In Defense of the Innkeeper

Every time I hear the Nativity story, I wonder about the innkeeper. There wasn’t room. I certainly don’t believe he was lying. I tend to think he was having a stressful night, knowing the “tax rush” was upon him. I’m sure he was pleased to see the revenue he did, knowing that it would help him feed his family, maybe buy his wife something nice. He was probably tired and weary of turning away travelers; Mary and Joseph were surely not the only ones who got there too late.
I wonder what he thought when he saw the unfortunate couple at his gate. It would be unfair to assume he had any inkling who these two were or Who would be born that night. He probably just saw a young couple that he couldn’t possibly accommodate. The woman was pregnant, very pregnant I imagine. He certainly couldn’t turn them away. To his credit, I believe, he found a place for them. Not an ideal place, but the only place he had.
What was he to do? No room. Honestly, no room. He couldn’t displace his own family and, with what limited understanding I have of the cultural context he found himself in, he couldn’t leave them alone with the strangers gathered in his inn. Order had to maintained, I can appreciate that. And I tend to think that if room could possibly be made he would have done so.
Dramatic portrayals of the innkeeper show his as an impatient man who heartlessly turns his back on the mother of the Savior. But I like to think he did all he could to help them. I hope he sent an employee to tend to the young mother. I hope he prayed for their safety. And I hope he visited in the morning to make sure all was well. He would have had quite a surprise.
Maybe I’ll write a play about him someday. About the difficult choices we’re faced with and the lose-lose situations the Savior came into the world to remedy. About the miracle that took place that night and this sad, misunderstood man’s part in the great drama of Christmas.

Thoughts on Priorities

My dad told me that in Korea, people will always offer you more food after your first helping regardless of what they actually have in the kitchen. He explained that social protocol is to refuse taking seconds the first time it's offered, then to feel free to accept if they offer again. The reason for this is simple: it's polite for them to offer, but sometimes that's all it is. I've always thought this little song and dance routine was a bit unnecessary until I recognized it in my own life.
It's Friday night and I'm at home. Alone. Writing. (And blogging, apparently.) This is certainly not a singular occurrence, as anyone who knows me will attest. I turned down a couple of invitations in order to have this privilege, the most pressing of which wouldn't back down easily. There was a veritable tennis match of "I need to get some things done" pitted against "Whatever, hang out anyway." This went on for a while until we all accepted the inevitable.
Now, let me qualify this. I am not averse to hanging out. I can think of more ideal weekends, but this particular week is a busy one and I need any spare time I have to finish a couple formidable projects before the semester's end. Thus, I have to sacrifice spending time with people I really care about. I'm used to this. I wish sometimes it wasn't necessary to make such sacrifices but I also acknowledge the fact that if I wanted things to be different they would be. That said, I've decided that, while I have been successful in keeping the commitments I've had this semester, I don't intend to take on so much in the future.
Maybe I'll have less productive-but-unsatisfying weekends next semester. In the meantime, I'm grateful for friends who extend invitations, play the game, and gracefully accept defeat. And I hope they know that on nights like tonight I'd rather be with them. I just have stuff to get done.

BONUS: Just because I know that anyone who knows me will laugh heartily at this...My arm and shoulder are killing me. I pulled a muscle making a dramatic hand gesture. Yes. It's the truth. Muscle pulled from over-gesticulations. It could only be me.

Confession

Okay, the answer to your question is: yes, I am thoroughly ashamed of how “tender” my last blog was. A couple friends were reading it in the other room and I heard an audible “awwww” when they were done. This is alarming. Especially since I wasn’t being dishonest by any standard. I produced an “awwww.”
The truth is, I like a girl. She probably knows this since I’m a very transparent person but she may not fully acknowledge the fact. Or she may be waiting for me to get the cajones to tell her myself. My head is reeling from a “holy-crap-I-really-like-this-girl” moment I had earlier this evening. It distracted me from the heavy-handed tragedy that is “Swing Kids” (this week’s Sunday night inspirational movie). I’m getting romantic again. It’s gotta be the cold weather…

Seventeen epiphanies and a slightly disjointed blog

I haven’t blogged for a long time. It’s funny, because I think so often about things I should blog. They’re brilliant ideas too. Believe me.
I just got back from Thanksgiving break when I spent a week at home with my family. Yes, it was great, thank you for asking. There’s something about getting away from life as usual that allows you to sort through the various departments of your life and feel a desire to change. We should all take vacations. It’s good for you.
I had seventeen epiphanies during my sojourn in Sacramento. If you ask me what they were, I will not be able to tell you. They keep coming back to me when I’m reminded of something I figured out or some task I have resolved to do.
One such epiphany was of the “Carpe Diem” variety and is nothing we haven’t heard before. Still, it’s stuck with me this long and I’m determined not to let its idealistic little self out of my grasp. This new zest for life materialized out of reading two fantastic books: The Road and A Thousand Splendid Suns. In putting myself into the world of these stories, I realized that if each day may be your last or if the bombs may wipe you out at any moment, there’s no reason to hesitate. No, this isn’t an excuse for impetuous and irresponsible behavior. Rather, it’s an antidote to the undesirable aspects of my analytical personality. So, you know, the basics: tell your mom you love her, ask out the girl of your dreams, apply for the program you don’t think you’ll get into, etc. Like I said, we’ve heard it all before.
I’ve noticed some things about myself as well. I don’t like dessert much. I usually am peer pressured into eating it, but I’m maverick enough (thank you, Sarah Palin for stealing my word) to order fries at an ice cream parlor and otherwise break with accepted dessert protocol. Also, I have learned that I should never commit to writing more than two major projects at the same time. Unless there’s money. And I can drop the pesky classes that require work that seems irrelevant to my education. But that’s another blog entirely.
I need to get over my dream of being an actor. I’ve made choices that have started me on a different path and I know that I’m doing the right thing and headed in the right direction. Good. Still, all it takes is the sight of an audition notice or watching a top-notch performance to reawaken the little kid inside of me who wants to move to New York and make it big on Broadway. Perhaps I should stop doing my indulgent acting gigs that keep that unhealthy little dream alive. Or perhaps I need to make room for it somewhere; it’s obviously important to me.
There are some people who just irritate me. They’ve all earned this special place in my heart, make no mistake about it. What’s funny is the way I react to certain things they do (jokes made, Facebook status updates, etc.) because I have labeled them as annoying. I roll my eyes and chastise myself for having such uncharitable thoughts, but I’m sure if someone outside the “annoying box” did the same thing, I would react in a totally different way. Most interestingly, perhaps, I wonder if I have been put in this box by anyone I know and I am almost certain I have. There isn’t much I can do about this. So I don’t think too much about it.
Almost every day I drive past a sign advertising a florist’s shop where you can buy a dozen roses for $9.98. The price hasn’t changed since I first arrived in Provo and I’m a little ashamed to say that it makes me feel a little wistful when I see it. I think of who I might eventually buy those roses for. It’s been such a long time coming, I’ve got to make it count when it finally happens. And I firmly believe that it will. Maybe that’s because not believing won’t get me anywhere and Logical Matthew has figured that out. But I believe it nonetheless. I can find someone to take a dozen roses to. And if she knows me, she’ll know I wasn’t bargain hunting, but that for a reluctantly optimistic flower buyer, she has finally arrived. I hope she knows someone is waiting for her. And I hope she hurries up and gets here.

My Parents' Romance

My parents met in high school. It’s only natural that they look at me and wonder what’s taking me so long. I’ve heard the stories and envy the simplicity of it all, the prelude to a marriage devoid of fights, twenty five years of holding hands like it’s the first time and still inspiring goofy smiles four kids later. I believe it started at church one Sunday when my dad leaned far back in his Sunday School chair to appear nonchalant to the new girl in town. Later, it’s been said they met up at a dance and she flattered him by asking if he played basketball for their high school team. The song was over but they kept dancing, I’ve heard, and my mom must have smiled to herself, fully aware that her basketball skills surpassed those she had called attention to. At least that’s what I gather.
Somewhere in the story is a roller rink, a genius invention for boys too cowardly to hold a girl’s hand otherwise. I know this because I’ve tested the waters in this setting myself. I went last year to roller skate with some new friends, determined to impress a girl there, but wound up in the emergency room with a broken wrist that took months and two surgeries to heal. Had I not needed urgent medical care, the object of my admiration may not have noticed me at all. As it was, my interests soon changed and I would try always to position myself on her right side so that enviable handholding could remain a distinct possibility uninhibited by the cast on my right arm.
I know my aunt had some interest in my dad, for a day or two at least. It’s strange when I think about it, when they spend Christmas morning or Thanksgiving dinner passing presents and gravy boats between them. But it was nothing even then, and time I’m sure has all but erased much memory at all of girlish crushes or the sisterly competition I’ve heard ensued. She offered to teach my mom to flirt to assert her superiority in the matter. When she’d invited Dad over, Mom popping popcorn on the stove in an outfit he claims to remember was a more tempting prospect than anything the younger sister had to offer. And on they went.
I’m sure I’ve heard all about the first date. Undoubtedly it was a group date and involved miniature golf or something similar. Had I the means I would like to watch it in all its awkward glory. I would like to see the first time he tried to hold her hand but ended up flexing his fingers and beating himself up like I’ve done more times than I recall. I’d like to see my mom come home, a ball of girlish nerves, and pace her bedroom to keep hold of fresh memories. I’d skip the first and subsequent kisses, and find the scene where they sit on the large front steps of my grandparents’ house, discussing marriage at the age of sixteen. And I could swallow my pride and resist the urge to roll my eyes, knowing how it ends.
I have a feeling it was not unlike a quirky romantic comedy, or a Wonder Years episode. And maybe it wasn’t too far removed from my own experience. I wondered in high school if I’d repeat history like my older brother had. But I had my share of finger brush-by’s and almost-kisses. And it’s better to imagine it. My dad insists still that his nightly popcorn ritual harks back to that afternoon he smelled it from the kitchen and saw Mom standing there. And I grew up with that, snagging a handful of popcorn from his bowl as he walked upstairs to bed, leading the woman with whom he’s still as in love with as ever. And I’ll get there, I guess.

On Top Ramen

You can imagine the looks I got, a college age young man, making my way to the late night grocery store crowd to the checkout with little more than an enormous box of Top Ramen. Typical, they seemed to say. That’s men for you. Never mind the fact that I’d also picked up yeast for the foccacia I was planning on making the next day. I was a cliché.
Top Ramen is easy. Few people know how to make it right, how to keep the noodles from getting gummy and transparent and making the house reek of classlessness and sloth. When I boil water on my stove it smells like the house is burning down. I thought things might be different if we condescended to line to burners with foil but to no avail. The hot water goes over the noodles and salty pork flavoring, already waiting in the bowl. And it only takes a few pokes of the fork to soften your lunch to chewing consistency.
I set the box on the checkout conveyor belt and braced myself for the painful banter I’d undoubtedly have with the checker upon his discovery of my all-too-typical eating habits. The girl bagging my groceries, though, was in no way going to let me steal that man’s attention away from her. She had a flirtatious giggle or a mindless tease for every twenty-cent packet of soup he had to ring up. The girl behind me in line was quick to inform me that some canned peas or corn could help legitimize my meal choice and I wondered when she’d stocked up and if she’d waited until 12:00 am on a weeknight to avoid the looks of scrutiny and judgment.
I love food. Had I the means, every meal would be special. And there’s no way I’d waste time with any food item with “convenience” on the package. However, if I can fill up for two dimes and one bowl to wash I’m a happy man. I don’t brag about my simple peasant food, but if I can swallow sodium-heavy, processed, imitation Asian pasta, I can swallow my pride long enough to get through lunch.
I got home with three bags, two of which were filled with the Top Ramen whose box the bagging girl couldn’t seem to negotiate into a single bag without abandoning all sense of order and resorting to unceremonious dumping. She’d smiled coyly at the checker then and he took my credit card to swipe. The living room was full of friends who laughed politely at my tale and more scornfully at the contents of the bags. The reusable canvas grocery sacks that made me feel more socially conscious hung jealously on the wall in the laundry room. Not so jealous, perhaps, that they’d have been stuffed with embarrassing college food.
I’m not a cliché. I just eat Top Ramen. And someday I’ll stop being so ashamed. Or I’ll somehow find myself in a position where I don’t have to worry about price or dishes to wash by hand. And I wonder which will come first.

