On Turning Twenty-Eight

I celebrated my first anniversary on the seventh. It feels strange to not be a newlywed anymore. Marriage is still relatively new to us of course, but now it no longer feels weird to be married. The first few months of marriage were pretty surreal. Whenever I said, "You are my wife. I am your husband," I couldn't be super confident that it was true. The fact that I am someone's husband still gets me every once in a while, but for the most part I'm used to that fact. What gets me now is how I continue to fall in love. It's shocking, really. Which seems weird to say because I knew I would love her more today, than I did on 1/07/10, but there are these moments where I look at her, or tell my keyboard about her, and I say to myself I just fell more in love and I am amazed all over again.

I will say that my favorite thing about the last year has been our opportunity to comfortably and confidently fall in love.

Another shocking thing is that my life actually seems easier. I expected life to be better, but not easier necessarily. There was going to be more bills, more decisions, more complications, etc., but I didn't realize how complicated my single life was. I mean, there isn't a lot in life that is as complicated as dating; stupid people and geniuses alike struggle with it. I have a great family and group of friends, but being able to talk to someone about your life isn't the same thing as having someone who is going through it with you. Chelsea knows my problems, fears, weaknesses, and so on, but not because I have told her about them (as that is the case most of the time), but because she experiences them with me. That is a huge difference, and having someone like that in your life makes it easier. Not to mention having a person there to take care of you when you are sick, and who doesn't care if you might be embellishing your illness a tad for a little extra attention, because for some damn reason they just like taking care of you. That's much easier than when I got pnuemonia a while ago and stayed in my room all alone for five days.

I now don't have to look for comfort or relief. For the most part both are right next to me; even more so with our tiny apartment.

I don't mean to say that life is a cakewalk now. Life was a kick in the drawers before and continues to be; it just doesn't hurt as much these days.

While we are talking about shocking things: I was worried that my writing would suffer after getting married. You know, the plight of the happy artist. So much of what I am interested in is what it is like to be human, and I suppose my main interest is in love. It seems like it can create more happiness than anything else in life, but also can be more destructive than hate or fear. Not revelation, I know, but that's the basis for my interest in it as a subject.

When I write I like to think about it as acting. I have spent a good portion of life watching my brother on stage. There have been times when I was little where I was scared or nervous about the person on stage because he was doing or saying something horrible and I believed that he meant it. It didn't seem like he was faking it.

I still have these moments. He's currently in Born Yesterday at Hale Center Theater, and he plays an intimidating A-hole. There is a moment where he walks on stage very angry with his girlfriend. He doesn't say anything. He stands there looking at her. It made me, and I'm sure everyone else in the theater, nervous.

The difference between those moments now and when I was little is that now I know that when I feel discomfort or unease it is a sign as to how succesful he is at acting his part. And although he doesn't say anything in the above mentioned moment, I think it may be his most succesful moment in the play. I don't think I have ever expressed what his acting has taught me about writing and art in general, because I am not a very good talker and I didn't want him to think that I believed it because I actually thought him capable of the things some of his characters do or say. He has taught me that the point to good art is not to provide an escape for the audience/reader/viewer, but it is a study of the real, and what we felt in that moment and so many others while watching him on stage is real. Even though he may be faking it, the result is not. Pretty cool.

There are people who think what I studied for a bachelors degree is awesome, and those who think that studying literature is an irresponsible use of the college years. What the people who don't get it are missing is that I was not studying fanciful fake worlds. I was studying this one.

And I am pleased with my education.

What I am trying to get at with all of this is that if I am writing a character who does or believes things I don't, the idea is not to dismiss them as evil or vulgar or wrong, but to understand them and learn from them because that is what I will want the reader to do. The world is a lot of things, and I don't believe that any of it should simply be escaped from (at least not permanently), but dealt with openly. I want to study what it is like to be that way, and then act that way while I'm writing so that when I type it I mean it. Whether it works or not, I don't know, but that is my desire.

The point is that being in a loving relationship and happy made me worry that I would lose touch with the other aspects of love and life, and be doomed to write gooey stories where dudes just gush about the person they love because that was all I knew. I thought I might lose the ability to act some parts. But it turns out that imagining life without Chelsea brings up all those feelings I was scared I would lose touch with so easily that I needn't have worried.

Writing a character that is lonely while I am in love is so much easier than writing a character that is in love while I am lonely.

