My lastest literary attempt

It's a Stream of Consciousness narrative in the style of Virginia Woolf and James Joyce. Comments are welcome.

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A mere gallon of milk was all Loran needed, just one gallon, and it should have taken her less than ten minutes—ten minutes? five minutes!—to accomplish; in, out, and on her way. Who could have foreseen the sudden influx of mothers, each with a dozen screaming children and shopping carts which sizes might have rivaled the height of Khufu's tomb? It would seem fitting they should decide to check out the very moment the clerk at the "Express" line decided to take his break.

The frazzled middle-aged woman in Loran's lane smiled apologetically, blew a stray hair from her forehead and attempted to remain calm amidst the havoc. It wasn't this woman's fault Loran was stuck in the middle of a grocery lane, surrounded by whining and grubby hands, with no way to escape, so she couldn't be frustrated with—what did her nametag say?—Leigh. Poor Leigh.

Loran reminded herself that this was the precise reason she was going to college, so she wouldn't have to work a minimum-wage job eight hours a day at a dumpy 'Cross-The-Street-Mart, for an overly stern, overweight manager, with a comb-over, who, from the look of it in the next line over, was probably not deserving of a coffee mug imprinted with the title, "World's Best Boss." She pulled out her wallet, intent on inspecting its contents to simply pass time.

Her drivers license photo wasn't something she could complain about, though nearly five years old, and her signature looked little better than a six-year old's on that short, little line. Loran Elizabeth Bellows. It was pretty, and kind of rolled off the tongue, in spite of the male spelling of her first name. That always threw people for a loop; class roles, telemarketers, doctors, potential dates were always surprised to find a girl when they expected a boy when they read "Loran E. Bellows." Put it that way and it almost seemed almost stuffy, like a little, old British professor of literature, probably with a tweed suit coat, wire-rimmed glasses and bushy eyebrows.

Finding her wallet thoroughly shifted through, Loran turned to the magazine rack, Celebrity Magazine, flipping through the colorful pages donned with faces of beautiful people she could never hope to look like, interested in a particular article about a particular starlet recently starring in a particularly popular film. How does her hair curl like that, she wondered, cocking her head and studying carefully, until she sensed a particularly strong, stern, comb-overed fisheye burning into her forehead for blatantly using the magazine stand as a library.

An exhausting glance at Loran’s watch wasn’t comforting as poor Leigh informed her current costumer her credit card was denying her $200 purchase.

Big mouths

I've decided my friend A-- needs to shut his mouth when it comes to things he supposedly overhears within folk dance. I'm beginning to believe that much of what he says is somewhat fabricated, or at least "improved" truths to make me feel better or something. In the end, all it's done is hurt me because one day he'll tell me something encouraging, the next accidentally slipping with a comment that ruins it.

For example: He informed me that D-- told him I was not only making progress, but was the only student on my team doing part of an Israeli dance correctly, going so far as to pause the tape to indicate thus. However yesterday, at lunch he told our friend C-- (who's also on the team) that she was one of only two girls whom D-- feels "can progress very far" in this program, the other being T-- who is, admittedly, amazing.

But only two?? Are you freaking kidding me?

Why do I put up with folk dance? I mean, really. Someone wake me up when it becomes worthwhile.

Ken Burns Fangirling

This morning BYU was privileged to hear from one Ken Burns at our university forum. Burns is an renown, award-winning documentary film director of such series as The Civil War; Baseball; and Jazz, as well as smaller films on Mark Twain, the Brooklyn Bridge, Thomas Jefferson, and Lewis and Clark.


Here's where I shine my true nerd-tastic colors.

His address was so absolutely phenomenal. I wish there was a Ken Burns School of Writing and Public Speaking (emphasis on the writing part). He mostly discussed his newest venture, The War, which is a 14.5 hour, 7-part series about World War II-- but he tied it in with his other films and with current situations, ways of thinking, and misconceptions about war in general and the unity (or lack thereof) as an American people.

And THEN he showed us the introduction to the new series that doesn't premiere until September. I was so happy. They actually didn't broadcast this particular forum for copyrighting purposes. I'm so absolutely intrigued to watch it when it comes out. He concluded with a trailer of sorts, featuring clips from the film scored by the "theme song," a positively lovely song called American Anthem recorded by Norah Jones. It was so moving and...it makes me all sorts of excited.

CLICK HERE FOR MORE INFO ON THE WAR

Potpourri

I'd like to begin by informing all my female readers of the Best Make-up Ever:

Cover Girl's Outlast All Day Liquid Make-up.
Step 1: 14 SPF sunscreen primer. Not quite sunscreen, not quite lotion, but it makes your skin all soft and pretty to prepare for the actual color. (Why it's not just 15 SPF is kind of a mystery.)
Step 2: All-day color that doesn't smudge, come off when you sweat, or make you look all shiny and nast. I swear by it, particularly for performances when you need to look nice onstage (but I also use it on an almost-daily basis without it feeling yucky and caked).


Spring Festival of Nations is tomorrow night. I'm making pierogies and kielbasa for the international potluck (anyone surprised?? Hey, it's food I want to eat, right?) I'm a little concerned about our dance, Oas, but I think it'll all turn out alright. I just kind of wish I was in the front for the last bit of it. It wouldn't be so bad if we were in the Marriott Center where everyone could look down on us, but it's okay. With stage make-up everyone looks different and pretty unrecognizable in matching costumes anyway.


I spoke with J-- yesterday about dance. I need to just stop thinking about what D-- thinks. I actually had a pretty nice experience during church the other day in which I just kept praying for some kind of guidence. Because you know, as much as I love it, if this isn't what I should be aiming to progress in, I can just throw in the towel, so to speak, as long as I know it's the right thing to do. But the fact remains, I've always felt like this is where I'm supposed to be and what I'm supposed to be doing.