Some reflections

I’ve been making bread since I was about eleven years old. My age has since doubled but still every time I knead the dough and set it aside to rise there’s a question in my mind as to what will really happen. When I come back an hour later and uncover the dough to find it doubled in size it’s always with some of the same eleven-year-old wonder I had the first time I tried my hand at baking.
I’m waiting for dough to rise. In about forty-five minutes I’ll go back to the kitchen and say a little prayer before I take the towel off the bowl and look inside. I thought a lot about faith today. Maybe faith isn’t so much the assurance that the dough will rise. Maybe it’s the mixing and the kneading that happen before. I’ve learned quite a few things in these tumultuous last couple of years of mine and one of the “biggies” is the knowledge that a loving Heavenly Father isn’t going to deprive us of the chance to walk out into the dark sometimes. He’s going to take off our training wheels, knowing full well that we might fall. And faith means dealing with it. I guess that lesson I’ve learned is this: faith means not knowing all the answers, and dealing with it.
Some of the Elders on the mission were so sure they’d become CEO’s and senators because “the Lord never forgets His returned missionaries.” Well, that’s certainly true but a mission doesn’t come with that sort of severance package. Life is going to suck sometimes, and the expectation that we’ll be coddled and protected from the crap the world is ready to throw at us is setting us up for a world of trouble.
Not that I’m unhappy, or that I feel like I haven’t been enormously blessed. However, I do not expect that life will always be a piece of cake. I’ll take it as it comes, but I’m sure things won’t always be as easy as they are now. And that’s life, right?
So we can have peace, we can have comfort, and we can have an assurance that all will work out. But it takes a while for the dough to rise.
PS: I was tempted to call this blog “Every hour I knead thee” just so I could imagine the groans and eye rolls (and screams and gouging out of eyes, depending on how well you know me…). But now I get to imagine it all anyway.

And now a poem...

In conjunction with my last post, here's a poem I wrote for my Creative Writing class last week about on of the simple joys of being alone. (No, not loneliness, just being alone.) Oh, and PS, I'm not a poet.

Friday night

I might have heard myself chewing
if I hadn’t topped off
that silent space in my living room
with songs and the sounds of familiar dialogue. If I hadn’t
left the window open –

I might have shared, and let a slice or three
introduce themselves to a hungry new acquaintance
while I watched, hungrier still.

I would have closed the box and
let it hide while I talked to someone at the door.
No, he isn’t home. …If there was
someone at the door. Someone to follow
the delivery man. Yes, it’s all for me.

I wouldn’t have lied, or said tonight was not a bully,
if anyone had asked. But if I wanted
someone here, another hand, another mouth,
Could I have another slice?
I might have gone through names or thought
of extra large and more grabbing hands.

If someone came
and asked for me, I could have made room
on the couch that was too big for two
and opened up the box full of dinner getting cold.
I could invade the couch and
settle there for one night.

I can hear voices through the window
and I eat another slice, or three.

Hopeless

I used to be more romantic. I only have to look back a couple years (or is it a couple months?) to find a time when Saturday nights were full of amorous possibilities and bouquets of flowers at the grocery store made me imagine who I could give them to. Now I walk past said flowers and wonder why they put them out by the checkout where they’ll be withered and brown by the end of the day. And I spend plenty of Saturday nights catching up on homework or working on some writing project or another.
I wonder sometimes what caused this change. It was after coming home from my mission, but before starting this semester. I’m pretty sure it was after I broke up with my last girlfriend. But was it before I went to London? Or after I started writing the play about the failed marriage? And where exactly can I fit in my recent run-in with a few dating nightmares you thought only happened in the first half of a chick flick? But really, trying to pin down a specific incident or cause would be futile. The fact is, I am no longer the hopeless romantic of yesterday.
“Hopeless romantic.” What does that even mean? I never thought “hopeless” was a positive term except, perhaps, in this context. But how can we account for that? I Googled “hopeless romantic” and came up with an entry in the Urban Dictionary that said this:
“This person is in love with love. They believe in fairy tales and love. They're not to be confused as stalkers or creepy because that's not what a hopeless romantic is. All hopeless romantics are idealists, the sentimental dreamers, the imaginative and the fanciful when you get to know them. They often live with rose-colored glasses on. They make love look like an art form with all the romantic things they do for their special someone.”
The funny thing? Hopeless romantics seem to have a lot more hope than the rest of us. I scoff at love songs and wonder sometimes if there is a someone for everyone. But the romantics believe that anything is possible. Their dream girl is just around the next corner…okay, the next corner. Okay, any corner now. Me? I’m beyond that. In my extensive life experience of twenty-two years, I have at least learned that anything worth having doesn’t come easily. Anyone who thinks that it does is, well, hopeless.
That must be it. The hopeless romantics didn’t coin the phrase themselves. People like me did. My roommate called me a “skeptical romantic.” I certainly still have faith in the power of love (thank you Huey Lewis) but I take it with a grain of salt. Or a pinch of salt. Or a tablespoon, depending on the day. But I wouldn’t say I’m hopeless. I wonder sometimes if I would want to trade two feet firmly planted for the ability to fly again. Even with the potential hazard of the inevitable crash and burn. (How’s that for hopeless?) But I’ll stay where I am for now. And who knows? That dream girl around the corner might just change my mind.

"What privilege?" The White Man's Denial

(I wrote this for my sociology class. Enjoy...)

Perhaps we’ve grown tired of privilege. Perhaps entitlement is no longer in fashion. Perhaps the thousands of years of sitting at the top of the totem pole have created the blinded and apathetic white male we see today in abundance. Whatever the reason, these men are in denial and progress will be halted for as long as we refuse to acknowledge the inequality that persists even in this progressive world of ours.
Of course, few of the privileged few would be so bold as to deny the long history of oppression and ignorance that stains the history books and was still largely in effect even one generation ago. But that recognition must be tempered with a certain distance in order to ensure that we don’t have a crisis on our hands. The new generation of WASPs shakes its collective head woefully at the terrible deeds of our forefathers and celebrates the courage and forethought of Susan B. Anthony, Martin Luther King, and Cesar Chavez while skillfully dodging any responsibility to continue the fight they began. So long as those problems remain long ago and far away fairness and equal rights can be the watchwords of an increasingly delusional majority.
The fact of the matter is we do have a crisis on our hands. Not a new one by any means but a tired set of age-old problems that haven’t faded away as fully as we would like to believe. We still see alarming statistics such as the US Census, which states that only 34% of black children in the US are being raised in a married-couple family, compared to 75% of white children. We see from the same source that whites are almost three times more likely than Hispanics to receive a Bachelor’s degree or higher. And the census also shows that women earn a mere 71% of what their male counterparts receive in the workplace. Clearly, issues of race- or gender-based discrimination persist, so why the adamant refusal to acknowledge their very existence? The answer lies in the ethos of the group that benefits most from these startling numbers.
Having grown up in a white suburban family with three brothers and no sisters to speak of, I know these benefits well. I knew the color of my skin would never be a factor in determining my financial dependability. I could go shopping or out for a walk without the fear of being harassed. And I never thought twice about how frequently I saw politicians, news reporters, or successful businessmen who looked like me because it was simply what I had always known. Did I think of myself as privileged? Certainly, compared to the Rwandan refugees I saw on the news or the Indian prostitutes I heard about in school. But any suggestion that I had a head start compared to the girls in my classes or to my friends of other ethnicities would have fallen on largely deaf ears. This wasn’t my father’s or my grandfather’s America; this was the land of equality and liberty that our womanizing, slave-trading forefathers had envisioned. Best of all, this was a land where a young Caucasian boy in a Northern California suburb could go to school and move up in the world without the slightest guilt or second thought concerning those he had passed along the way.
It appears that no one told today’s white man that he couldn’t have his cake and eat it too. It is indeed an enviable position to have the upper hand in nearly every arena while looking at the rest of the world through the rose-colored glasses of insufficient social programs and innumerable excuses for the continuing trend of inequality. There is no guilt when we consider racism and sexism to be unpleasant relics of our past. Complacency has become the white male’s best defense. Still more alarming are those who push this complacency even further, venturing into the realm of underprivilege themselves. Unsatisfied with ignoring the cold hard facts, many of my advantaged brothers seize any opportunity to make themselves into the martyrs, blaming their own failures or inconveniences on Affirmative Action or other programs aimed at truly leveling the playing field (however imperfect said programs may be). As if white males didn’t have enough, they leap to take from disadvantaged groups the very right to claim disadvantage. Simply put, those who are entitled to more than a true meritocracy would allow are unwilling to surrender their advantages and at the same time are largely incapable of admitting that such advantages even exist.
Facing up to a pervasive social problem is a frightening thing. It disrupts the quiet apathetic life that I and the countless others like me have grown fondly accustomed to. It asks that we relinquish our privileges and open the collective blind eye we’ve turned to the problems around us. But if progress is to be made toward a truly just society, it’s a risk we’ll have to take.

Guess who's back...

Okay, so I went an entire TERM of school without blogging. Shame on me. Let me briefly give some reasons why:

-Life is not NEARLY as interesting as it was in London.
-The G on my keyboard had been acting up and I wanted to give it a rest.
-I've just had a lot going on, okay?

Enough of that. For what it's worth, I've wanted to blog numerous time for the last few weeks. Let me tell you what you've missed.

THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN RACEWAY - Yes, I spent a day at the races. One July 5th. And it was everything you would expect. I think the only thing worse than hooking up with a girl on February 13th is spending the day after Independence Day with a bunch of NASCAR Dads and their families. We honored the courageous men and women who are "out there fightin' for our right to be here racin'." I must admit, I didn't realize that right was under attack but I understand the sentiment. I could accept the in-your-face-and-as-tacky-as-possible patriotism that pervaded the event. And I could accept the 90 minutes I spent in the snack bar line and realizing that calling obesity a "medical emergency" is anything but an exaggeration. And I could accept the fashion nightmares that I saw all day. (The next time you have an old American flag, call the Boy Scouts, don't sew it into a hoodie...) What really got me was the very end of the festivities, when the fireworks display was accompanied by a string of country music about the 9/11 attacks. Something about watching explosions and listening to "have we forgotten about Bin Ladden" (yes, that is supposed to rhyme) didn't sit well. On top of that, the fireworks were shot off close enough to us that flaming pieces of...something kept falling on us throughout the show. We were under attack. Good thing we have a militia full of soldiers fighting for our right to fireworks shows. (Disclaimer: I fully support the troops, so much that I'd love for them to come home soon.)

