Greene Peace

A letter

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 22:49:00 +0000

Dear guy sitting next to us in Biology,
I’m sorry you’re having a hard time focusing right now. To be honest, so am I and I guess it could be for that reason that Julie and I are talking about her boyfriend’s testimony of Café Rio instead of listening to the lecture about the water cycle. I learned about this in elementary school. We sang a song. We should do that now. No, I’m not being fair to you and yes, I do feel guilty. But let me explain…
Okay, so the truth is, I am having a hard time caring at all about this class. I’m about to get a BA in Theatre Arts Studies. Is there a more useless degree? Perhaps. But don’t rain on my pity parade. (Yes, I realize having a degree in theatre is better than not having any degree at all. But, that’s not what I’m talking about.) To get this degree I’m sitting through lectures that consist mainly of tangents and vacation photos. I should be more interested in al of this. I mean, isn’t biology mentioned specifically in the Doctrine and Covenants? The fact is, though, that I see this class as a hoop to jump through. Everyone, in fact, sees this class as a hoop to jump through because those who are actually going into biology are required to take a more intense class, one where the water cycle, I imagine, is a given. (Why am I irritated by the simplistic nature of this curriculum? It means I’ll get an A in here. So, I retract those grievances. Keep cycling, water!)
So, guy sitting next to us, I can only speak for myself but I’m having a hard time connecting this class to anything in the real world. Funny, isn’t it? That in a class all about the living world I have a hard time applying it to my life. But that’s the sad truth, I’m afraid. The truth is I need this class to get a degree that, if things go my way, I have absolutely no need for. My bachelor’s is necessary for my contingency plan, I suppose, but I quite feasibly will never list my undergrad work on a single relevant resume for the rest of my life. When looked at in that context, it’s tough to get too involved in the ramblings of the sweet old man giving this lecture.
I’m glad Julie and I have a class together, not because it will in any way enhance my academic experience in this class. In fact, maybe the fact that she doesn’t come to class sometimes is the reason I did marginally well on the first midterm (86%). The reason I’m happy she’s here to experience this with me is that we seem to provide a veritable “Balm of Gilead” for one another to help deal with the day-to-day annoyances of attending BYU. (Yes, guy next to me, I know I should be grateful for the opportunity to attend BYU. Yes. And I am, truly. It does not, however, change the fact that after four years here I still have an enormously difficult time connecting to the prevailing culture at this fine institution. This is no secret. And I think it’s okay. I’ll donate to the university if I ever sell a screenplay.) It’s during biology that Julie and I unload and manage to laugh about the silly little miseries that make us grit our teeth and roll our eyes any other time. It’s important. For both of us, I think.
But, guy sitting next to us, biology lectures are neither the time nor the place for this activity. You have the right to take notes and get good grades on the remaining two tests and who am I to stand in your way? I’ve gleaned from this lecture about as much information as I would have if I had stayed in the HFAC. Because that’s what I need: more time in the HFAC.
So, thank you, guy sitting next to us. Thank you for reminding me that I have yet another thing I need to work on. I’ve found I spend much less time than most of my dear BYU friends dwelling on my own failings and imperfections. I know they’re there but I tend to believe that simply dwelling on the good things I should be doing is much more effective than thinking about the fact that I’m not doing them as well as I should be. I probably shouldn’t sacrifice biology, healthy sleeping habits, and future financial security because I feel confident in my future as a playwright. And it’s good to be reminded. Even if I resent you and your fashionable wedding ring and thoughtful questions about swamplands in Brazil. That resentment won’t last long. Let’s not lose our heads.
Take care, guy sitting next to us. Kiss your wife and study your copious notes. I won’t ask you to email them to me. I’ll ask someone else. It’s a big class.
Your classmate,
Matthew

PS: The professor said the following a few minutes ago and I thought it was poetic. (See, I’m listening!)
What have we done with the Garden of Eden?
We plowed it and planted corn.

Getting personal

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Sat, 26 Sep 2009 00:49:00 +0000

I realize, of course, that no one wants to read a blog about how I wish I blogged more or explaining why I don’t. So, I won’t go into any of that. I’ll simply cite one excue I have and go from there.
I’m often surprised by the people who read this. Quite often I meet people who know more about me than I realize because they’ve read it on GreenePeace. Thus, I think I’m too careful about what I post. I omit names, gloss over details, or (most often) simply opt out of sharing anything that might be seen as too personal.
This may seem perfectly normal, but it puzzles me. The other night, a couple friends of mine and I were engaged in one of those late night conversations when secrets are divulged and everyone, for one reason or another, feels at ease sharing things hitherto unspoken. I often wish I had more secrets than I do, but I’ve found that I’m not one to shy away from sharing what little intrigue can be found in my sterile little world.
Why, then, am I so gun shy when it comes to blogging? In all honesty, it’s probably a petty excuse for not writing as often as I’d like to. And excuses are bad. That said, let’s proceed.

