the long-haired, broad shouldered, intelligent men who will never give me a second thought. I am still an awkward Mormon girl being tolerated by some. I still listen to albums over and over again, but instead of hiding in my room and writing angst-ridden teenage poetry, I sit in a coffee shop and write angst-ridden adult prose. I still unnerve people with my cheerfulness, still make them feel self-conscious for their indiscretions. I am still restless, ever restless, ever confused, ever conflicted. Oftentimes ashamed of my religion, I feel constrained, and I'm still trying to prove that Mormon girls are cool too; we listen to good music and read good books and watch interesting films. We are informed and intelligent and we question things. Not all of us are Republicans. And though we are sometimes ridiculously happy, we are sad and pensive as well.

Heaven help me, nothing has changed.