"I'M SO BUSY" - I've noticed that people who say this really aren't. The really busy people have better things to do than complain about how busy they are.

MY BIRTHDAY - Confession: I don't like my birthday. Apart from my family, no one does a thing for my birthday. I don't ask for much, but something more than a post on my Facebook wall is always nice. I have a yearly "maybe I have no friends" pity party every July 11 but I'm happy to announce that this year was a step up from the norm. People remembered! I love my new roommate and my new job and that certainly has a good deal to do with the birthday festivities they initiated. Plus, one girl bought me a Jamba Juice and another gave me chocolate and a card. And I must say that nothing makes a woman more attractive than remembering a birthday-starved 22-year-old. At least to me. So, it made a nice change. (And, yes, I asked both of those girls out.)

DANCE CLUBS - The day after my birthday a couple friends wanted to go dancing. And it took me about five minutes to remember why I hate dance clubs. It's the same in any environment in which people turn into animals (clubs, sporting events, mosh pits, DMV lines, etc.). We seem to want to escape reality so much that we turn up music to drown out conversation, turn off the lights, and pulsate to primal songs with banal lyrics that we would never really admit to liking. But in the dance club anything goes. People form uncomplicated semi-sexual relationships and girls stand in circles trying to out-sexy each other. We must really not like each other much.

THE OLYMPICS - I'm boycotting. Yeah, I'm one of THOSE...

Okay, well, that;s the short list of my recent insights. I'll be more diligent from now on. Seriously.

Adventures in Freshman Orientation

I served (and by "served" I mean "was paid to work") as a Y Group Leader at Freshman Orientation this last weekend. I was in charge of leading the group of students who I'll be mentoring this coming term. Fortunately they're all pretty cool so it'll be a fun semester. Orientation, though, was an interesting experience indeed. Here are some highlights for those of you who didn't have this experience (or, like me, who somehow forgot about the madness...):
-We opened with a meeting all about how great BYU is and how lucky we all are to be here. This was the first of FOUR meetings like this. Yes, four. They all said the same thing and if you didn't leave that orientation feeling an overwhelming guilt, I suppose they didn't do their job. Now, I agree that BYU is wonderful and that we are indeed lucky to be here. However, let's not lose our heads.
-That night, the new students gathered in the Smith Field House for a celebration of the Honor Code. Hey, if seeing Jericho Road perform motivates you to shave every morning, good for you...or for Jericho Road, I suppose. What else did they use to brainwash...I mean, inspire the young BYU newbies? "Sieze the Day" from "Newsies," "Higher" by Creed (or a very enthusiastic and clean-cut cover band), and Mariah Carey's "Hero." Hey, whatever works.
-We folk danced which was embarrassingly fun. And, hey, getting paid to dance...
-We took the kids on a tour of campus. I pointed out the best food on campus, the best places to nap, the places to avoid, and the places to meet people. My partner covered the rah-rah BYU stuff.
-A professor told us all to save our neurons for math, not for porn. Yes, he said that and I was very happy about it.
-The event culminated in what is perhaps the pinnacle of the BYU experience: a dating game. This along with a Mario Cart tournament and, of course, a dance. Party-pooper that I am, I opted out of the fun. I can only hope that my freshmen had a good time. And got some phone numbers. Because that's what it's all about, right?
I could see members of my group growing pretty weary of beating the "BYU-is-great" horse and hope they can manage to be enthusiastic about the first day of classes. Speaking of which, I am really excited about the first day of classes. I'm such a nerd...

That's what I'm talking about!

I thought I'd break into the multimedia approach to blogging because I need to share this. "Billy Elliot" has changed my life. Yes indeed.

Checkpoint Five

Yes, I'm back. But I have to finish my report...
THE CHALK GARDEN - This was a great example of a good solid production of a good solid script. There really wasn't any pretension here. It was just a good production. I have come to appreciate the bravery of doing the tried and true. When you do, you'd better do it well. And the Donmar certainly does it well.
AFTERLIFE - I was not a big fan. After the novelty of "Oh cool, he's telling the story of Max Reinhardt and Everyman at the same time" wore off, I was bored. It felt long, indulgent, and not up to snuff with Michael Frayn's genius work.
THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR - This was just a lot of fun and I wondered why I've never seen or read this play before. It's simple and fun, not the intellectual feast of Shakespeare's other comedies, but it's a solid piece of writing.
TWELFTH NIGHT - I learned that I do NOT get tired of Shakespeare. We saw this after a Shakespeare final exam in the morning followed by the matinee of "Merry Wives." When it was over, I was aching for more Shakespeare! Good thing, too. If I'm going to be at this theatre thing for the rest of my life I had better enjoy it!
MAMMA MIA - See previous blog.
CHICAGO - Ditto. This show was very educational for me. It's interesting, though, to see that in order to sell it, it's marketed as a sultry sex romp full of hardbodies and sensual jazz music. Yes, it was all of those things but it really was so much more. Unfortunately, it's been playing for ten years because of the sex, not because of the theatrical brilliance that's there. Pity.
ROSMERSHOLM - This was the first time I ever saw Ibsen onstage. (A shocking confession, I know.) I understand now why he is hailed as a genius. Ibsen invented the "well-made play" that I strive to write myself and seeing his work performed so brilliantly (though not flawlessly) reinforced those ideals that I've been striving for.
STRICTLY GERSHWIN - Gershwin is America. Britain knows this but they put on one heck of a show. This reinforced the transcendent power of romance and beauty. There is a reason why we keep writing love songs and going to see chick flicks. They speak to us in the same way that Gershwin's ballads do.
LONDON ASSURANCE - I went to see this because it's an important piece of history, not because the play really drew me in. But, really, that's why I saw "Rosmersholm" as well. The difference: "Rosmersholm" is well-written. There, I said it.
DE PROFUNDIS - This was, I felt, a relatively one-note performance by Corin Redgrave, but a heartfelt one nonetheless. I actually wasn't quite captivated and realized that if Oscar Wilde had intended this piece of writing for performance he was more than capable of writing it that way. That said, it's quite a beautiful piece of writing and made me consider the "other hand" of the romance issue.
BILLY ELLIOT - I wondered if I would enjoy this as much as I had at first. My experience was largely the same but I cried more this time. This is a great show and it made a wonderful (and symmetrical) end to my adventure!

Hostel Environment

I'm staying in a hostel for my last few days in London. I came here with a good deal of trepidation. I have heard as many horror stories as the next guy and have known some pretty unsavory people who swear by them. And one has to wonder how can they keep the prices so darn low anyway. As I discussed in my last post I'm quite alone here which honestly doesn't scare me...But if some hostel owners killed me in my sleep to sell my liver on Craig's List there wouldn't be anybody around to do a thing about it.
BUT I checked in nonetheless. Upon receiving my key I was given a list of good pubs, a coupon for the bar they have conveniently located here at the hostel, an invitation to join them on a tour of London's best pubs, and the assurance that drinking is more than welcome on the premises. (As if I hadn't figured that out already.)
All things considered, I suppose I'd be making more friends (since that's what hostels are for, right?) if I were indeed a drinker like the rest of this crowd seems to be. It's a very social environment as long as you're ten sheets to the wind. Me, I leave in the morning and come back late at night to sleep in my bed-cubicle. It's not a bad existence for a couple days and, hey, for twenty pounds a night who can complain? Still, it's a strange place. I avoid it as much as possible. In the meantime, if you happen to see any bits or pieces of me for sale on eBay, put in a good bid.
I'll be home tomorrow.

Table for one

It's an interesting feeling to be alone in a foreign country. I mean, really alone. Everyone in the program has gone home and anyone I do know here (people in the ward, etc.) I have no way of contacting. Truly, I'm on my own.
It's a pretty empowering position, I've found. I wake up every morning with the full knowledge that I can do whatever I want to do. That said, I don't behave any differently, but without roommates to greet to classes to attend, the world (or at least the city of London) is my oyster.
Still, I can't decide if I like being alone. Sometimes, it's truly all I want. It's so nice to come and go as I please, to sit and read a book without having to force conversation with anyone, and to be able to experience the world on my own terms, unfiltered through the minds of well-meaning companions. On the other hand, however, it's lonely. When someone does something ridiculous on the subway, you laugh alone. When you're not sure where to have dinner, no one else can make the decision. When you see an amazing piece of theatre, you're hard pressed to find anyone who cares to discuss it. It's the little moments when you really realize how much you miss those well-meaning companions.
So, good and bad on both sides. A little solitude is important, though, and I have to say I am enjoying my quiet end to the London adventure. It's only a few days and, frankly, that's quite enough for me. Still, I've observed some interesting things about being alone:
-When you get dressed in the morning, it's for you. When you set out alone and don't plan on meeting anyone of consequence (i.e. someone to dress up for) it's tempting to simply throw on whatever is lying around and head out the door. I tried this. It's miserable. Self respect has little to do with how many people you have around.
-When you're out, you always have to occupy yourself. There's no one else to occupy you, so you substitute a novel, a notebook, or an iPod in their place. I noticed this not only with myself but with other loners I've observed recently. Even when we have no other people around, we are reluctant to be truly alone.
-You enjoy the world differently. You feel more a part of things when you're not in a group of people. Yesterday afternoon I went for a walk by Buckingham Palace and through St. James's Park. I really felt like I was a part of that park, that I belonged there, and that brought me a great deal of peace and comfort. I no longer identified myself as a member of a group, so there was nothing left but to identify myself simply as a piece of that beauty and serenity. It's a nice feeling.
-There is something absolutely liberating about being alone. Not just that you can do what you want to do and see what you want to see, but that you truly discover who you are. When no one is looking do you still give up your seat on the train? Do you take time at museums? Do you clean up after yourself? Stripped of all the external social forces, how do you behave yourself? This is the true measure of who you are and you can only discover it when you're alone.
I think the most interesting things I've observed through all of this is that we're never really alone (cheesy "Into the Woods" moment). We have to identify with something and when it's not a friend it may take the shape of a book, a park, or a stranger who needs help. At least it's true for me: I crave connection and find it where I can. So, I have one more day to myself. It'll be nice, but to be honest it'll be nicer when I'm with my family and friends again. "Me time" is good only in moderation.

"Mamma Mia" and "Chicago" - The shocking truth!