I still don't like birthdays much. Hence the focus on my anniversary, probably. Chelsea decided to call it "Jeremy Day" instead to take the emphasis off of getting older and put it on the fact that I can do whatever I want today. It helps. I am not sure if there is a secret to life, but it is possible that it is finding something that makes you want to look forward. While I'd prefer to be celebrating many prior birthdays instead of my twenty-eighth, all I really want in this world is Chelsea. She wasn't there when I turned eighteen or twenty-one, so I tend to look toward the future more often these days. As long as she is with me, I don't care how hold I am.

In Case You Were Interested 2

I have had a lot to say lately, I just haven't had the time to say it. Going back and writing all the stuff that I previously had to say is very daunting, so you will just have to settle for new stuff.

I have been hyper-observant all day. That may not be the correct term because it is not like I have been noticing tons of things that I wouldn't notice when I wasn't being hyper-whatever-the correct-term-would-be-if-observant-isn't-the-correct-word; it's more like the things noticed have meaning, or more meaning depending on what they were.

It didn't start when I saw the girl microwaving bacon this morning. It didn't start there, but I think that is what primed me for it. I went into the break room to fill my mug up with hot water and saw one of my co-workers microwaving bacon on what I think was a single layer of paper towel. The grease was exploding and causing an obnoxious ruckus. She opened the microwave and muttered something. This something, I believe, was supposed to communicate to me that she was confused as to why everything was so loud (her thinking I didn't know what she was cooking), but really conveyed to me that she was embarrassed that I had walked in on her boisterous disgusting act and was feigning confusion as an excuse to stop the microwave and wait until I had left to continue permanently ruining the microwave (I had pizza rolls today cooked in that microwave—no bueno). She didn't have a plate; she took the greasy crap to her desk to eat in paper towels (where she found the paper towels I have no idea; they somehow elude me), and I can only imagine what her desk looked like when she picked them up to throw away. You know when Willow hit the troll with the wand and it starts to turn into the two headed dragon? Of course you do, but in case you need to be reminded here it is. Her mass of nuked pig looked kind of like that. I told whomever was online what I had witnessed, and my mind was prepped for noticing other things throughout the day.

Before we move on can we take a look at this clip from Willow? It is so freaking awesome.

How awesome is:
The music, especially during "Can you ride? Let's ride!" part?
The catapult part?
Madmartigan and his troll kick?

I love:
Madmartigan's face when he turns around and sees the dragon for the first time.
How everything the skull faced guy says throughout the entire move is shouted. "Destroy the Beast! Find the Baby!"
When Madmartigan realizes he is standing with the bad guys

Why:
Does the dragon's head explode?
Do trolls sound like steam whistles?
Is there a talking goat? What!? You need to watch Willow! Now! You think I'm joking?!

Great Lines:

"Go in the direction the bird is flying!"
"He's going back to village!"
"Ignore the bird. Follow the river."

Madmartigan: "I love you, Sorsha?" I don't love her. She kicked me in the face.

Favorite line when I was little:

"We stole the baby from you, Daikini, while you were taking a pee-pee!"

Moving on: It started when I realized I didn't have a pen for class. Me. Not having a pen. I have no excuses. I don't know what happened. I am a wonder when it comes to writing instruments. It is not uncommon for me to lose a pen a day for seven days in a row, and have been known to lose upwards of three in an 8 hour period. Where they go and what they have going with the paper towels is a bloody mystery. I usually just buy a couple large packs of Bics and pour them into my backpack. Unfortunately, my backpack, along with my spare pens, had been stolen (part of the old stuff) and so I had no pen stash to fall back on.

I eyed the floor as I walked to class hoping to capitalize on someone's loss. Unfortunately again for me, nobody had lost and I walked into class naked. . .no, the reason I did not have a pen was not because I wasn't wearing pants. I had pants on, I mean I felt naked because I always have a pen in the left pocket of my current waistwear. So, I walked into class feeling as though I was naked still searching the aisles of the stadium seating. I took my usual seat, third row, left aisle, and looked at the floor around me—no pen, but I did find a torn piece of blue paper, a AA battery and a Junior Mint. That is when I started thinking of story ideas about finding things you aren't looking for and thought of a line and went to write it down in my notebook I keep in my left rear pocket and reached for a pen. . .Seriously? Did I just look in my pocket for a pen. Yes, I did. I sat back hoping I would remember the line (which I have forgot) reached in my bag and pulled out Carver and began to read the story "What do you do in San Franciso?" After I read the line "That was Saturday, as I said, the day before Memorial Day," I realized I must pee.

I stood up and left while taking advantage of my trip to the men's room scouring the floor for pens. With the rush of writing ideas, and with the few pages I read of Carver, my mind was attaching stories to almost everything I saw. A seated woman dropped a paper right in front me and I picked it up and handed it to her in stride and wondered what I would have done if she had dropped a pen, and then thought about saying, "Hey, since I did you this favor you should lend me a pen."

