400 Billion Suns

"A still more glorious dawn awaits,
not a sunrise, but a galaxy rise
A morning filled with 400 billion suns
The rising of the Milky Way."
-Carl Sagan, Cosmos

Absolutely Beautiful

Posting again within a span of twelve hours - it's despicable. Oh well. This is a rather scattered post, going in so many directions at once without fully articulating what I'm feeling. But the feeling is there, whether or not any possible readers understand it, and perhaps a great all-seeing eyeball is around, too.


I find that these song lyrics from "Ajab Si" by Vishal are absolutely beautiful, included in the hilarious and delightful - hilightful - Bollywood film, "Om Shanti Om":

Ankhon mein teri ajab si ajab si adaayen hain
There’s something special in your eyes

Dil ko banade jo patang saansein yeh teri woh hawaein hain
Your breath is the wind that makes my heart soar like a kite

Tere saath saath aisa koi noor aaya hai
The light emanating from you

Chand teri roshni ka halka sa ek saaya hai
Makes even the moonlight but a pale shadow compared to you

Teri nazron ne dil ka kiya jo hashar, asar yeh hua
Your eyes created such a tumult in my heart that…

Ab inme hi doob ke ho jaoon paar, yahi hai dua
All I wish for now is to drown in them


That's what I want: for my life to be beautiful. I can only give a few words and images that can only signify the changes that one thing can inspire in my life. I cannot describe what it was like to hear Telemann's "Don Quixote - Les soupirs amoureux apres la princesse Dulcinee" or Vivaldi's first "Concerto for Two Cellos in G Minor: Allegro" for the first time, or to see Mino's "Yoro Waterfall." I have started to collect quotes that stand out to me, and I write them on a sheet of paper posted on my dorm room wall. They, too, add to the patchwork beauty of my life.

"Within Joshu's cup of tea, the mermaids are dancing." - D.T. Suzuki

"Really, all we're doing here is telling legitimate lies." -Professor Liu

Photo credit: Clive Barker
I want a geshrat to be my friend.

I've been spending too much time perusing icanhascheezburger.com, but I've stopped caring. The kittens can has my soul. It's probably a subconscious, masochistic, therapeutic response to the loss of my own dear kitteh Meike over the last semester. She may be gone from our home for the duration, but never from our hearts. And if God has a back porch, I hope she's taking a nap on it right now with Jessi's kitty, without any magpies to bother her, passing her time amiably until I can hold her in my arms again.


"Dance with me into the ocean
Roll with me into the sea
Don’t tell me the world is in trouble
Do you want to dance with me?"
-"Dance With Me" Old 97s

"Love is a dress that you made
long to hide your knees
love to say this to your face,
"I'll love you only"
for your days and excitement,
what will you keep for to wear?
someday drawing you different,
may I be weaved in your hair?"
"Love and Some Verses" - Iron and Wine

"Someday we'll find it - the rainbow connection" - Kermit the Frog

On Discovering an Intriguing Blog

I did not know until about five minutes ago that my cousin has a blog, I'd Rather be at Hogwarts. Because I am unaware of how one highlights a series of words and makes it a link to another site, I'll post the link here:

http://jeffersoncampbell.tumblr.com/

My one criticism is that there is no easy way to comment on anything. With the discovery of this blog and recently finishing "Julie and Julia," I decided to write a blog post. It will be for my own vindication, as methinks no one will stumble across this and be interested apart from a few friends and family members, but isn't that the purpose of a blog?

In response to "I'd Rather be at Hogwarts'" post on the 23rd of December:


And in response to a post on the 22nd of December: I was the person that tipped Jefferson off about the Hello Kitty gumball dispenser, thanks much.

And his videos do not work for my computer. That is all. On that, anyway.

I've recently been trying to rework a manuscript of mine, and it's somewhere in the vicinity of 25,000 words. I have new respect for the individuals who participate in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) over the month of November, writing 50,000 words. With a semblance of a plot. Kudos, guys, ku-dos. It's exhausting.

Word of the day - advesperate.

On recently finishing "The Hunger Games:" I was amused. Got it as a Christmas gift, devoured it in about a day, caved and bought the sequel "Catching Fire" today. Simultaneously, I'm trying to read "Dracula," as well. The epistolary form of writing annoys me; I think I prefer contemporary writing styles, but I'm not sure. There are so many time periods to choose from...

Sosensical

I am grateful for internal body temperatures.

In other news: I am disappointed that my web-browser has "Schenectady" as a spell-check option and "synecdoche," which I would be more likely to use in a sentence - not saying that Schenectady is an unimportant place, or that it's not fun to say.