I didn't expect to see so many West End musicals during my stay in London. They might kick me out of the elitist theatre snob club for this. However, I have learned a great deal from a lot of these experiences. These two musicals offered the biggest surprises.
I went to see "Mamma Mia" last night with relatively low expectations. I anticipated the simplistic plot, the corny dialogue, the overall campiness of the whole production. By the end of the show, the whole audience is on their feet dancing and having a great time and I must admit I was one of the jubilant crowd. (I mean, how can you NOT dance when you hear ABBA?) I was alarmed, though, by the blatant amorality of the whole show. This story (and I suppose I should use that term loosely) took place on a Greek island where there truly are no rules. The climax of the play consisted of the romantic leads dodging all responsibility and commitment in order to just go out and have a good time and the show was laced with sexual humor that was clearly there only to keep the audience (and the actors, no doubt) titillated. What truly bothered me about this show is that in the fanciful world of Greek resorts, ABBA music, and never-ending dance numbers, there are no consequences for one's actions. For that would get in the way of the fun. By the end, you get caught up in said fun so long as you check any morals at the door. They won't be challenged and there really isn't anything offensive in the show, but there is nothing real about it. I found myself dancing and singing along, but wondering what it was we were celebrating? Was it virtue? No. Was it iniquity? No. It was hollow, devoid of meaning. Pure fun. Perhaps it has its place, but I left the theater feeling not enriched or enlightened, but not offended or conflicted either. It was emptiness. When the ABBA music stops playing, you have nothing.
This afternoon I had a very different experience. Based mostly on the recommendation of a friend, I decided to see "Chicago" and was still unsure about that decision as the overture started to play. However, I was thoroughly impressed by what I saw. Here was a superbly written, brilliantly staged, and wonderfully acted piece of theatre that had something to say. I won't go into what that was (I'll let you go see the production yourself...with my recommendation) but I can say that it was an enriching, enlightening, and (dare I say) uplifting experience. Theatre should be a discussion. Maybe I agree with you, maybe I don't. But whatever you do, be responsible. Acknowledge that what comes up must come down. Be brave and say what you want to say well. We don't need any more lukewarm "Mamma Mia" experiences, as fun as they may be. I mean, that's what the ABBA Gold CD is for, right?

Checkpoint Four

Another great week of theatre. Let's see what young Matthew learned this week...
ROMEO AND JULIET - I've found that I would rather a director give me a straightforward interpretation of a text than a half-baked "progressive" production. This production tried to be more than it obviously could be. I did appreciate seeing actors performing in the rain. The show must go on, right?
BRIEF ENCOUNTER - This reaffirmed for me the joy of theatre. It incorporated so many things and the several elements came together to make a great night of theatre.
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE - Another lame Shakespeare interpretation. Although I don't think this had to do with treatment of a classical text. Really it went back to the complete lack of a director's concept. Moments were cool, but nothing unified them. Thus, it left most of us pretty cold.
TAMING OF THE SHREW - This was the first time I've seen a director do something responsible with this text. The sexism inherent in the play is disgusting and this production didn't shy away from that. Courage! Courage is essential for great theatre.
MAJOR BARBARA - Shaw has a way of making you question everything you hold to be true. This production was quite strong and was staged in such a way that the themes of the brilliant play came through loud and clear. It was great to see someone tackle a text in a new way.
THE VORTEX - I love Noel Coward. The set was hideous but I saw how strong actors giving a straightforward performance of a great play makes for great theatre.
THE DEEP BLUE SEA - I don't think the actors quite understood this text. They were all (well, mostly all) great actors but it just wasn't quite the right fit. It was, however, a thoroughly enjoyable production.

Checkpoint Three

This week's treasures and... disappointments:
THE GOOD SOUL OF SETZUAN - This was a great example of epic theatre and showed how you can be faithful to a Brecht text without becoming a museum piece. It did want Brecht wanted to do, but from a different way and I very much appreciated that they didn't try to beat me over the head with how sophisticated they were.
THE COMMON PURSUIT - This show was nicely structured and the dialogue was taut and smart. I felt like it was a little too unclear because I didn't feel I got everything out of it that I could have. There was only so much there but even of what I could see, I felt like I missed something. I blame this on the writer (of course) and a lack of clarity.
THAT FACE - Awful angry college student writing. Polly Steiman wrote this when she was nineteen. And it shows. Completely irresponsible and not really worth writing about.
FAT PIG - This play started somewhere we've been so many times before ("Boy meets girl...") but took me somewhere I'd never been. It was completely enjoyable all the way through and I left the theatre desperately examining my own life and trying to sort out what I'd just seen. It was a great theatrical experience.
TROILUS AND CRESSIDA - This was a good adaptation but I think this script (and most Shakespeare, actually) needs to be cut for performance. I saw how an imaginative director can enliven a text and create a strong show.
HARPER REAGAN - This was a deceptively simple play that prompted hours of conversation among the group I went with. I loved its structure and the gentle ways that its themes were discussed. Nothing was overt or heavy-handed, but it was all thoroughly dealt with.
FAST LABOUR - Sometimes a structure that I don't like can have good results. This play was not without it flaws, but I think it was relatively successful in what it set out to do. And it did it in a way I don't like. Interesting...

Reflections of a young writer

Recently I saw a fiftieth anniversary production of Harold Pinter's play "The Birthday Party" at the Lyric Hammersmith theater. Basically, fifty years ago his first full length play was produced there and received terrible reviews. Though it closed after only eight performances, one critic astutely predicted that both Pinter and his play would be heard of again. Now, fifty years and one Nobel Prize later, his seminal work is back onstage at the same theatre, playing to sold out crowds.
I can only imagine how it feels to be Harold Pinter right now. The worldwide theatre community will be eternally grateful that he did not let the negative reviews get to him. His incomparable style was evident in "The Birthday Party" and, likely, was the very thing the critics lampooned. It was unlike anything they'd seen before and they had nothing good to say about it. However, he didn't change a thing. He kept on writing courageously and pushing the envelope as he had so boldly done with his unsuccessful debut and it's only in hindsight that we can see the value in that.
Neil Labute came to speak to study abroad students about theatre and his career as a writer. He urged us to be courageous in the theatre. He spoke out against playwrights who write tidy plays with few actor and simple technical requirements simply so that they can be produced. He said that a playwright needs to have something to say and they need to bravely say it how they want it said. Good theatre, he insisted, cannot possibly come about without risks. Risks like those taken by Harold Pinter.
Me, I worry too much about what people say or what I'm afraid they'll think. When I sit down to write I have these obnoxious little voices in my head saying "I don't get it" or "That's not funny" or "I don't like the ending." Sadly, I've let this get to me far too much and I feel my writing has suffered as a result. I don't take risks and I am not fiercely committed to my own work. And the time has come to change. If I want to make any waves I have to get in the water. (Wow, what an obnoxious cliche...) Seeing great theatre here has made me recognize the risks that are ALWAYS involved and the sublime joy that comes when one of those risks really pays off.

Checkpoint Two

Alright, my theatre education continues...
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM - This was a staging that made me feel completely differently about this script. It was imaginative but didn't shove anything don your throat. It goes to show that theatre really is about play.
THE BIRD SANCTUARY - This script was not my favorite. The dialogue was indicative and the plot made little sense at all. When I surrendered my personal taste and allowed it to remain what it was rather than living up to my expectations I enjoyed it a bit more. I learned from this that you need to start with a good script and that we all have different tastes. ("Time Out" loved this play...go figure.)
THE BIRTHDAY PARTY - The staying power of good writers! Take that, nay-sayers! I was so happy to see this production and learned what "Pinteresque" really means.
FRAM - What you say shouldn't be obscured y how you say it. What this play had to say was significant but the manner in which it went about it was painful to sit through. It certainly made me think, though, about what power (if any) that the arts have in tackling real issues.
HELLO AND GOODBYE - A tight script and strong performances are thrilling. This play was centered on a relationship and two people driving very hard for two different things. What is more basic than that? And what could be better?
MICHAEL FRAYN LECTURE - Don't be afraid of failure, work hard, have fun, keep your feet on the ground.
THE PITMEN PAINTERS - Being a part of the target audience is good. I wasn't a part of this play's target audience and it showed. However, it was a good show. I learned, though, not to make things too easy. Don't broadcast your agenda for all the world to see. Just explore a theme.
GONE WITH THE WIND - Ummmm...This just wasn't very good. I saw the importance of slowing down to let your characters talk and let the audience get to know them. Otherwise, frankly, no one gives a damn.
GOD OF CARNAGE - I love plays where interesting people are thrown into an intimate setting and a sort of cage match ensues. This makes for great drama. I also learned that some of the most interesting characters are those who build up walls that get torn down as the story progresses, letting you see glimpses at a time of the real person lurking below.
ASPECTS OF LOVE - A soaring score paired with a soap opera plot. It was beautiful but I felt a little irresponsible loving it as much as I did. The moral implications of the story were kind of repulsive but I got caught up in the music and enjoyed myself. I guess it goes to show the power of music, even to the point of being deceptive.
THE CHERRY ORCHARD - Chekhov needs to be slow! This show could have been great instead of good if they just took their time. It was very good though.
WICKED - This show demonstrated the commercialization of avant garde theatre movements of the last hundred years. It was a little disturbing even, seeing the principles of epic theatre, expressionism, and the like exploited so drastically. Still, it was a good show and I'll have to make fun of it a LITTLE less now.
LIFECOACH - This was a delightful sweet comedy that shows how comedy can mollify an audience an prepare them to receive a very meaningful message. Good times.

The Princess Complex

It’s an epidemic. It’s crippling beyond compare. And it’s preying on unsuspecting girls. The horror, the horror!
Yes, I know, I’m far too prone to dramatics, but I speak of the resurgence of mindless romance, of unchecked idealism, and of excessive “girly giggles.” I call it the “Princess Complex.”
Now, allow me to qualify this discussion. I obviously don’t want to be the pot calling the kettle black so I will be the first to admit that I suffer from a “Newsie Complex,” the condition of audacious little guys who want to change the world. I know several guys with a “Peter Pan Complex” or a “Charlie Brown Complex,” so no one is without fault here. But I digress.
So, what is the “Princess Complex?” As far as I can tell it operates on a foundation of boy-crazy giddiness that isn’t cute in bubbly preteens and is even less so in full-grown females. Those who suffer from this disorder see the world as a constant parade of distractions and obstacles blocking their view of whatever cute guys may be in the vicinity. The thing that gets them out of bed in the morning is the remote, magical possibility that “Someday My Prince Will Come” might be today. On special days they get to wear pretty dresses and entertain themselves dancing alone in front of the mirror. Aside from the pursuit of eye candy, their days are consumed by jewelry store windows, “Twilight” novels, salads with mandarin oranges and rose petals in them, and shows like “Gillmore Girls” and “Charmed.” They read Jane Austen, oblivious to the fact that she was making fun of them, and wait patiently for Mr. Darcy to come along and engage her in witty banter. Indeed, the life of the would-be princess is a simple one, a disconcerting cocktail of romance, idealism, and entitlement, wrapped up in a safely sanitized pretty pink bow.
Not that there is anything wrong with pretty dresses or Jane Austen (though I stick by my “Twilight” claim), but this unhealthy fixation must stop. “Enchanted” was fiction. Princess Aurora is not an acceptable role model. And princes don’t grown on trees. I suppose we can’t blame them. After all, they were raised to believe that someone would always come to their rescue, that happily ever after was a given, and that fairy godmothers, not hard work and inspiration, accomplished the impossible. We’re products of our generation, I’m afraid, and mine has produced more than its fair share of the aforementioned offending “girly giggles.” They ring in my ears, heralding the triumph of fluff in eclipsing good judgment, independence, and individual thought. Heaven help us all.