So, how am I these days? I think I’m doing alright. I really am immensely grateful for the blessings I have and realize how fortunate I am: I have a faith that renders the world in brighter colors than most people are able to see, I have family and friends whose love I can’t begin to doubt, I have more opportunities than I can handle to exercise and develop my talents, and I live in a comfort and a peace so constant that I find myself forgetting too often how well-off I am.

I’ve said before that I live my life in a perpetual state of frustration. This, however, doesn’t cheapen or discredit the wonderful things I’ve just listed. It means, though, that I am never satisfied. Hence the busy schedule, the perfectionism, the wild ambitions. This means, among other things, that I do not stop. Ever.
A friend of mine, upon hearing about the awesome opportunities afforded to me this semester, told me I’m a lucky guy. I know what he meant, but it was a little off-putting. I don’t like being described as “lucky.” “Blessed” is okay, but “lucky” implies the existence of some fortuitous lottery that I have somehow won. “Lucky,” in a way, discounts the Saturday nights spent at home writing, the sleep deprivation, and the countless hours a week spent in rehearsal. I am fortunate and I believe the stars aligned to a certain degree to afford me the favorable circumstances I needed to succeed as much as I have up to this point. That knowledge, however, only makes me work harder. From a romantic religious perspective, if Heavenly Father so stacked the deck for me to be able to succeed, I darn well better succeed. It means I have no time to spare, no time to waste. Whatever I’m doing now, however diligent or exemplary it may seem, is simply not enough. Nothing ever will be.
In the meantime, though, I’m happy. I like working hard, I like accomplishing things. I like the rare moments of “fun” mixed in, but I realize that if the rest of it weren’t enjoyable I’d have burned out long ago. This semester is going to be a busy one, but boy am I going to have a good time along the way.

I said last week, mostly in light of the onslaught of long to-do lists and frustration with the number of hours in the day, that I wasn’t going to date this semester. After all, my recent pursuits have fizzled out as a result of my busy schedule (and, in some cases, theirs) and, my friends assure me, a possible lack of interest. I find it difficult to fathom the possibility of finding enough time even for something casual. By the time it gets to Saturday night, my only “night off” of the week, I’m so tired that I don’t want to do anything but lie in bed, watch indulgent movies, and single-handedly eat a Little Caesar’s pizza.
Those who know me best, though, remind me that when I’m really interested in someone I manage to make the time necessary. I was in love once and it came at a time that probably couldn’t have been more inopportune. It was important enough, though, that I was willing to be creative and make necessary sacrifices (often of sleep) to ensure that there was sufficient time. Just thinking about that gives me confidence that I won’t become the zealous artist who is blinded to everything but his work. My work took a backseat once before and I’m sure it could happen again. It will just take a lot.
I like saying, “I was in love once.” It makes me feel worldly wise and reminds me of what might have been the happiest time in my life. (I can’t think of anything that tops it in recent memory, at least.) The whole experience left its mark on my life, quite a formidable mark at that. But that is the subject for another blog, one when I’m even less inhibited about sharing things.
On top of all that, I seem to have a tendency to gravitate toward really bad dating ideas. I’m smart enough to keep myself from indulging any of them, but still, it’s alarming.

Okay, that’s enough writing for now. Hopefully this will become more of a regular thing. But I won’t elaborate on that.

Seven confessions

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 19:19:00 +0000

-There are three books I pretend I’ve read but never finished.
-I do not floss. Ever.
-I don’t think I’m as smart as my GPA indicates.
-I speed. Always.
-Sometimes I don’t like foreign films. In fact, sometimes I crave really stupid movies. I usually don’t give in, however.
-I judge people by their shoes more often than I like to admit.
-Sometimes I daydream about being a professional athlete. Really.

Psych out

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 19:02:00 +0000

I’m sitting in my psychology class working on a “group presentation” with a couple of guys I’m sitting next to. One of them is trying to explain why he, in spite of his white skin, deserves a multicultural scholarship because he’s a seventh generation Californian and only three generations ago California had barely become a part of the United States. I stopped myself from trying to correct any one of the absurdities in his logic, realizing that I’ve done nothing but argue with what he has said since our discussion began. He has, in fact, been wrong about nearly everything he’s said in the last ten minutes but he’s talking in the “I’m smart” voice, which has fooled our third group member into believing that if white people have higher SAT scores than minorities, then the palest white people must be the smartest. Am I in college? I wonder sometimes.
Okay, I’m being too harsh. He’s mentioned his (pale) wife several times and I have to bear in mind that this guy got a woman to fall in love with him. There has got to be more than meets the eye. I’m sure if I gave him a chance I could come to understand him better. I like to think I’m getting better at looking past what is initially off-putting and assuming there is something I can’t see. The old Matthew would roll his eyes and make a mental note not to sit in this row again. (Isn’t it weird how people tend to always sit in the same spots in a classroom?) However, the new Matthew is not so dismissive. I hope.
I think the guy sitting next to me (the neutral member of the group) has been reading this over my shoulder. I should be nicer.