In yet other news: There is no time, Toulouse. Or as a more interesting yet nonsensical variant, there is no tome to loose.

Silence is Golden

Well. It's been a few months. More than six, which in the life of a college student means that millennia have passed. A few things happened, which I shall conveniently lay out in a bullet-point list because I'm too lazy to write full sentences and you're too lazy to read them.

- Europe!
- genetics research
- class
- New Student orientation!
- wistful thoughts
- Rumbleroar
- Jhogurt and Sarah
- Eco clamshell
- job searching
- Hearst Castle which became Huntington Gardens
- licking lampposts in winter
- college, college, college

The minimalist approach adds some pizazz while making my summer and fall semester seem mysterious, if not exciting. Other happenstances have occurred, as well, but telling them would mean indelicate exposure of a metaphysical variety.

It is the eve of Thanksgiving Eve, and tomorrow will hopefully see me safely home, back in neighborhoods of boundless familiarity, back into the coddling, codifying arms of family piled upon extensive and excessive family relations. I purposely wax poetic; we're meandering through Milton in British Literature.

Note to self: seven months connotes a shift in writing style to be termed: "college apathetic."

Poetry

I've added some more of my poetry to the list. Some poems, such as "Genesis," are rather scandalous. Again, I kind of hope that no one reads this, but I keep on posting in the hope that it will be read. Such contradictory emotions.

The Dragonfly

The Dragonfly

Death has caressed the dragonfly;
I have him caught in my embrace.
His wings flutter, silent, in the wind,
paravent and lacerate.

No more shall he taunt me,
No more shall I give chase.
His death’s cause is vitric-clear.
I killed my dragonfly

Never knowing he was mine
until the moment him I held
in my deathful embrace.
My heart flutters silently,
paravent and lacerate

Genesis

The stanzas of this poem were originally half as long, as each line was really twice the length it is now and all the rhymes were internal. That is no more. For publishing ease, I lengthened the poem. Use your imaginations to recreate what it was like. I wrote the last two stanzas pretty quickly last night, so that's why they may not seem to fit with the rest of the poem. It might be lengthened more into an epic-length poem. More of a mock epic, because this is not great poetry.

"The Half-Demon’s Genesis”
- or -
“What Happens When You’re a Jerk to Your Bride: In Rhyming Verse not Drawing from Experience”


In the deepening darkness of the night,
in a mountain’s shadow that held no light,
A young man hurried in his haste,
trying to act before it turned too late.
To aid a friend not yet in need,
he betrayed an ancient creed.
The young man, strong in word and deed,
left alone his new bride against her heed.
All in their cottage she was alone,
list’ning to the forest ‘round her moan,
And all alone she had to wait.
It was her husband’s fool-mistake.

In the deepening darkness of the night,
from the mountain that held no light,
A careening scream flew about her head,
and kept the bride from her nuptial bed.
From the dark forest a demon came,
kept away by no demon’s bane.
His breath rattled window panes,
his step shook the house’s frame.
He caught the scent of the lone bride,
and within two strides was at her side,
He was brimming with insatiable heat;
of forbidden fruits he would eat.

Swiftly upon her he did descend,
his demon-arms around her bend.
His hulking form around her curled,
finally his demon-lust unfurled,
In the night with her demon-lover,
such lust in herself did the bride uncover.
The heat, the guilty, overwhelming pleasure,
the pain that never could have measure
Would tear her heart and body sore,
and would leave her ever wanting more.
Once filled with dark demon’s seed,
only upon demon-love would she feed.

The deep darkness paled in light of day,
whisking the demon-lover away.
Her husband came home to a ravished bride;
‘twere better had she died.
Though every night she had her mate,
her hunger never could he sate.
After nine month’s heat had passed,
a child did befoul the world at last.
This was no normal child like any other,
but a demon who almost killed its mother.
And from its very birth-hour,
it ate all it could devour.

No other child could its mother hate,
no child reject such sweet lactate,
As black as one heart from Marrakesh,
this child did feast upon its parent’s flesh
The mother fain would return to ash and dust
if she could but nurse her demon-child’s lusts.
And thus, like a flittering fey,
the mother’s last traces of humanity did fade away
And soon she was nothing left but a husk,
a ravished carcass to fade away in dusk.

The demon-child did grow,
half-demon, half mortal, always screaming out a row.
Its mother dead,
the cuckolded husband did force it out of his empty stead
To let it wander on the wastes.
If any new-husband leaves in haste
His youngling bride to wait,
let him be warned of a half-demon to usurp his mate
And leave nothing but sorrow
for a thing which could have waited until the morrow.