Checkpoint One

Well, I've been here for two weeks now and have so far seen NINETEEN shows. I've experienced a lot of what London has to offer as well, but I really came here first and foremost for the theatre. I haven't talked much about the things I've seen so far but I've learned more about theatre in these two weeks than any classes could teach me. Here's a quick recap of my education so far...
BILLY ELLIOT - This show showed me the electricity that can be generated from one performance and renewed my faith in child actors. It was inspiring but still light and was undeniably fun.
THE 39 STEPS - Oh, the wonders you can do with four actors and a minimal set. This honestly was an extremely fun night at the theatre and it did not rely on anything flashy or excessive. This show made me think that if the bare bones can be this good on their own, why do we worry so much about dressing them up?
SMALL CHANGE - Another very minimalist production, but one that took my breath away. It was incredible to see what four actors and four chairs could do to an audience. The poetic language seemed to envelop us and kept me on the edge of my seat trying desperately to grasp some small piece of what I was seeing. This was great theatre.
THE LOVER AND THE COLLECTION - And it gets better. This was not only a masterfully written play, but it was staged so beautifully and acted so brilliantly. The subtext was dealt with so subtly but everything was ultimately so clear because of focused writing and brutally sharp performances.
RICHARD III - This showed me that new life can be breathed into Shakespeare without bastardizing the original text. And it called attention to the absolute betrayal you feel when you are no longer a passive observer.
INTO THE HOODS - Joy in theatre comes from not trying to be more than you are.
SLEEPING BEAUTY - The sheer brilliance and emotional cleansing that comes from pure aesthetic beauty.
WAR AND PEACE PARTS 1 AND 2 - First, don't try to pack a 1000 page novel into a night of theatre unless you're up to the task. Second, unless you have a lot to offer, do not have the audacity to ask six hours of your audience to tell a story that would have been better told if someone had read the CliffsNotes of Tolstoy's novel aloud from the stage. Also, a weak show can be kept afloat by stunning images. But not for six hours.
VISITING MR. GREEN - Obvious affectation murders an otherwise solid performance. And a lazy actor who skims over the subtext of a scene gives a shallow performance. I could see what was going on in the script but didn't get that from the performance.
THE YEAR OF MAGICAL THINKING - This production showed me just how potent a single performance can be. Vanessa Redgrave took me to so many places just sitting in a chair center stage. I was also stunned by the brutal honesty of the writing. Simplicity and a lack of pretension kept this show from becoming heavy handed and unbearable.
KING LEAR - Seeing a Shakespeare play in the Globe made me think differently about Shakespeare's writing style. I know why he wrote how he did and how, in this space, his text really comes to life. Everyone who stages Shakespeare should have a clear understanding of the environment in which he worked. It all makes so much sense now.
HAPPY NOW - Witty banter is good fun but it keeps a narrative pretty superficial. I wondered sometimes if I was at the National Theatre of sitting at home watching an episode of "Will and Grace." The play undertook to deal with some cool issues but you had to break through the icy wall of cleverness to get to any honesty or humanity.
MARGUERITE - The first act appealed to the hopeless romantic in me and I loved it enough to overlook its shortcomings. Act Two slipped a bit more, but the musical embodiment of rapturous infatuation was incredibly pleasurable.
CHESS IN CONCERT - Again, great music gets your heart pounding like nothing else. And again, great performances can be incredibly thrilling.
NEVER SO GOOD - We always write for a specific audience. I didn't not quite get this play because it relied on British political history. I also realized that I much prefer intimate dramas to wide-reaching ambition projects.
PYGMALION - There was nothing innovative about this production. But it was riveting. It's humbling to realize again that they knew a thing or two back in the day.
SPAMALOT - Theatre can be FUN! Who knew?

Tate Modern

My life was changed by the Tate Modern Art Museum. Honestly, I didn't expect to have the rich experience that I did. I walked past works by Jackson Pollock, Matisse, Monet, Picasso, and the like and found the experience quite emotionally exhausting. I sat in a room with six large paintings by Gerhard Richter for about thirty minutes, completely enthralled by what I was seeing. My hand started itching for a pen so I pulled out a notebook and let my thoughts spill out onto the page. I'll spare you most of the introspective musings but I will tell you this: I left that gallery with a much greater understanding of what art is but, at the same time, more confused than ever.
Modern art is infuriating. Really, nothing is more frustrating than not "getting it." It's right there, you see what everyone else sees, but you don't understand. Understand...What does that word even mean? It's a picture, what's to "understand?" Well, why did someone paint it? Why is it hanging here? And why can't I seem to get off this bench? But what happens when we really understand it? I suppose it's a meeting of me and the work I'm trying to understand but which one surrenders? Is it an effort to rationally compartmentalize what I'm observing? Does everything have to fit within the framework that I've set up for myself? Is "understanding" that fitting? No wonder I feel like I don't "understand..."
Or is it different? Is it acceptance? Is it a a bending, an adjustment of what I know, what I'm capable of, and the fitting of my own mind to the reality presented in front of me? Do I appreciate art because it speaks to an existing piece of me and reinforces that concept of who I am? Or is it because it is outside of me and I have to reach. Or, perhaps, I don't think I can reach that far. But I stretch, I grow, I become more.
It's absurd for me to assume that I can take everything in, that everything I see will fit into the entity that is Matthew. How arrogant! Understand? How can I? I haven't breathed the artist's breath or been through what brought him to this canvas. So how can I get anything out of what I see? Do I become him, as best I can? Is this why he created this? Is this why I create? Is this why God creates? Did the artist hope I would find a piece of myself in this piece or did he hope that I would find a piece of him? Can I find that, make it a part of myself?
That's it! That's why I go to art museums. That's why I go to the theatre. That's why I love experiencing and creating art! I become more. And when I create, I hopefully share something with the hopeless kids who sit, glued to benches, enraptured by the wonders they behold and infuriated by what is just beyond their grasp.

Grow up, will ya?

A rant...
Okay. So the show we saw was not very good. So it was seven hours long. So some parts of it are downright laughable. So we're enthusiastic college students and we enjoy one another's company. But could we please stop acting like children?
I refer to several people who are a part of the Study Abroad program who seem to have no grasp on theatre etiquette or, really, any manners at all. At one point during tonight's performance of "War and Peace" there was a particularly brash non sequitur that took us all off-guard and sabotaged an already weak production. Now, class, what do we do at a moment like this? Sit still and shut up. Theatre is a communal experience and there is a certain degree of trust that goes into the gathering of audience and performers into an intimate space. A part of that unspoken agreement concerns your bridling of all obnoxious reactions. I was biting down on my hand to keep from laughing but a few choice girls who will remain nameless seemed to have no qualms whatsoever with regards to their incessant girly giggles. Heads turned, throats were cleared, and I wished I was with another group. My friend shared my embarrassment as did several others.
The same thing happened in "Richard III." At the emotional climax of an intense and magnificently acted scene between Richard and Elizabeth, Richard pulled her close and, to but it simply, kissed the life out of her. It was incredible and my heart was pumping, my veins flooded with the adrenaline that only comes in the heat of a great theatrical moment such as this. This was interrupted by the groans and giggles of many from our group. I suppose if it's not Giselle and Edward in "Enchanted," we are just not capable of handling a kissing scene. Yes, well, what did you expect? Did you really think the Royal Shakespeare Company was going to come sanitized for your protection? Did you think that theatre, real legitimate theatre, wouldn't ever make you uncomfortable? That's what art is! A disruption! Sometimes it's exceptionally beautiful but sometimes it's exceptionally painful or tragic or uncomfortable...What's important is that it's exceptional! And, oh, it is!
Now, I understand that I don't have the same taste as everyone else and that we don't all share the same interests on this trip (though I wonder what attracted some of these students to the London THEATRE program in the first place), BUT I think we're all mature enough to behave ourselves. Whether it's the utter brilliance of "Richard III" or the lackluster, unending saga that was "War and Peace," we can all be grown-ups about it.

If ballerinas ruled the world...

Tonight we went to to the Royal Opera House and saw a performance of "Sleeping Beauty" which really was absolutely wonderful. I had some misgivings, I suppose, not because I dislike ballet, but perhaps because there are so many things to see that I would rather stick to performances that are more my cup of tea. I don't know much about ballet. I don't know when it's good, I don't know when it's bad (within reason, of course). All I know is that it's impressive and pretty. And I figured that's all you need to know.
"Sleeping Beauty" has a simple plot. Girl falls asleep, boy kisses girl, and happily ever after. We sat in the theatre, however, for three and a half hours watching a group of insanely talented performers wow us with the most enjoyable beating of the dead horse that I have ever seen. (By the way, a ballet based on several tutu-clad ballerinas actually beating a dead horse would be quite fun to watch. Maybe I'll write that...)
I think all ballet is by definition quite indulgent which perhaps is why we love it. We don't eat cheesecake because it's good for us and we don't go to the ballet to be mentally stimulated. We go to witness something gorgeous, something whose beauty transcends the simple plots and the overt theatricality of the performance. Sitting there being surrounded by Tchaikovsky's music and witness to feats that should be impossible for the human body, I realized how essential the tenets of ballet are for each of us to live a healthy, balanced life. Perhaps one of the reasons why I'm so delighted by tonight's performance is because I think there's a lot we can learn from the ballet. For example:
1. Simplicity. Something simple but still well-done is worth a thousand overly pretentious dramas, misguided Shakespeares, or overly indulgent comedies.
2. An appreciation of nature. Looking at these dancers I saw flowers blooming and waves crashing and wondered why I spend so many hours pent up inside.
3. Aestheticism. Some things are just pretty. And that's it. And that's okay. (Exhibit A: Jessica Alba.)
4. Romance. If a magical fairy wants to lead me to a sleeping princess who can only be awakened by my kiss, that's fine with me. Bring it on.
5. Beauty. God blessed His children with talents and it's an utter delight to sit back with your opera glasses and take it all in. Genius is inspiring.
So, the ballet was great. I was right, I didn't appreciate it like I appreciated "Small Change" or the Pinter plays. But it was a different experience. (And, be fair, who can beat a matinée of a Pinter play on the West End? And, by the way, yesterday I saw a piece of Mahler. Sort of.) I would recommend it to anyone. Almost.

I heart good theatre.

Honestly, I feel like I've been in the wrong places my whole life. This city is full of wonderful theatre. I've seen six shows so far, all of which have been incredible theatrical experiences. The first two were previously mentioned. Last night I saw "Small Change" at the Donmar warehouse which was absolutely beautiful. I felt like fully grasping and comprehending that play is like trying to get a drink of water from a fire hose. There was so much to take in and it was a very enriching experience.
This afternoon we saw a matinee of two Pinter plays: "The Lover" and "The Collection." Pinter is one of my favorite playwrights and today's performances reaffirmed that love. He is incredible. Then we saw the RSC's production of "Richard III" which took me places I didn't think Shakespearian histories could. I'm not quite able to formulate an intelligible response to what I saw. It was simply (and literally) breathtaking.
There are some girls on this trip who have heard a few choice remarks escape my lips out of context who I am afraid seem to think I am some edgy, rebellious maverick which simply is not the case. (I'm sure most of my closest acquaintances could attest to that.) Hopefully soon they'll realize how utterly dull I really am. Then all will be well.
London contiues to astound me with its universal beauty and high "coolness factor" and I am so happy to be here. Life is good. Next week: more shows!

"Billy Elliot" and my first day IN London...

