you can't always get what you want

If what I want is a yellow card
or a tree-swing tree in my front yard
if it's a glass eye or monocle
or a shipwrecked captain's chronicles
if they're hard-to-hide adventure scars
or comprehension of motorcars
or my dentist's slight of hand
or a catholic's reprimands
if it's a cricket's persistent chirp
or a tight new overshirt
if it's Shakespeare's first-owned plume
or my own Ben Kweller tune
If it's a coy pond from Japan
or a check from rich aunt Pam
then what I want is far away
and planning takes up all my day
and if for these my heart does long
then my needing you seems half as strong.

Grad School

I've just finished my first week in the Political Science Graduate studies classes at the University of Utah. Scary because I am feeling rather pale in comparison to the PhD candidates and elder members of my PoliSci program. I'm in a unique position as a young 21 year old grad student fresh out of my Undergrad program, starting an unpaid internship and living in a brand new city that has a subtle tendency to pressure young adults to "settle and procreate." Never have I been in an environment that caters so impressively to young adults looking for a mate, and so seamless is their agenda, that after only a month or so of being here, I find myself feeling inadequate without the consolation of a date. I am by far the youngest in my graduate program, not to mention the most available. The two other girls I've spoken with, both 23, are married and have been for a year. Not that it's entirely relevant, but I feel that there is some innate connection between high stress positions, ie: fast track to intensive grad school programs, and or jobs, and marriage. It makes sense, but of course is not entirely common, to get married in order to get through all those tough times as a young adult starting a career. I must admit, it would be nice to have a mate to share my stresses with, but what ever happened to the good old fashioned do-it-yourself mentality? This may not indeed be the case, but it seems to me that some young people turn to marriage as a coping mechanism for their increasingly stressful and busy lives. I have yet to decide, however, if this is necessarily a bad thing, because as it is, I would rather enjoy sharing my stresses with another so as to simultaneously decompress and reencourage in each other the confidence it takes to get up and participate in the next stressful day as a young professional.

New True Life: SLC

To those who read this blog, I don't update nearly as much as I should. But, in case you were wondering, here's where I stand today:

I have been living in Salt Lake City for two weeks now in a place I like to call Hill House, even though the haunts are far more friendly and much less ghostly than the title suggests. I live on Capitol Hill is all, and me thinks it may be the most beautiful place I have lived or will ever live in. This is what I see when I come home at sunset.



Don't it make you just hum with comfort? Ya, me too.

Already, some very interesting things have happened here. I am living with four girls, all of whom are LDS and are extremely sweet and generous in introducing me and letting me into their quirky world atop Salt Lake City. Kayla and I clicked almost immediately, and within two weeks has introduced me to hoards of incredible people, many of whom are gay gentlemen who love to dance and make me laugh a lot. On the first night I arrived, we went to a club called Area 51 and we danced all night (not to mention I was kissed by one of said gay gentlemen, which got me thinking that though kissing is fun, I should probably be a bit more picky about who I let kiss me, namely only boys who like girls). Another benefit of living in this great city is the close proximity to that unusual bubble of boisterous boys and incredible girls, Provo, which not coincidentally is home to my best and life-long friends, sisters Morgan and Jourdan, and my bizarre, bewildering, and ever-entertaining older brother, Jordan. The bubble also includes some new acquaintances, old friends, instant friends, and millions of tiny butterflies that had long been dormant since the last time I crushed really and truly hard on a good, smart guy. These butterflies follow me often during Provo visits as my brother's roommates, Morgan's guy friends, recurring special guests and unknown cuties flood my everyday summer activities at King Henry pool, Utah Lake, Slab Pizza, JDawgs, The Cube, Yogurtland, and any other hotspots we may feel inclined to frequent.

But, fickle as those fluttering butterfly wings are, as am I in answering the question of who I'm crushing on.

I have been making a conscious effort to avoid the temptation of easy-inheritance friendships via friends of long-standing friends, and in doing so, have tried to venture on my own in the city. Last week, I visited the Institute to look for a Fall class schedule and stumbled upon a prized cutie, one fruit-farming Jordan (3rd Jordan in this post already, and apparently the most common name ever, which will complicate things and as will be explained shortly) who, if I was a better flirt and picked up on signals like pauses at car doors perfect for number exchanges, would be texting me some quiet goodnight quip at this very moment. But as it is, I did not know what to do about those sweet gestures like can't-stop-smiling looks, giggles and hints at possible future encounters, and rushed off too quickly to quietly berate myself for rushing off too quickly. Without a doubt, the flirt was on and we both wanted to see each other again, but a missed opportunity was fading in the wind, and without any leads except a first name and a suggestion to take a Wednesday night class, cause that's the one he would take if I would take it, I was led back to the Institute one week later to do something stupid.

I asked the sweetest front desk ladies to see if a "Jordan" had signed up for a Wednesday night class yet (ya, I know I felt like a big creep from the second I asked the question, especially because they did not skip a beat and said, "Oo hunny, as long as we're invited to the wedding!" That's Utah for you...) No such luck, which is what I deserve for trying to make up for my missed open door. Those only happen once in a while, and this door is, apparently, not to be opened by me for the time being. Time will only tell at this point, and I feel foolish for even putting so much thought into this butterfly-inducing fruit-farmer, but when you meet someone you can't stop smiling about, isn't that permission granted to act at least a little freaky? I think so.

My Grandfather Speaks

Written for my Gramps's 90th birthday: My grandfather speaks slowly and low With a fervor and fire of the warmest glow. "Speaking is praying," he says to me And consecrates each syllable selflessly. To the world, to the warmth of any man he sees, He offers his words with dignity. My grandfather speaks lowly and slow Of stories my heart has heard before. Stories that hold the earth in their midst And capture the essence of timelessness. In that static space between sleep and dream, His words pour o’er my mind like sweet cream. My grandfather speaks slowly and low To a blanketed boy he keeps in-tow. He tells of the world he has just found In the sweetness of baby’s cheeks so round. Though only one will remember this morn, He still whispers the glory of being born. My grandfather speaks lowly and slow As we walk beside the ebb and flow Of oceans vast carving rocks beside: A beauty only He can describe. And on that beach with its mystique, Not even grandfather could find words to speak.

winter

i miss those
freely throwing passions at each other
i feel their warmth in my house
at my feet when my toes touch a cold tile
a cold time has come
it dampens my skin
and blues its tint
an icelandic twist
of sparkle and fade
Vinter muder
freezes over homes
in between the church and the barn
its early this year

verge

12:42 and starting to study. trying to motivate oneself is an eternal struggle.

Leon Festinger

There's no excuse
I had to try
(A half-inflated alibi)
The drink it burns
and gives me rites
much better than your hand could guide
In ink-spill rings
my true demise
like tipping 'tenders with no eyes
A choking glue
glazed over mine;
cast pearly tears among the swine
Like Faustus failed
to understand
life's not enough to be a man.