Empty

“Empty”

Fingers flying so quickly across a bunch of keys, signifying so little
No thought behind them
Not crafting, like Yeats
Not tapping, like Keats,
Into the soul of things.
Looking again still more into
lives of things
snapping
life
fingers tapping
across little black keys
full of notes full of death
the dirge of life heading
towards the funeral pyre
respire
respire once and give
a response
before the date of expiration
life is
untappable, unmentionable, unworthy
and unwritten

Spooniness in Full Force

I was reading an interview by my high school theater teacher. Not only is he a Shakespearean actor, he is also a poet and very interested in Keats. He comes from the similar Judeo-Christian background that I do, but he has adapted some of our common beliefs to suit his own purposes. In doing so, he has only expanded the scope and realm of those beliefs. If you want to know more about what I’m talking about, check the interview out for yourself here:

http://www.meridianmagazine.com/poetry/080222interview.html

Please forgive the format that the article appears in, particularly the ads which are geared towards an LDS community. It is the interview which is really interesting to me. He talks about inspiration. Other authors have discussed how inspiration, how genius, is something more along the demons, a thing that comes and goes. I agree more with Mr. Tanner; it is not a demon that visits us, but inspiration is rather a conduit that can be opened directly to God.

Naturally, I desire to open this conduit. It seems like with many things, however, that it is not to be, try as might. As Mr. Tanner indicates, most people never reach this state. Only after much skill has been acquired, only after much suffering for the sake of craft, only after utter mastery can the craftsmen and craftswomen let go of their training, become vulnerable, open themselves up to God, and become artists. They walk into the dark. This darkness is the light of illumination, of inspiration. We have to lose ourselves in order to find what is bigger than ourselves.

I do not think I have a lack of desire. As I am right now, I lack skill, mastery, and patience, but I know that if I desire this thing to be and put in all my effort, my God will take care of my inadequacies. The following is a poem where I try and overcome my inadequacies, where I try and practice resisting those deficiencies.


“The Violet Hulled Ship”
Liz Lyon

My body lies curled around a
rock like a pillow,
naked and waiting.
A straight vine-line cracks my head,
fractures with images of matchmakers
Oozing onto the cement, playing
their game in amber tones.
The line is heavy, the air is old.

Where I am, it shall not be there also
on this empty shore bereft of all
but the vine-line.

My vision fades, into nothing but
the gray on this abysmal handmade shore.
My heart lacks the pulsing fire, it
has not yet been on the pyre. The refiner,
the purifier’s tinctures will remain unscathing. The heart
made of hardened, hand-packed ash cannot rest
in tomes of flesh or flames of respiration.

I lie curled on this shore, waiting for
the ship with the violet hull
which will never come
to bring to life the small violet buds
of the vine-line.

For the violet-hulled ship has already passed,
lingering no longer amidst
a forlorn and forgotten body that cannot
capture the capability.
Nails grate against the cement,
scraping, perfect points of tendon’s tension,
of bone striving against muscle, of dust against rock.
The ship does not return.

Somewhere, beyond the line and empty shore, two
violet orchids wrap around a fractured ivory skull,
kissing it in the darkness.

Life Goal #27

Life goal #27 - which I fully intend on achieving throughout my four years at college - is to read all 37 of the plays accredited to Shakespeare.


All's Well That Ends Well
As You Like It
The Comedy of Errors
Cymbeline
Love's Labours Lost
Measure for Measure
The Merry Wives of Windsor
The Merchant of Venice
A Midsummer Night's Dream Much Ado About Nothing
Pericles, Prince of Tyre
Taming of the Shrew
The Tempest
Troilus and Cressida
Twelfth Night
Two Gentlemen of Verona
Winter's Tale
Henry IV, part 1
Henry IV, part 2
Henry V
Henry VI, part 1
Henry VI, part 2
Henry VI, part 3
Henry VIII
King John
Richard II
Richard III
Antony and Cleopatra
Coriolanus
Hamlet
Julius Caesar
King Lear
Macbeth
Othello
Romeo and Juliet
Timon of Athens
Titus Andronicus

Wisteria on the Verge of April

This afternoon, I felt a compulsive urge to go and see the Rose Garden at Scripps. As it is not directly in the path of any of the dining halls from my dorm, I hardly ever make a visit there. However, I wanted to see if the roses were in bloom. I think the wisteria in the Margaret Fowler Memorial Garden may be beginning to bloom, but as the Garden is closed on the weekends, I can’t tell.

I’m working outside, and if I look at the reflection in the screen of the computer I see the wisteria beginning to bloom behind me.