It seems this website posts my entries with the time in Provo. Oh well. I don't care enough to change it.
Today was my first day spent entirely in London. Classes will be nice. Nothing life-changing or anything, but it'll be cool. Hey, it's six units. I was happy to see that I got a 3.9 GPA last semester. This means I won't lose my job with Freshman Academy. (It wasn't really a concern but it's good to know it doesn't have to be.) I rode the Tube 10 times today. Talk about starting out with a bang. i feel relatively confident doing the stuff I want to do. Anything I'm unsure of I can just figure out as I go along.
Now to business: "Billy Elliot" changed my life! Okay, a little dramatic there. But I honestly was BLOWN AWAY! The little kid who played Billy was a phenomenal performer and has reaffirmed my faith in theatre. The show was not without its problems but moments of it were so brilliant that I forgave its obvious shortcomings. I could go into a full review of the show but that would be self-serving and not very interesting. I was so touched by the theme of pursuing your dreams and escaping the monotony of life through art. If you ever, EVER have an opportunity to see it, don't hesitate.
"The 39 Steps" was a fully enjoyable evening of theatre as well. Not much to say about that, other than the fact that I loved it. London theatre is wonderful. I am so deliriously happy.

London: The Beginning

Well, it's been more than a month since I blogged. A quick recap: "Drums in the Night" and finals happened, I went to California, and set sail (okay, airplane, really...) for London.
And here I am. My apartment just makes me laugh. We're on the sixth floor so it's a long hike up every morning. It's just the three of us in the flat: me, Mitch, and David. I was telling them that I'm happy things will be relatively chill on the guys' end. So far, things have been great. Our flat does look like the set of a Tim Burton movie and the shower seems to have been built for Hobbits, but I can't complain; I'm in London! I was immediately struck by how cool everything looks here. I'll restrain myself from taking too many pictures of things like brick walls and peoples' front doors; really, I can talk the talk but when it comes to actually taking pictures I can never manage it. Oh well...I forgot to pack a towel so to save money for theatre tickets I picked up a hand towel at the grocery store for a couple pounds and that will serve me just fine. After all, we have a midget shower so why not feel even more like a giant?
My only beef is with the food. (No comment as to whether or not that pun was intended.) Good heavens, have the British never heard of sugar? Or seasonings? Or reasonable prices? I bought the equivalent of sugar smacks at the grocery store but it's certainly turned out to be more smack than sugar. Oh well. Maybe this will cure me of my need for kick-you-in-the-mouth sorts of food.
All is well here. We're going to the half price ticket place today to go see a show. What will it be? Whatever they've got that isn't "Wicked." Yes, you heard me. And I'm off to the first day of class.

Top o' the mornin'!

It's Saint Patrick's Day. And I am in a terrific mood. Yes, it's a Monday morning and it's much colder than I would prefer. But I'm smiling. I went to the temple this morning, I'm healthy and happy...
I don't know how to explain the tendency we have (myself included) to dwell on the negative in blog posts. Perhaps this is the perfect outlet for venting. Perhaps we're all just more negative than we should be. I don't know. But I'd like to be positive here today...
I am so happy to be a student at a university studying something I love. I am so grateful that I can wake up happy every morning and excited to go to class. I'm grateful that I live a life that is grounded in the truth of the Gospel of Jesus Christ and that I have that anchor to hold me strong through the storms of life. I'm grateful for friends who wish I wasn't always at rehearsal and for a family that misses me when I'm gone. I'm so glad that I live in this nation of peace and prosperity (relatively speaking, of course) where we are in a position to lift and assist others less fortunate than we. (Not a comment on current foreign affairs, mind you.) I'm happy to have a body that (usually) does what it's supposed to and access to medical care to fix it when it doesn't. I'm happy to have new couches in my apartment that I like even more than my own bed and the ceramic horse that guards us against evil spirits and vicious thieves. And I'm happy that my roommate went on a strange rampage last night securing all our windows and doors from potential break-ins. He cracks me up sometime...
In short, life is good. Let's all smile. And wear green today. Or I'll probably punch you. What a wonderful day...

Running

I went for a a run. A jog. No, I'm not speaking metaphorically. I mean, I put on my sweats, grabbed my iPod, and hit the streets. Surprised? Me too.
I got back from my mission a year ago. Most people close to me know the story: I came home early, tried to get healthy, got no definitive diagnosis, and ended up being released after about four months of limbo. (See the "A Personal Essay" post for more insight into the delightful story...) I've clawed my way up from that demoralizing position over the last year and am happy with where I am in life. Things are going well. Much better than last year, at least. But my mysterious "condition" still holds me hostage, so to speak.
I am incapable of exercising for any period of time because of, well, complicated medical issues that I don't really want to go into. I've been seeing a lot of furrowed brows and hearing a lot of I-don't-knows in doctors' offices for the past year and have all but given up on the hope that the medical community could possibly offer me any answers. I've wondered if I'll have to resign myself to an inactive lifestyle for the rest of my days. Life is going well, but this particular situation was looking bleaker than ever.
Then I realized: I am not powerless! I alone have control over my body and I'm going to get back to normal or die trying. I'm not going to sit back and shrug off missed opportunities and deflated self-esteem due to some unquantifiable disorder that has baffled the best medical minds of Brazil, Sacramento, and Provo. If I can't nurse my body back into health, I'll beat it into submission. So, I went running. The run was short distance-wise but took a pretty long time, I must say. I only threw up a little and despite the clutching my side and gasping for air, I felt like the strongest man alive when I arrived again at my doorstep. Yeah, it sucks. But I'll do it tomorrow. For longer. And the next day. And the next.
I want my life back.

In defense of men

Heard in Fast and Testimony Meeting:
“We men, we’re idiots. The women are smart and spiritual and have it all together. They condescend to be with us and I’m grateful for that. We men really don’t have anything going for us and there’s no way we could ever deserve our wives.”

Heard at work:
“The I.Q. of the room gets lower with every additional man who comes in.”

Heard in class:
“You can’t blame him. I mean, he’s a guy. Of course he’s stupid. What do you expect?”

Yes. They’re for real. You have undoubtedly heard the same kind of statements. And yes, all of these come from the mouths of modern, American, Mormon men. What do we learn from these astonishing remarks? (Other than the fact that I’m strange and compulsively write down the conversations of those around me…Beware!) That there is a vicious and destructive tendency toward the demoralization of men. To put it plainly: sexism.
What astonishes me, though, that this discrimination seems to be perpetuated principally by the men. Sure, “man hating” women may spout off similar slander, but I think we see more often than not that men continue to demean themselves. It is, as the king of Siam would say, a puzzlement.
Perhaps this tend comes from the “reparations phenomenon,” the idea that men, having subjected women to thousands of years of discrimination, oppression, and general inequality, that somehow equality will be achieved by turning the tables and allowing the men to become the punching bags. We see this idea manifest in many forms, notably the prevalence of “white guy” jokes in the media. If this were truly the cause I could let it roll off my back. If this reversal is what it will take to develop true gender equality I can let things like “According to Jim” go. However, I’m not convinced this is the case. First of all, the idea that further polarization will help us live together in peace is flawed in logic. Second, this “anti-male” sentiment is so widely embraced and actively furthered by the “victims” of its claims. And third, when it comes down to it, it isn’t the women, but the men, who benefit in the long run from this widely-circulated myth.
What’s to be gained by a man who undercuts the intellectual, emotional, and spiritual capacities of his sex as a whole? A great deal of slack. Though few would admit it, the “I’m a guy” line is something of a cure-all for a lot of women. Why even try to communicate with your girlfriend when the simple fact that you’re a guy and the admission of that simple fact will make any oversight okay? Why try to live a Christlike life when we can sit in Elders’ quorum and muse on how inferior we are to the Relief Society sisters and how hopeless it is to try and measure up? Sure you’ve got to swallow your pride for a moment but that’s a small price to pay for the universal antidote you’ve been given courtesy of the genetic lottery you won as soon as the doctor said “It’s a boy.”
Nowhere are we taught superiority or inferiority of one sex over another. No verse of scripture or discourse of modern prophets or apostles even hints at the fact that some of God’s children are better or worse than others based on gender. Different? Yes. Better? Absolutely not. Sorry to burst your bubble, my fellow “insensitive,” “forgetful,” “negligent” men. But the time for excuses is over. Let’s live up to what we as PEOPLE are capable of.

Reeee-JEC-ted!

I just got rejected. Yeah, it happens. A friend of mine was sitting on the slab within listening distance and undoubtedly paid rapt attention to the whole conversation. Had I been in her position, I would have cringed for a second then quickly reached for my moleskine notebook and written down the whole ordeal. It would have ended up in one of the "romance is ridiculous" plays I so enjoy writing and I would have laughed at the high drama so readily found in every corner of the HFAC.
It sucks to get shut down. That doesn't really need to be said. In the last month I've suffered two pretty major disappointments in the relationship arena. I don't say this to complain; like I said, it happens. The two situations were pretty different and my reaction surprised me to be honest. The first girl had been sending all the right signals and all signs pointed to yes. It was about to the point when I was going to embark on the inevitable DTR when she pulled a u-turn and sent the message loud and clear that she wasn't as interested as she had let on. I suppose at one point the idea to act like a child and blow me off seemed like a good way to "let me down easy" but somewhere along the way it got lost in translation. On the upside, the whole ordeal made her entirely unattractive and, thus, pretty easy to "get over." Obnoxious, yes. But heartbreaking? Not so much.
I wouldn't say I'm "heartbroken" right now. Just...disheartened. The second girl also was sending all the right signals. More so than perhaps any other girl I've taken on a first date. Somewhere along the line between then and now, though, she changed her mind. I asked her out a few minutes ago and she was very frank and honest about her lack of interest. I smiled and told her we should just hang out sometime then. As friends. She smiled in response and we left it on a good note. Or so she thought. My friend sitting five feet away certainly had a pretty good idea of the hurt behind the cordial acceptance of defeat. But what else could I do, right? The funny thing is how much more it sucked this time. I couldn't hide behind the frustration, irritation, and dismissal of the ridiculous behavior I met with the last girl. This time there really wasn't anything to cushion the painful realization of one more "no" to add to the pile. Okay, it was ONE DATE. It really shouldn't matter this much. And it isn't the shattering blow I may have made it out to be. It just sucks. I'm grateful though for a mature girl who's classy enough to come right out and say what's going on. No games. No manipulation. Just plain unadorned rejection. And to think I said I would prefer it this way...

ACTF: The verdict is in...

...And I won! It's pretty satisfying to say those two words: I won. Rarely can I say them so I'm afraid I enjoy it too much.
But yes, I am a national finalist now. This means a trip to Washington DC and an opportunity to workshop my script at the Kennedy Center. I mean, that's a venue I would get excited just to GO TO, let alone see my work onstage. So, yes, this is pretty much the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me. The week was good. Tiring, but good. I got a random kiss in an elevator to top it all off which, if nothing else, is another great story. And I got a pretty nasty cold which I'm still getting over. Oh well... Life is good.

ACTF: The Beginning

I got down to LA yesterday and I'm already in the swing of things. ACTF seems pretty exciting, if for nothing other than the performances we'll get to see. I'm waiting for auditions for my play to begin. I'm excited to see how it does. My director, Terry Petrie, seems cool and I know my dramaturg. I think the process will be a great learning experience for me. I see the actors out in the hall and it looks like a pretty excited group. Some obnoxious things are going on (personal life-wise) about which I will probably rant soon enough. But for now, I'm ignoring everything but the task at hand: taking full advantage of the opportunities afforded me here. I think it'll go well. Wish me luck at auditions.