I walked into the bathroom and saw a kid spiking his very long black hair straight up, and as I settled into my chosen urinal I noticed the kid next to me was texting with his left hand. Couldn't wait 20 seconds, huh? Have to text mid-stream? What if he dropped it in the urinal? That would be awesome, that's what.

As I walked back I coveted a pen that someone had laid down while he was reading. Could I get it? I walked by two offices hoping to notice someone away from their desk. No luck. In the second office, Student Government, I saw a pen cup FULL of sprouting eager pens. Look at them in there with their orgy of pens and happy-go-lucky attitudes. I thought I could just go in there and start writing in my book vigorously and then pretend to put the pen back and walk out with it; a plan that was sure to work except I kept walking while thinking about it and ended up back in third row, left aisle penless.

I lucked out, though. The only thing during class that came close to really needing to be written down was a thought that I should title a previously written story "Aubade x4," but then decided that it was astonishingly awful and decided against it. Of course, what needed to be forgotten is now recollected.

Hiatus - Getting Lost

Hi. I am going to be taking an extended break from this blog. I will be back in a while. I didn't want to post just that, so I thought maybe I would leave you with a quick b-side. See ya later, and don't forget to get your Rancid/H2o tickets.


"Hey Russ, I watched Crossroads last night."

"Did you like it?"

"Yeah, it was pretty cool."

"The question is would you sell your soul to play like that?"

"Nah, punk rock. Not super necessary," I laughed.

"True. What about you, Daniel? Would you sell your soul to be the greatest musician ever?"

"That would depend," Daniel said.

"On what?"

"On if God existed. If so, I would be afraid to sell God's property; if not, I would have to think about it."

"But there would be a devil," Russ said, "so wouldn't that mean there would be a god?"

"I don't know."

"Maybe we should listen to more Heavy Metal," I said.

No Wonder

So I finished the first draft of the story I have been working on. I still have some issues with it, but I have been looking at it and read it so many times I am not sure what to do with it anymore. I don't plan on picking it back up for a long time, but if anyone wants to read it let me know, and I can send it to you.

I have never been a fan of reading stuff on the computer, you just don't really get the same feel it seems. I don't expect you to print it out if you want to read it, but if you work in an office, go ahead and use The Man's paper.

Bobby and the sub-concious

Still bored.

I am in the middle of revising a story from my fiction class. It is about two punks from SLC. Eventually Johnny moves on and Bobby moves away, but in reality gets left behind. They keep in touch by writing songs/poems/thoughts and mailing them to eachother.

I thought that while I was writing the rough draft I had more in common with Johnny, than I thought I had more in common with Bobby. I just realized that they are both me. The Johnny side of me thinks we should move on, or just find out what moving on is actually. The Bobby part of me never wants to change. In the story it ruined his life, so what does that tell me about myself and what I think?

The thing is I didn't come up with any of this until about two months after the first draft was done. It is really crazy how your sub-concious comes rolling out of you onto the paper when you are trying to write a story. I learn so much about myself through my own writing. Sometimes I don't like it because it makes me become so honest with myself, and other times it gives me possible solutions to my life.

A lot of characters have bits of the author in them, and some don't really have any. They will do things that the person who made them up will never do. Rob, lie, cheat, swear, kill, or on the other side of the spectrum: get married, move to the suburbs, go to church, be nice. The characters that take on a life of their own and do what they want are the best ones, I think. They force you to write it their way even though you might not want to. You can try to do it your way but it will never work. So this story now leaves me in an interesting position: These characters are me, not just bits. Some parts of them I didn't know were me until they showed me. What is the point? I am kind of scared to continue. I have to face stuff and stuff and some of the stuff I don't like. I am kind of nervous what I will come up with. The plus side is that it all should make for a very real and pretty good story in the end.

Here is the last letter that Bobby sent to Johnny. It is the very first thing that appears in the story (as of now, anyway). This idea actually inspired a post a bit ago. I am not sure if it came from me or Bobby.

When the snow comes I will be fine.
I won't need anymore and I can forget
about the other things that will make me happy.
I won't need them.
I will walk the park and write a song on the sidewalk
And watch the flakes fill it in.

Writing is Funny and Love is Stupid

I have had a few experiences over this summer that I would like to say has taught me a lot about stupid love. I can’t say that, however. I can say that I have had a few experiences that told me a lot of stuff I already knew about love. I’m not quite sure what I want to say about it here; I just thought talking about it could be cathartic and good for me, and writing usually brings out the things I think, but don’t know that I think—if that makes sense. I think it just warms up your brain and you can separate your thoughts and pick them out better and teach yourself about yourself, which is an addictive and always fun experience.