There were slim pickings in the Rose Garden, as most of the roses were only beginning to bud. However, Callie found a red rose, and I found a pink one. It was absolutely beautiful; I’d like to think that we chose roses based on what we wearing, for Callie’s red rose complimented her pinkish skin, blonde hair, and cream-colored shirt, while my pink one complimented my more yellow complexion, brown hair, and skirt.

Walking back to our dormitory on our beautiful campus, I felt at peace. The surroundings are truly indescribable, and with the warmth of the sun beating down upon me as we verge upon April, I knew that I had made the right choice in going to this college, and I thought about just how lucky I am to be here, to have been accepted here. I can’t imagine of all the things that I may have given up in going to this college instead of any another, but with what I know now and what has occurred, if I had the choice, I would choose Scripps over and over and over again.

Afterthought on that Last Post

I hope that I won't regret posting that last post... all you viewers seem to be pretty mecurial in the amount that you follow and respond to what I say.

Naked Blogger - Almost

The following post is my article that will appear in the upcoming, brand-new publication [in]visible this semester at Scripps College - be sure to read it when it comes out! This article is pertinent because it's all about blogging and my experiences so far in this online form of publication. It's all raw, straight from my Word-document that is now being processed by the editors, so please keep in mind the intended audience: students at a women's college as well as the students in the surrounding four colleges. I also apologize for the preachiness, but the theme around which [in]visible is centered is providing college women a positive self-conception that is not purely based on physicality and images.

"Journal-writing is something I do for myself so that I can look back, see the progression life has taken, and then look forward to the blank page’s expectance of new experiences. A journal can be as poorly written as the writer wants it to be because it is not meant for anyone else to look at. Journals contain personal thoughts to be hidden away and infrequently divulged. Blogs, on the other hand, are another matter entirely.

"Blogs are meant to be public, to be shared, and provoke discussion, insight, and commentary, something I did not understand when I started my own blog in order to write this article. Since I started my blog, I have discovered for myself how public it is. It has an audience, and I found myself putting more and more thought into my posts, examining how they were written, and wondering if they were polished to a sufficient degree. I wanted to make my blog understandable and exciting in order to make friends of mine want to read it for pleasure, instead of feeling obliged to do so by a link I posted on their Facebook walls.

"For me, writing is a tool to make sense of confusing issues, ranging from academic to personal and everywhere in between, as well as a cathartic exercise. After having written down an event that caused me frustration, such as a heated phone call with my sister, I am cleansed because I have physically expelled those feelings from that call. Thinking that a blog is a type of electronic journal that few people would see, I wrote that I missed home late one night. My plan backfired spectacularly, as I received several responses condoling me when I thought no one would notice my post. In all honesty, I was not that homesick, and I felt naked that others had seen my confession of weakness.

"Although blogs are handy for writing down a quick update on one’s life, blogs can be open to as many people as stumble upon them. My problem was that I did not realize just how open to the world a blog could be. At first I felt as if I had been invaded, but now I publish what I am doing or thinking about with a little more caution than I did at my the start of my blogging experience. I did not want to be critiqued for what I was saying, to have my friends think that what or how I thought was weird or odd. Journaling is like being in a crystal tower – I could think and express myself, but I was not willing to share what I thought, and to let myself accept the fact that others may think I was wrong or miss the point of what I was saying. My self-confidence does not have its foundation on what others think about me. My thoughts are valid in their own right because I am a thinking human in the midst of achieving her higher education.

"Life and thinking are not solitary things. They cannot be pent-up and written only in a journal; what we think must rub against what other people think. A blog, and the internet, as many people have already discovered, is a pretty good way to do that.

"Needless to say, I have learned what to publish, whom to invite to see my blog, and to not be afraid when people may challenge what I am thinking about, and to not be put out when people do not respond to issues that I may think are important. My self-worth lies in the fact that I am thinking, not what other people think."

A Different Fate

I almost laugh at the cheesiness of this title. And then I almost gag.

This afternoon, I had a Biology lab that consisted of counting the number of ants on sugar-soaked cottonballs every ten minutes for two hours. My group was out in the throes of nature at the Joint Science Department's Bernard Field Station - complete with the sound of car traffic and airplanes thundering overhead in sunny Southern California - for a sunny, breezy day, so it wasn't as bad as it might have been. It could have been better, though; I could have not had to count ants at all.

After the ordeal was over (okay it was only a few bugs), my lab group was walking back to the science center when we spied a trash can. We had no use for the sugary cottonballs, some of which were still ant-laden, and other members of our lab section had already tossed away their lab tools, so we decided to do so, as well. As I cast mine in with the other discarded cottonballs, I noticed something a little unusual. Sitting at the bottom of an almost-empty trashcan was a volleyball, perfectly round. Being a former volleyball-player in high school, it pricked my heart a little at such a waste. It hadn't looked lopsided from my perspective; just to make sure, I took another peek.