Writer's block...I guess...

I've been commissioned to write a play to be put on this summer. "Commissioned" means money. Does this help me to write more? No. I've actually been at a loss as to what to write for quite a while. I've finally set out on what has proven to be the best idea I have so far (which really might not be saying much) and it's shaping up nicely. It's typical of me, I must say. It deals with love and relationships in a cynical and pragmatic way. Surprised? You shouldn't be. For a confessed hopeless romantic like myself it's astounding to me that I am so inept at writing anything remotely idealistic or romantic. I suppose it's just as well. After all, there are plenty of people filling the modern media with unlikely stories of boy-meets-girl sensibility. Maybe someday I'll join their ranks.

Democrats

Another letter to the editor that The Daily Universe (for some reason) deemed inappropriate for publication. This is in response to a claim made that one cannot be an LDS Democrat. Enjoy...

I am delighted to finally see some sense in the Readers’ Forum. Though we still have a long way to go, Friday’s “Immoral Support” was certainly a step in the right direction. BYU’s negligence in addressing this important issue is alarming and it’s time we all realize the truth: it is impossible to be a Democrat and an active member of the Church.
We all know that democrats openly support the desecration of the law of chastity and the slaughter of innocent babies, propagate the global warming myth which undermines all revealed doctrine concerning the Second Coming, question the motives behind our holy crusade in Iraq, and slander our pious leader George W. Bush. How can the Lord’s University put up with a secret combination like this? How can we tolerate a group of people who vote using a Ouija Board, who feast upon aborted fetuses, and who sacrifice a Republican virgin every month at the full moon?
It’s time we who support the laws and ordinances of the Restored Gospel take a stand against these wolves in sheep’s clothing and declare before the world that we will no longer support their unhallowed and iniquitous practices and beliefs. The time is coming when BYU applications will ask for political ideology in consideration for university placement and bishops will require proper political affiliation for temple recommend interviews.
Though a complete political cleansing is not yet possible, we can at least distance ourselves from those whose so-called convictions will lead us straightway into hell. We must stand united in purging this hallowed ground from the influence of the father of lies and those who choose to follow him. And there will be weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.

Ugh...

It's time to vent. Indulge me...

Note to self: always be a problem SOLVER. This has been building up for quite some time and is usually compounded in gatherings accompanied by large quantities of sighs, small voices, complaints, and forlorn looks. I don't know why people continually see the need to find the problems in a situation and ignore any possible solutions. To those of you whose laundry lists of grievances include no plans for improvement I invoke the immortal words of The Eagles: "Get over it!"

On an unrelated note, can we please stop masking inadequacy with weirdness? I suppose a theatre major sees this more than most but I do not like the reputation the marginal few (or at least I HOPE they're not the majority) give to the "artsy fartsy" crowd. You can usually spot a bad actor/writer/director/etc. simply by looking for the one who can't fit in at parties. Yes, I know artists have a right to a sampling of eccentricities and I know that I am not the most normal man you'll find. But might we abandon the false notion that such abnormalities define our artistic merit? The argument could be made to the contrary. Please no more ridiculous outfits to try and stand out, no more strange outbursts in crowded restaraunts, no more belting "Wicked" at inopportune times. If you're an artist your work will speak for itself. If you're not...well, maybe that's why you're singing "Wicked." (Was that mean? It really is directed at no one in particular. Except perhaps Winnie Holzman.)

And finally, can we all stop being so cynical? I was talking to a friend the other day who couldn't understand how Oprah earned the respect she has. He was convinced that everything the woman does it a marketing ploy and that her activist humanitarian stance is merely a facade to keep herself in her position of power. You know, I don't know Oprah. Frankly, I don't think I've ever watched an entire episode of her television show. But why should we, a people who claim to be anxiously engaged in a good cause, tear down those who appear to be doing just that. Oprah doesn't have the market cornered on this. Anyone in the public eye who sets out on any altruistic endeavor has his or her motives immediately called into question. We scrutinize those people who are affecting positive social change more than anyone else, it seems. I'd like to, once again, throw in my two cents here: leave them alone. There's enough garbage to clean up and anyone engaged in doing what's right is at least going in the right direction. Let's be positive? Okay.

In Loving Memory...

President Hinckley passed away. That's (quite literally) the news on the street. Initially, passing such significant news by text message (how I found out) seemed almost vulgar, but I think it's just a testament to the stature of the man. I don't think anyone alive was more loved than President Hinckley in his day. I feel like a close friend has left me but am overjoyed that he has reached the "finish line," so to speak. With all of our postulations I don't think we ever really realized that this day could come. But here it is. It is a solemn occasion but not a bleak one. I remember a time on my mission when I'd been in one city for what I felt was a very long time. I was working as hard as I could and knew I could continue to work as long as I was there. But, you know, deep down I really wanted a transfer. I was willing to do what the Lord had called me to do but I wasn't opposed to a change. I think that's how President Hinckley felt. He was old and tired, he missed his wife, but he would have kept giving everything he had for as long as it was expected of him. That is precisely what he did and that is precisely why the phone lines are jammed, text message inboxes are full, and the loss of one ninety-seven year old man is so widely felt. He was transferred. We'll see him soon. In the meantime we'll miss him but how grateful we are for a living church and continuing revelation through inspired men like him. I imagined myself crying a river and wearing black for a week but I fail to see the tragedy in the situation. He's with his wife, his friends, and millions of people who I'm sure have welcomed him with open arms.

A trip to the movies.

Yesterday was MLK day and there was some sort of canned food drive at the dollars movies. We ended up going to the movies after FHE and I found myself suddenly sitting in "The Golden Compass." Aside from the concern that I'd turn into a God-killing atheist if I stayed too long in that theatre, the film completely lost me. It was one of those"at what point did this look like a good idea" moments. I convinced two of my friends to go "movie hopping" with me so we went to the theatre next door. The movie? "Beuwolf." Yes, "Beuwolf." Not that naked computer-animated fight scenes with strange sexual undertones aren't charming in their own right (actually, I take that back), but I immediately regretted my desire to explore. We ended up moving to the next theatre to catch the last ten minutes of "August Rush" a sweet but overblown music video. Watching Keri Russell almost made it okay, but I couldn't believe I had wasted an evening with such garbage... Please, let's stop creating and patronizing these heinous movies and support real art. Please?

Ode to being alone...

I realized this morning how long it's been since I've been on a date. Okay, so for "normal" people it wouldn't seem that long. But a month is a long time for me. Especially at BYU. It surprised me that it's been this long because, well, I haven't really noticed it. Since my last date (which, consequently, was a breakup) I've barely been able to catch my breath in between all the things that have been going on. A quick recap:
-"A Christmas Carol" at the Hale. Every other night is a big commitment. And it means that the other nights are packed pretty full with everything I had to put off for the show. It paid well enough though.
-Finals. Yeah, college...
-Christmas Break. This was a relaxing week, but certainly no dating went on. Really, there aren't any prospects in Sacramento. Not that I've looked; perhaps the very fact that I'm only there occasionally and for a week at a time has something to do with it. Anyway, Christmas was great.
-Student SLAM. My most exciting writing "gig" to date. I flew back early from Sacramento in order to do this and boy was it worth it. I don't think I've ever been that stressed though.
-The start of the new semester. Boy did my professors decide to just jump in there and get us started. It makes me wonder how things will be by the end.
-Writer's block. Since the semester began, actually. Until last night I hadn't really made much progress in writing since SLAM. I'm doing better now.
-"Here to There." BYU's devised theatre project. About four hours of rehearsal a day which means I have to be pretty creative about when homework, writing, and the other essentials of life fit in.
Okay, so, you know, a lot. No time to date. My confidence such as it is, I figure any romantic success will require some serious concerted effort on my part and some sort of serendipitous miracle. Therefore, I'm single. Single in a transient sense. It certainly could be worse. In fact, I realize that if my social situation were much different I would have missed out on a lot of opportunities. So it would have to be worth it.
WANTED: Someone for whom I am willing to sacrifice participation in some pretty cool stuff. I'm not saying it won't happen, I'm simply saying that it hasn't yet. And for that reason I spend my Friday nights at rehearsals and my Saturdays at home writing.
In the meantime, however, I'm happy about how my life is going. Things are really shaping up for me and maybe now is the time to seize the opportunities for which I probably won't have much time in the future. I'll keep my eyes open though...

A Personal Essay...A looooong one...

I wrote this for a contest and, since it's unlikely that I'll win anything, I thought I'd put it up here.

“The Lord is On Thy Side”

The flight didn’t seem very full. I wasn’t particularly happy to be onboard myself but I found my way to my seat and settled in for the long trip ahead. I was sure I wouldn’t be able to sleep, nor would I have the presence of mind to read or otherwise occupy myself. As the flight attendants secured the doors for takeoff my thoughts were already soaring at thirty thousand feet and showed no signs of slowing down. The plane lifted off and I leaned my head against the window, watching the lights of Sao Paulo fade slowly into the surrounding darkness. It was happening. I was going home.

I’d spent the last twenty months laying out the principles of the gospel as simply as the in-flight safety instructions I’d just heard. There was an answer to every question and personal study every morning was a time to compartmentalize and make sense of teachings that had confounded the greatest of men. Life was laid out in the pocket planners we maintained so zealously and the salvation of souls fit neatly into the grids we diligently filled night after night. We were princes, messengers of truth, servants of God, spokesmen of the cure-all gospel. Now here I was, suddenly devoid of answers, suddenly boiling over with questions, battered and broken on a flight home. Missionaries had been hurt worse than I was. You didn’t need to know much church history to see that. But no one wants a companion who can’t walk. Sao Paulo was barely visible now, like a distant star you wished on as a child. I’d be home in no time.

I looked around. The cabin was quiet and the two other seats in my row remained unoccupied. This certainly wasn’t how I’d pictured my homecoming. My mother’s voice still rang in my ears, full of disappointment for me cloaked in the optimism that had kept a smile on my face for twenty years. She’d be happy to see me, as would the rest of the family, but the reunion would be bittersweet at best. I would see behind their welcoming smiles the very questions I was too afraid to utter myself. I would do my best to smile back at them and recount mission stories without feeing the sickness in my stomach that set in as the plane reached cruising altitude. I had been right about one thing: sleep wouldn’t come easily on this trip. I’m fairly certain that had there been anyone else seated in my row he would have gotten an earful of a young missionary’s tale of unlikely medical tragedy. I looked back at the two empty seats and felt, for the first time in nearly two years, completely alone.

I’d learned early on in my mission to appreciate the meaning of the words: “Be still, my soul. The Lord is on thy side.” I had heard a similar sentiment from my mission president as he bade me farewell earlier that day. I couldn’t remember all the times I’d shared that message with the people of Minas Gerais, Brazil. I loved to point out the promise in Helaman 5:12 that defines Christ as “a sure foundation whereon if men build they cannot fall” and read the passage where He promises, “Wherefore, be of good cheer and do not fear, for I the Lord am with you, and will stand by you” (D&C 68:6). The words had fallen countless times from my lips and I knew they were true. They were true for Vera who lost her job the day before her baptism. They were true for Danielle who wondered if she had the strength to follow Christ’s teachings. They were true for Maria whose determination to quit smoking at the age of seventy had taught me more than a thousand sermons ever could.