Well the Lord does bless us. At some point I read in D&C 68:6:
Wherefore, be of good cheer, and do not fear, for I the Lord am with you, and will stand by you...

So of course I felt immediately better, especially when followed by Isaiah 41:10-11, 13:
Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.
Behold, all they that were incensed against thee shall be ashamed and confounded: they shall be as nothing...
For I the Lord thy God will hold thy right hand, saying unto thee, Fear not; I will help thee.

What more confirmation do I need than that? Everything is going to work out the way it needs to, and if these scriptures are actual indications, they'll work out in my favor. I won't be afraid, and I'll stop being dismayed all the time, and I'll be physically strengthened, and maybe in the process I'll confound a few people (namely, D--).

Life is good.

Fact: This rules.

Pirates 3?

You bet I'm excited.

WATCH ME.

Dream Reflections

Last night I found myself dreaming about B—H—. A few years ago this might not have been so odd considering I dated the guy for about a week-and-a-half, and if nothing else, we were practically inseparable in our group of friends. It’s not like I never think about him, or that I haven’t recently—I mean, he’s still my good friend, all continental separation and ex-boyfriend status aside.

I guess what was really odd was the setting of the dream: my grandmother’s house in Buffalo, New York. Even odder was that, in the dream, the house didn’t belong to my grandmother, but to Vickie A--, my clogging teacher, and wife of Ed A--, artistic director of the folk dance ensemble.

So there I am, with B—, and my G’s house, being hosted by Vickie A--. Not unusually, Vickie wasn’t saying much, and when she did, we could hardly hear it. We spent a lot of time pretending like we knew what she was saying, and trying not to laugh at the shared knowledge we were both totally in the dark.

It got me thinking, as dreams are apt to do. I’m not a big supporter of Freudian theories, but I’m not about to deny that dreams mean something, else why would we have them in the first place?


Ooh—cute boy just sat down on the floor next to me. I’m not saying he’s making any subtle advances or anything, but I wouldn’t mind if he did…What? A girl can amuse herself with silly daydreams, right?


Anyway, in my sleep I was getting all twitter-patted by this boy with whom I broke ties in real life because he had a tendency to say glare-inducing things, was naturally prone to jealousy, and pissed me off with his temper (generally kindled by jealousy). And he always wore that stupid hat. But let’s be real—even if we only dated a week-and-a-half, I liked him a lot longer than that, and I questioned my decision to end our brief affair. Something must have been attractive about him in the first place, right? Well whatever it was, his two-year excursion to Russia gave me time to forget the obnoxious things about him.

In my dream, I mean.

Of course, people are bound to wake up with lingering feelings from their dreams, even if it wears off quickly. A nightmare causes a person to wake up breathing heavily and/or shaking, an abstract dream makes you go, “Whaa—?” So it makes sense to wake up feeling similarly smitten, if that’s how you were feeling in your dream. I’m thinking to myself as I was getting ready, “What if?”

I don’t know what the end of that question is. There are many ways you could finish what if. What if…he comes home and pattering hearts do ensue? What if…he comes home and we’re not even friends anymore? What if…he comes and…we make out? I don't even know. I mean really, the possibilities are endless to finish wretched what if.

For the record, we never did make out. Just wanted to get that out there.

Oh so mad!!

I think it's terribly unfortunate not only that Reefer Madness is more unpopular than it should be, but the sheet music isn't available unless you want to spend $40.

Maybe I want to spend $40...

Let's be real, this movie-musical isn't really about pot. When you look beyond the constant drug use and the throwing away of innocent lives, it's actually just a love story-- is what it is. A love story gone COMPLETELY sour by no fault of the couple involved. Okay so maybe it has everything to do with drug use, but hey-- that's the point: if you smoke weed, your girlfriend will die and you'll face the electric chair. Stay in school, kids.

Good times ensue!

Nobody knows

It kind of sucks when you get left out of stuff. Like, when friends invite other mutual friends to play but not you. I don't know why I always tend to be That Girl. I seem expendable to a lot of people, and I'm not really sure why.

I mean, I like me. If I was someone else I'd want to hang out with me, especially when I'm wearing a cute shirt like I am today.

Hopefully moving back toward campus will remedy the sitch a little bit. And doing another show wouldn't hurt either. Too bad auditions for summer shows that I want to do aren't for another few weeks/months.

Oh, topping it off is the fact that my dad is meeting (for academic purposes) with that boy I fancied myself in love with for the better part of five years. Of course now I know better, and there's no attachment, but... pretend you can see me making the ASL sign for "awkward."

Matthew Arnold

What is there to say about Victorian poetry beyond the fact that it is, for the most part, so freaking sad? I mean, really-- blah blah blah, Brits rule (literally), industrialism sucks. We get it. You people were all so self-deprecating and faithless!

That said, there's a bit of The Buried Life by Matthew Arnold that struck me today.


Only--but this is rare--
When a beloved hand is laid in ours,
When, jaded with the rush and glare
Of the interminable hours,
Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear,
When our world-deafened ear
Is by the tones of a loved voice caressed--
A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,
And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.
The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,
And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.
A man becomes aware of his life's flow,
And hears its winding murmur; and he sees
The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze.

And there arrives a lull in the hot race
Wherein he doth forever chase
That flying and elusive shadow, rest.
An air of coolness plays upon his face,
And an unwonted calm pervades his breast.
And then he thinks he knows
The hills where his life rose,
And the sea where it goes.