There it was, sitting at the bottom of the trash can, a blue, white, and gray Tachikara volleyball, probably a Soft-Touch by the look of it. It looked a little lonely, and I'd been itching for the past week to play volleyball; however, I had no one and nothing to play with. This might just have been my chance.

I reached over the rim of the trash can and poked it; it was even still inflated! A group of students must have broken into the Field Station and either lost or left their volleyball behind, which an instructor or an environmentally-conscious Pitzer student must have picked up and thrown out. A perfectly good volleyball!

Despite the stigma of picking things out of the trash, as well as the stickiness, I plucked the volleyball from its impending fate and took it home with me. I washed it multiple times with dish soap and hand sanitizer; I hope that's enough. My loving caresses alone should be enough to eradicate any miscreant microbial entities, but one never can be too sure. Wow, I'm alliterative this evening.

And now, as I sit typing this blog post, my new volleyball sits on the floor. I am immensely proud that I now not only have a volleyball, but also the means through which I obtained it. I feel good that I saved it from being lost in the abyss of a trash dump, I don't feel guilty about not finding the original owner, and I feel even better that didn't have to pay a cent for it. Their fault they left it behind; my gain that I had the guts to take it from the trash. And now... anyone up for playing a little bit of volleyball?

Looking Forward to Spring Break...

As it is easy to infer, I have not posted in a while. March is a busy time - that said, I still have Biology to study for (ahh I don't know the difference between a chromalveolate and a choanoflagellate!) and a nice pile of Econ to get through tonight, in addition to investing a good chunk of time at Social Dance.

I look forward to this Thursday evening with growing impatience. Once Thursday's here, Spring Break begins...

That said, I have nothing more to say.

So Who Cares?

Back in January, I started this blog. One of the reasons I started it in the first place was because I had been assigned to write an article for a magazine - christened [in]visible, that I'm helping to start up at Scripps - about the distinctions between journaling and blogging. I had thought they were two manifestations of the same thing, but nevertheless I started up a blog for fun.

I was wrong.

I didn't realize how public blogs were. I knew anybody could see them, yes, but who would take the time to track down "spoony driftwood"? Does anyone really care what I'm thinking about? Type in "spoony" into your Google browser and I assure you, you'll get through the definition of spoony, spoony bards, and spoony's glass pipes (which you should actually check out - click http://www.spoonysglasspipes.com/ oh goodness the free advertisement) before you've even dented the amoutn of links it'll take you to get to spoony driftwood. I'm not really worried about who sees what I'm writing - that's the point, and why I still keep a journal to record more private thoughts - I simply didn't realize who cares. I have my own obscure little corner of the internet, and I'm quite content here, but there are some of you who have followed me here. And there are more of you than I had expected. Admittedly, there are more of you than expected, but still. Thanks.

Reflections of Neruda

A rose sits in a transparent and blue-stained glass vase. Behind it sit a string of fake orchids, and a calendar with a picture of a snowy tree in streetlight after midnight. There is nothing more calm and perfect than this right now. The rain is gone for now, but it'll be back soon. The world can be contained in a vase and the petals of a white flower.

A red scarf, Wellies with the New York Times posted over them, bag in hand, rushing down the streets because the time has run over. Lacking a p-coat for the winter evening, but moonlight shining and casting shadows where there are no streetlights.

Clair de Lune

There is something peaceful and complete about listening to "Clair de Lune" while it's raining outside. It's like crying, like cleansing oneself. You're more whole.

I wonder what Debussy was thinking about when he composed it.



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SKd0VII-l3A

Simple Confession

I'm going to own up to it tonight that I miss my mother. I miss seeing my brothers, my dad, my sister. Even the cat. I miss being home and driving down familiar streets, which I've known for the past ten years. Being away at school is wonderful, and I love my friends here; it's new and exciting, and when I think once again of those streets, those same old streets, I'm glad that I'm away. But despite being surrounded by people, being still in the thick of newness and change, sometimes it is simply lonely. That's all I really have to say: it's lonely sometimes, and I miss my mom.

Mount Fuji

“There are many ways to the top of Mt. Fuji.”

The first time I heard that phrase, it was from my brother. He served a mission for the LDS Church in Fukuoka, Japan. Whether he picked it up there, reading Shinto texts for a class on Japanese religion, or from Pat Morita in one of the Karate Kid movies remains to be seen, although when it comes down to relevance, it does not matter where he first heard it. What is relevant is how I have applied in my life and what it means to me.