As they say, “It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.” I would guess that means that the memories of what was lost outweigh the loss itself. Maybe. But unless the other party left some of their things over at your house, or lent you money, what was gained from this now not shared love besides memories? And should memories really be chalked up in the things gained column? They seem to be the most painful part of a love lost. The memories are what make up most of the losses. They get attached to music, places, jokes, movies, games, and ideas that can no longer be fully enjoyed because they have been stained with the memories of loss. Being in love is great. Not being in love really isn’t that bad unless you were recently in love and are able to compare the two. In that case, not being in love can be suicidal, and memories do nothing but point out the incredible differences between the two.

So, what now? I am not quite sure what I have really gained from these experiences, and even though the math doesn’t add up I am sure it is better to have loved; if not, the saying would be, “It is worse to have loved and not gained than to ever have loved at all,” and that is just depressing.

?

When meeting new people I usually get asked what I am studying. When I answer creative writing, eight and half times out of ten the sub-question, "What are you going to do with that?" then follows. Ten times out of ten I want to answer become a doctor or start a restaurant or coach women’s volleyball or tell them they have three guesses. I suppose it is not that stupid of a question. I guess you could write about sports for the newspaper or essays for some magazine. There are novels and poetry. What pisses me off about this question is that I don't know the answer.

There are three ways one can go about deciding what he or she wants to study. The first would be to decide what you want to do for a career and then study the courses to help you do that. Second, just start taking different kinds of classes until you find something you like. The third, and the path I chose, would be to find what would make school the least miserable and go with that. When I found that there was actually a creative writing major I knew that it was what I wanted to study, and I knew where I wanted to study; of course that school didn't have a CW major so I went to a different school. I realized after that I definitely wanted to be a writer.

Now, I am not naive (at least I like to think that I am not entirely) and I realize that the chances of me being able to be a full-time writer are slim, and that I will more than likely always have a job that doesn't have to do with writing at all. "But this is America," you say, "you can be anything you want to be." Or so they say, but remember, only one person out of millions get to be the American Idol. So if your dream is to become the American Idol, at best you have a .0000005% chance of accomplishing your goal. There are more writers than American Idols, but I am sure you get my point. I am confident, however; I am just trying to find the line between reality and stupidity.

I learned quickly not to answer this question with an I don't know, because then the asker (usually a stranger) either gives me a weird look that says, "How can you not know?" or tries to help me figure it out by giving suggestions. Thanks for being nice and all, but shut up. I have also figured out that saying I would like to write stories is not acceptable either.

"What kind of stories? Non-fiction or fiction?"

"Probably both."

"What would you write about when writing non-fiction?"

"About when I was in the peace-core and lived in Yemen for a year," or "My triumph over brain cancer."

"Really?"

"No."

Only a certain kind of person has their life all figured out and laid down nicely waiting for them to get on with it at twenty-three. Shame on you for making me think that I should be one of them.

Schoolio

Who knew keeping a blog up to date would be so hard. I forget I have one sometimes.

I have recently moved away for school. For the most part it is pretty much what I expected; except for a few things. I am really really busy. More than I thought I would be. I also didn't know how much I would enjoy studying what I am. Especially my creative writing class.

I think I really enjoy it for a few reasons. We write. I like that. The teacher is really good and seems intent on teaching us things as opposed to telling us how much he knows. And on the other end; the class isn't full of people who want so badly to be recognized as academia-ites that they won't shutup and won't stop trying to disagree with what anyone has to say. Probably because we have to write and read it in class and most everyone feels a little uncomfortable with that for now. So that is really refreshing.

It also makes me wonder if people doing other things feel the same way I do. I can see just about anyone in the arts feeling this way. Or like someone who is studying to be an architecht. I could see them really enjoying class. But, for example, does a math major really get excited to go to class and learn some new theorum? Maybe. You can do cool things with math. Does a business major just love studying what the benefits of outsourcing are? I don't know. I suppose they might.

I am just happy I found something I feel that way about.

All English Majors Are Gay

I recently had someone ask me if I was gay. When I asked for reasons as to why they thought this, my major came up as one of the reasons.

I, of course, immediatly thought of the quote from Orange County. "What do you have to write about? You're not oppressed. You're not gay."

So, in short, although I am not oppressed, depressed, gay, or an addict- I would still like to be a writer.

P.S. Remember the Schmidts Gay Saturday Night Live skit? That was funny.