My fingers drummed restlessly on the armrest as I recalled their struggles and triumphs and wondered what I could say to them now. I closed my eyes in the first of many futile attempts to fall asleep as something unseen whispered into my ear the words that had buoyed me up through the tests and trials of missionary service: “The Lord is on thy side.”

Perhaps no other sentiment is as universally preached in the scriptures as that of Christ’s unabashed loyalty to those who follow Him. The Old Testament prophets spoke of him as “the Good Shepherd” and Isaiah prophesied: “He shall feed his flock like a shepherd: he shall gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom…” (Isaiah 40:11). The Book of Mormon promises to the followers of Christ “a better world, yea, even a place at the right hand of God…” (Ether 12:4) and the New Testament is full of the words of the Savior Himself who prayed to His Father: “And the glory which thou gavest me I have given them…I in them, and thou in me, that they may be made perfect in one” (John 17:22-23). Partnership with Christ seems to be the genesis of His entire gospel. “Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me,” He says, “for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls” (Matthew 11:29). This scripture conjures images of joint labor and invites all men to come unto Christ and work with Him toward our own perfection.

I had felt the Lord at my side as a missionary. Much of what I’d heard about mission life had been sugarcoated or romanticized but there was no denying the power with which I had felt infused as a full-time representative of Christ. Invincibility, though, proved to be a boyish delusion as familiar roads seemed longer and often-climbed hills seemed steeper than they had ever been. Walking became a greater burden with every passing day until I had been taken out of commission and moved close to the mission home for immediate care. I’d been infused with a sort of blind hopefulness and trusted that eventually I’d find a doctor who wouldn’t furrow his brow in confusion and a medication that would do more than make me want to take a nap. However, as time passed the situation grew bleaker and optimism became more a defense than anything else. I was working full-time in the mission office and walking with the assistance of a cane. I’d spoken on the phone with missionaries and ached to have a story of my own to tell, to speak with someone who wasn’t wearing a nametag, to feel like I’d earned the exhaustion that set in at the end of the day. The days were long then.

I reached up and adjusted the air conditioning on the panel above me, then turned my gaze to the darkened world outside the window. I strained my eyes to find any far-off pinpoints of light but soon gave up. I leaned back in my chair and listened to the hum and squeal of the cabin and the sounds of peaceful sleep around me. I began to pray but kept finding myself distracted from my own words. Prayer had not come to me as easily lately as it typically seemed to flow from the mouths of missionaries. I’d caught unintended worried looks coming my way from those who had accompanied my struggle and was frankly unsure of what my petitions to the Lord should be.

As prevalent as His promises to be faithful to His followers is the often-repeated scriptural assurance: “Ask, and ye shall receive; knock, and it shall be opened unto you” (D&C 4:7). I’d learned, though, that prayer was not a means by which we place orders with the Lord, carefully informing Him of our own priorities and urgent needs. I would have loved to feel justified in asking God to grant me the health for which I’d been longing but I found myself on my knees day after day praying for the patience to learn His will and the courage to accept it. My words frightened me and as time went on the Spirit began to instruct me concerning what was to come. The reality of an early return home for more adequate medical care was an unwelcome guest whose presence was made known more and more each time I addressed my Heavenly Father in prayer.

Not surprisingly, then, the morning I found out the bad news didn’t come as much of a shock. As I knelt at my bedside on Friday night my thoughts wandered to the test results that would be in hand on Monday morning. A cold wave of anxiety washed over me and I opened my eyes to orient myself once again. The other missionaries were asleep and the house was quiet. Alone in the peaceful darkness I began again to offer up the feelings of my heart when I experienced something I’d never before felt. I’d read 2 Nephi 4:33 in which he pleads with the Lord, “wilt thou encircle me around in the robe of thy righteousness” but hadn’t understood what he had meant until that moment. My eyelids rested gently closed but I felt more surely than ever before: “The Lord is on thy side.” I’d felt of His love and knew that His hand guided the path upon which I would soon enough find myself.

And it was soon indeed. Monday morning rolled around and time itself seemed to be in a hurry to get through the uncomfortable waiting room, anxious walk into the doctor’s office, and confirmation of the fears that had been festering for days. I found myself in the passenger seat of President Johnson’s car knowing full well what the tears in his eyes meant. I had no sooner arrived back in the office, it seemed, than I had a plane ticket home for the next day and the surreal feeling that my entire world was about to change. We had a nice lunch the next day at the mission home. Sister Johnson made two pans of lasagna, one for the group and another exclusively for me. We laughed and it felt good to be surrounded by love. I was interviewed by President Johnson and driven to the airport where I said my last goodbyes. My flight was on time and, like I said, not too crowded at all.

I was grateful for the slices of sleep I managed in between racing thoughts and burning questions, as the plane grew closer to its destination. The last few days had been a lot to take in and certainly I needed my rest but more than that I needed that feeling of security and assurance I had come to associate with pure Discipleship. I wanted a comforting passage of scripture, an illuminating quote from a conference talk, a morsel of wisdom to feed my starving soul. The plane began to shake threateningly and a scratchy voice apologized for the turbulence. I thought back to nightly planning sessions and lessons neatly counted up, progress clearly made. I thought of scripture flashcards and zone conference devotionals, of ward mission plans and goals to make ten contacts a day. What had it all been for? Why couldn’t I feel that joy? And why did the answers seem out of reach?

I refastened my seatbelt and fingered the canvas strap nervously. What was it President Johnson had told me? “The Lord has a purpose in all of this.” The words of the Proverb came to me like a song: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths” (Proverbs 3:5-6). The memory of my prayer Friday night felt like the welcome beam of morning light in the gloomy clouded skies outside the window. I rebuked myself for my sudden lack of faith but could not shake the desire to have something of the anchor upon which I had grown to depend. The body of the plane continued to nod and shudder as did many of its agitated passengers. I closed my eyes again and slumped down in my seat in an effort to get more comfortable.

Soon enough I found myself praying again. My eyes were closed and my mind was drawn up in a channel between my Heavenly Father and myself. I wanted answers. I wanted to know why I was on that airplane. I wanted to know why no diagnosis could be made, why no treatment had made the slightest difference in my condition. I wanted to know why my mission had been cut short when I had worked my entire life in preparation to serve. I waited in quiet desperation and again felt nothing. I asked again, pleaded even, that I be given some sort of direction, some means by which I could cope with the frustration that was quickly setting in. Just as I was about to resign myself once again to blindness and confusion I felt the gentlest tugging and the slightest warm sensation at my side. I recalled the words that had come to me earlier: “The Lord is on thy side.”

No answers came on the flight. The plane landed and I had no better understanding of what had happened than I had had twelve hours before when I boarded the airplane. But more than once I had felt the very real love of the Savior at my side strengthening me, even in my confusion and frustration. I felt it again as I painfully watched a crowd of missionaries heroically descending the escalator, their carry-on bags full of souvenirs for the family, and caught sight of my own family. They seemed just as happy to see their own gimpy missionary limping over to join them, also returning home with honor. I felt it radiate from my parents as they hugged me for the first time in twenty months and my little brothers as they bombarded me with the questions I knew were coming. I felt it again as I stepped into my home and spent the evening with the people I had so dearly missed.

I had spent twenty months wearing the Savior’s name proudly on my chest and had cultivated more of a relationship with Him than I could have understood the day I reported to the MTC. I learned that “all flesh is in (His) hands” (D&C 101:16) and that His love for us is deeper than we know. I learned that the invitation to “come unto Christ, and be perfected in him” (Moroni 10:32) is truly a call to work to become more like Him, to take His yoke upon us, and to keep His commandments. And I learned what may come of a close relationship with Him. As Job teaches, “Acquaint now thyself with him, and be at peace: thereby good shall come unto thee” (Job 22:21). All these things had been studied, pondered, and conscientiously recorded in the margins of “Preach My Gospel” but it wasn’t until I boarded that airplane that I truly learned what it means to acquaint myself with Christ.

If anything, the frustration I had experienced in the mission field was only a taste of what awaited me at home. Navigating the medical obstacle course in which I found myself anxiously engaged required the patience of Job and the wisdom of Solomon and concrete answers were few and far between. I amused myself at church by watching ward members rapidly calculating the time since I’d left home and pursing their lips in solemn contemplation. Of course they were always relieved to see my cane and liberally offered their condolences and medical counsel. Every decision seemed impossible to make as I constantly faced the conundrum of a standstill in life, held hostage by a mysterious ailment about which people seemed increasingly skeptical. And I learned that the last question a sick person wants to hear is, “How are you feeling?” Life was obnoxious and did not seem to be going anywhere at all.

Through all this, though, I learned that one Man truly can and does understand the perplexities of life and “know(s) according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities” (Alma 7:12). After teaching to his disciples many precious truths, Christ said, “These things I have spoken unto you, that in me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world” (John 16:33). In those moments when you feel truly alone you recognize that, in a very real sense, “The Lord is on thy side.” These “tender mercies of the Lord” (1 Nephi 1:20) are our support, our refuge, and our salvation. They are the reason why Paul exclaimed, “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me” (Philippians 4:13) and the reason why I found myself where I did months after I walked through the jetway in the Sacramento airport.

It had been a season of unanswered questions and unwelcome answers. I’d seen my opportunity to return to the mission field all but pass away and knew that I once again had to trust in the Lord. I was still broken and my extended family had a litany of questions regarding my physical condition. We had spent the week in Nauvoo having a great time together. Grandpa had worried whether I was strong enough to baptize my younger brother and everyone seemed to look at me like something incredibly fragile. Nevertheless, months had passed since my restless plane ride and it seemed still more distant as I walked into the celestial room in the temple.

The quiet in the temple is almost tangible, almost has a taste to it. I moved through the room, looking into loving faces gathered together as a family. I took a seat by myself, with much to think about. Things had not gone as I had hoped and I suspect that a certain disappointment will lie in wait in the back of my mind for years to come. I’d been to Spring Semester at BYU and had experienced the unique highs and lows of my own personal limbo. I’d continued to seek answers to the questions that seemed more pernicious and persistent than any medical condition could be. I’d also been to the temple numerous times and took advantage of these quiet moments for personal reflection and meditation. I liked the quiet.

I ran my fingers gently along the upholstery of the arm of my chair and looked up. The chandelier glittered like thousands of twinkling stars filling an opulent sky. A thousand wishes to make. I still had little or no concrete knowledge concerning what would happen to me in the coming weeks, months, or years, but I felt a familiar assurance as I looked at the chair next to mine. It was empty, but I didn’t feel alone. I closed my eyes and felt the familiar warmth and heard the familiar words:
“Be still, my soul: The hour is hast'ning on
When we shall be forever with the Lord,
When disappointment, grief, and fear are gone,
Sorrow forgot, love's purest joys restored.
Be still, my soul: When change and tears are past,
All safe and blessed we shall meet at last.”
I looked up and saw my parents smiling back at me. It had been a long couple of months but I had gained a friendship through the “disappointment, grief, and fear” of it all, a friendship with my Savior. I felt Him at my side.