It means there are many ways to the top of Mt. Fuji. For some, it may be a long path up a shallow incline with many switchbacks that make you feel as if you’re not making any headway: pleasant, but it seems without an end. For others, it may be up a near-vertical cliff with few purchases for clinging to its face as storms pound against your back and every gust of wind threatens to tear your fingers from their scrabbling handholds. Everyone must find their own path up to the top of Mt. Fuji.

I used to think this as an allegory to God. “Everyone must find their own pathway to God.” I allowed myself to think that, so long as you find your way to belief, that will get you to the top. Whether you believe in the Christian God, the Muslim God, a pantheon, animism, karma, ancestor-worship, the Infinite, or no God at all but could find a reason to wake up in the morning and derive enjoyment from life, it didn’t matter. You had found your way to Mt. Fuji, whether by your own creed or someone else’s. But you had done it. You had found what makes sense to you, and thereby reached God.

Now I am not so sure.

What if “reaching the top” didn’t mean “reaching God”?

I shudder at the use of the word, but I want everyone to be “saved.” In a more aesthetically pleasing sense, if not more clichéd, I want everyone to be happy. However, it has to be happiness on an individual’s own terms. I can do nothing to influence others’ happiness, other than perhaps take happiness in my own way of living and serve as an example. If someone wants to be happy like I am, I can offer them guidelines; perhaps what makes me happy will make them happy, too.

“Straight is the gate and narrow the way,” “broad is the path that leadeth down to hell,” and “there can be no other salvation save it cometh through Jesus Christ” put a cramp in my happy worldview. There are many, many good people who have lived, are living, or will live. The Church makes provision for them; if they do not choose to be baptized in this life, others will stand in proxy baptism for them here on Earth, and they can choose to accept that baptism. I agree with that wholeheartedly. I could not believe in a God who sends His Children to Earth, only to bar them from reaching his presence if they have not heard his Gospel.

My problem is that I continually defer my definitions. Does “reaching the top” mean reaching a point where you can believe in something, or does it mean reaching a point where you can believe in my God? But you cannot believe in my God, you can only believe in your God – even if it is the same person.

Now I am simply confusing myself. Let me go back to the basics.

I believe in God, our Heavenly Father. Because I feel like I should make it clear, I also believe in his Son Jesus Christ, and in the Holy Ghost.

We, as members of the LDS faith, have some belief that all of us “Mormons” – and only us “Mormons” – will be saved in the Celestial Kingdom. I take the Celestial Kingdom, not simply Heaven, but to live in God’s presence and his glory. Some of the best people I know are LDS. Many of them are not. Some of my least favorite people are LDS, as well. I cannot reconcile the fact that people who are searching for God, who are living God’s life, will not be accepted by Him.

There are times when I dislike Institute, which is basically the LDS equivalent of Bible-study, but there are times when I am humbled and taught more than I could ever have figured out alone. (Quick side note: I am also glad that I have been given a mind of my own so that I may try and reason things out for myself, but if I fail, then I fail. There is great comfort in knowing that there are things that mortal man was not meant to know. [And when I say "man," I include "woman" in that, as well. I know it's a given, but I go to a women's college, and we have to make these things clear - the Gospel, reason, immortality, and eternal life are available to everyone regardless of gender, ethnicity, age, sins.]) “Immortality and eternal life,” as mentioned in various places throughout our scriptures seemed to be the same thing to me, but one of the graduate students delineated the difference. First of all, immortality is life without death – according to LDS doctrine, all men shall be resurrected and redeemed from death, regardless of who they are or what they have done. But eternal life is something different. Eternal life is granted to those who live the way God lives, who are ready to live in his presence. Eternal life is in itself the way that God lives. Although we do not now have immortality, we can attain eternal life by striving to live that life.

Perhaps, then, that is the way to Mount Fuji. But it does not solve the problem. I’m going to take the easy way out and say that I believe my religion has the most truth of anyone on the Earth at this time, or ever has had. That is not to say that other religions don’t have truth, or that mine is perfect. I will be narrow and say that this is the only way to God, but there are many ways to find this God, be it through searching other Christian Gods, Hindu Gods, or no God at all.

In an anticlimactic ultimate sentence: may you find your own path.

Jettisoned Thoughts on God and Reincarnation

Reincarnation. When I was little, I used to think that people would be reincarnated, despite my faith that believes we only get one shot at this life. I was about four years old when my grandmother died. I didn’t understand it at the time. I thought she would be reincarnated, and for some reason I thought she would have been a butterfly. A blue one, and no matter how many nets you cast at her, her wings would remain unrumpled.

My mother later explained to me that our faith did not believe in reincarnation; instead we believed in Heaven. If I remember correctly, I was a little disappointed that I wouldn’t have my grandmother’s presence flitting around me whenever I went into the garden. The next time I was on a plane to visit my other extant grandparents, I looked out the window expecting to see Grandma and God, sitting on clouds and waving at me.

I was disappointed yet again.

I am still disappointed, although in a much different way than I was before. Yes, this life is hard, painful, difficult, unpleasant. All words for the same sentiment. But it is also so good, so immeasurably good if we stop to take a look at it. God created this earth. God is good. All good things have a bit of Him inside of them. That is not to say there is a lot of evil in the world. I do not believe God created evil; he gave us the agency to act and choose for ourselves the types of lives we lead, and it is from men that evil springs. I may sound backward in saying this, but I believe Satan is as real as God. If there were no Satan, there would be no God. It would simply be God and goodness; there would be no definition of God or goodness without Satan and evil.

My thoughts wander.

Over Winter Break, I read a lot. Not as much as I would like (as is ever the case), but I read enough. I reread Franny and Zooey and The Razor’s Edge, both about the experience of finding God. And interestingly enough, they were both required reading during high school.
The following excerpt is from J.D. Salinger’s Franny and Zooey. The title characters are the youngest in a family of six incredibly bright children. Each had their turn on a radio show, but the youngest, Zooey and Franny, were trained at young ages by their eldest brothers in a myriad of different religious philosophies. Zooey recounts the experience to his sister, Zooey.

“'I remember about the fifth time I ever went on 'Wise Child.' I subbed for Walt a few times when he was in a cast--remember when he was in that cast? Anyways, I started bitching one night before the broadcast. Seymour'd told me to shine my shoes just as I was going out the door with Waker. I was furious. The studio audience were all morons, and I just damn well wasn't going to shine my shoes for them, I told Seymour. I said they couldn't see them anyway, where we sat. He said to shine them anyway. He said to shine them for the Fat Lady. I didn't know what the hell he was talking about, and he had a very Seymour look on his face, and so I did it.
“’He never did tell me who the Fat Lady was, but I shined my shoes for the Fat Lady every time I ever went on the air again--all the years you and I were on the program together, if you remember. I don't think I missed more than just a couple of times. This terribly clear, clear picture of the Fat Lady formed in my mind. I had her sitting on this porch all day, swatting flies, with her radio going full-blast from morning till night. I figured the heat was terrible, and she probably had cancer, and--I don't know. Anyway, it seemed goddam clear why Seymour wanted me to shine my shoes when I went on the air. It made sense… Let me tell you something now, buddy. . . . Are you listening?' Franny, looking extremely tense, nodded.
“'I don't care where an actor acts. It can be in summer stock, it can be over a radio, it can be over television, it can be in a goddam Broadway theatre, complete with the most fashionable, most well-fed, most sunburned-looking audience you can imagine. But I'll tell you a terrible secret--Are you listening to me? There isn't anyone out there who isn't Seymour's Fat Lady. That includes your Professor Tupper, buddy. And all his goddam cousins by the dozens. There isn't anyone anywhere that isn't Seymour's Fat Lady. Don't you know that yet? Don't you know that goddam secret yet? And don't you know--listen to me, now--don't you know who that Fat Lady really is? . . . Ah, buddy. Ah, buddy. It's Christ Himself. Christ Himself, buddy.'”

There is little direction to this post, but I don’t care. Now, it’s Larry Darrell’s turn, from The Razor’s Edge. He spent four years reading, traveling, and working odd, physically demanding jobs. Then he found himself in India, and he found his own way to God. This statement sums up my initial reason for posting. Here, Larry recounts his story to the novel’s narrator and author.

“’I felt in myself an energy that cried out to be expended. It was not for me to leave the world and retire to a cloister, but to live in the world and love the objects of the world, not indeed for themselves, but for the Infinite that is in them. If in those moments of ecstasy I had indeed been one with the Absolute, then, if what they said was true, nothing could touch me and when I had worked out the karma of my present life I should return no more. The thought filled me with dismay. I wanted to live again and again. I was willing to accept every sort of life, no matter what its pain and sorrow; I felt that only life after life, life after life could satisfy my eagerness, my vigor, and my curiosity.’”

At times I am very comforted by the belief that we only get to live one life. I tire quickly, and the thought of an eternal rest – albeit after living a life dedicated to serving and love others – sounds at once very appealing and very boring. But we must progress after we die, or else it would certainly be very boring. My thoughts are wandering again.There are too many things to learn and not enough time to learn them in. In my second semester, I wish that either I would have the time or college would stretch the length to satiate my curiosity. I even wish that I would live over and over again, although I would want to retain what I had learned. However, since we have limited time (which is perhaps the greatest gift God has given us), we must choose and allocate our time as we best see fit. For me, hopefully it will be in ways that will bring me closer to God.

What's in the Name: spoony driftwood

I'm rather enthralled by the title of my blog. A friend suggested to me that I should record some of my thoughts online for the pleasure of others' viewing. I don't know why anyone would want to read what I think, because quite frankly, I don't put much stock in my own opinions. Besides, if someone were to read my blog, I would feel obliged to read theirs, and I don't really want to do that. But I digress.

I thought of many possible titles for my blog, from nifty college references to poetry to clever wordplays on my name involving song lyrics. It wasn't until I was flipping through a notebook filled with snippets of some of my old lines of poetry that I came across a word list. At the very bottom was "spoony (adj): silly, foolish, especially unduly sentimental." Forget the definition for a moment, I would use that word ad nauseam because it is so similar to the culinary implement, "spoon."

You can't not have fun with a spoon.

Particularly in adjective form.

I wouldn't have assigned "unduly sentimental" as one of its meanings, but little surprises like that are what make the English language - I can't say much for other langauges, not having attained a sufficient enough knowledge in them - so interesting. "Spoony" was in the door.

I liked the idea of driftwood, because the first part of the word is similar to "drivel." Driftwood can be drivel (i.e. worthless), and indeed most of it is, but every once in a while a gem may wash up on shore. There is also a sense of carelessness entwined with chance. Although I would like to use destiny or fate, they are too strong of words to apply in this case. Maybe meandering would work. I liked the meanings that trail behind "driftwood."

And so I had it, after eliminating other less-entertaining and less-meaningful titles, like "Waiting among the Violins," "Goodnight, Elizabeth," "Looking through Three Windows," or "Spoony Muskrat." And thus, "spoony driftwood" was born.

The New Year

It's a new year, so I might as well start a new way to "keep in touch" and update friends about what I'm doing. New Year's also means looking ahead, and although these are not goals that I want to accomplish within the ensuing year, these are dreams that I would like to realize sometime throughout my life. Some of them probably won't come through; thus I will continue to dream about realizing them. I think that some dreams need to be realized, while others need to remian unfulfilled so we have something to dream about on long, sleepless nights. I like the idea of striving for something we cannot obtain; nevertheless, we continue to strive.

- See Mt. Fuji, and retrace Hokusai's 36 ways to view it or discover my own views.

- Partcipate in an excavation for fossils, be it in Spitsbergen, the Burgess Shale, or Vernal Utah.

- Spend 8-12 months in Australia, living and working at a restaurant or cafe, and afterwards travel. I want to go to the Sydney Opera House, snorkel in the Great Barrier Reef, hold a koala, stay up all night staring a different host of stars in the Outback, visit the opal mines.

- Contribute in some way to the creation of a new Disney princess and continue the dream created by Walt Disney and enlarge the experience of childhood.

- Spend a night in the Sistine chapel, staring up at the ceiling and wondering what dreams I'd have.

- Open a pet store in conjunction with the Humane Society, open a flower shop, or open a tea shop.

- Study abroad in Scotland, Ireland, or France.

- Have a personal library with a resident cat named Hugo, be a member of or work at a place like the Mercantile Library Center for Fiction in Manhattan.

- Learn to tango.

- Write and publish a novel - or even better, a series of novels, and take a tour across the US promoting said book(s).

- Spend all day in bed reading for pleasure, not feel guilty about it, and not feel disgusting because I didn't get dressed. Spend a night talking over a kitchen table and a mug of hot chocolate with someone I care about. Spend a day accomplishing everything - and more - I set out to do that day. Be both a nightowl and an early riser.

- Work at a publishing house.

- Marry a man I love, and then spend a lifetime continuing to love him whom I married.

- Have twins, in addition to other children, possibly adopted, and be a good mother to them.

- Live in Amherst, Massachusetts or Lake Oswego, Oregon, in addition to living abroad for some years.

- Read all of Shakespeare's plays.

- Travel to Rome to see the Vatican, the Sistine Chapel, and John Keats' grave after reading all his poetry. On the same trip, spend an afternoon napping in Tuscany and an afternoon painting in Florence.

- Never stop learning. Be visited with trials and hard lessons so that I may better learn and understand the sufferings of others and know how to alleviate those sufferings.

- Be a tragic hero.

- See the face of God.

- Have an inexhaustible list of dreams.