A week in the life...

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 08:59:00 +0000

I had the idea that maybe if I made blogging a weekly activity I would do it more faithfully. So, here's a quick summary of this last one.
The second week of classes went just swimmingly. (We should use that word more.) I actually have two tests during the coming week, but we won't think about that now. At the moment, I'm happy my English class is teaching me to be a grown-up and to read boring things. (Look, I'm sorry, Benjamin Franklin, but your autobiography is just too long.) I'm discovering some really interesting pieces of literature though. Well, not discovering since I suppose their inclusion in an anthology and on my syllabus makes their content anything but uncharted territory. Perhaps I'm just trying to make up for the years I've spent as a student avoiding reading substantial non-theatrical material. That must be it.
My psychology class is really interesting and I forgot how easy 100-level classes are. (Don't hate me, my young friends.) That means it's fun and interesting without being especially challenging. Which, sometimes, is quite nice.
What else, what else...I'm enjoying work. It seems that every time I work I discover more things that I don't know and I look forward to the day when I feel more comfortable with it all. It's something I really want to be good at so I'm willing to work for it. This job has me exploring career options that I'd never even considered before. Jake suggested the other day that he, Addi, and I each get a foster child to take care of and raise them in our student apartment. It was a funny proposition. (No, we're not going to do that.)
Other than that, I suppose there isn't much going on. I had a nice Independence Day yesterday. I went hiking with some friends and then another friend and I crashed a family barbecue in American Fork. It was fun being with a family, even if it wasn't mine. I tried to figure out why I don't see myself as particularly patriotic and I may have reached a conclusion. America as an entity doesn't mean a great deal to me. I love so many things about this country but I think I'd be just as happy living somewhere else where the same basic civil liberties were available to me. I appreciate and acknowledge the sacrifices made by those who made this country what it is but I see those stories more as chronicles of the strength of the human spirit than anything else. I admire William Wilberforce as much as George Washington but neither one for their citizenship in any particular nation. If that admiration makes me a patriot, great! If not, however, I might just have to accept that.
Anyway, that was weird. I finished off the week with a nice uplifting Sunday. Church was great today and this evening we had a little gathering at my place where cinnamon rolls were consumed and "Werewolves" was played. It was intense. I can't sleep, even though I have to be up in six hours. Yes, six. It's going to be a long week. I guess I'll go try again.

Shameless plug. For myself.

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 07:51:00 +0000

So, I have a new blog. It's devoted to playwriting (as is a big portion of my life, if you didn't know) so check it out!

http://mgplays.wordpress.com

This is all that I ask for:

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Sat, 20 Jun 2009 04:59:00 +0000

(A record store. Matthew is browsing the used DVD’s. He looks frustrated. Girl approaches.)

GIRL
That’s a good one.

MATTHEW
Huh?

GIRL
“Annie Hall.” Isn’t that...
(Gets a closer look at the DVD case.)
Oh, “Annie.”
(Suppresses a laugh.)

MATTHEW
Yeah, I was just...

GIRL
No, no. By all means...

MATTHEW
Really, I was just looking to see when it was made.

GIRL
Uh huh.

MATTHEW
I wasn’t going to buy it.

GIRL
Because you already have it.

MATTHEW
Oh, come on.

GIRL
Or, let me guess, present for your girlfriend?

MATTHEW
If I had one of those, she wouldn’t be a fan of movies like this.

GIRL
Uh huh.

MATTHEW
You totally don’t believe me.

GIRL
No, I do.
(He gives her a look.)
Really, I do.

MATTHEW
(Handing her a DVD.)
Here’s “Annie Hall.” I mean, if you were looking for it.

GIRL
Oh, I wasn’t. I just...

MATTHEW
...couldn’t help noticing me noticing “Annie Hall?”

GIRL
Sorry, was that weird of me?

MATTHEW
No.

GIRL
Yeah, it was. And now you’re all embarrassed and denying your love of musicals...

MATTHEW
(Putting “Annie” back on the shelf.)
You’re not gonna let that go, are you?

GIRL
Really, I don’t usually...approach people like that.

MATTHEW
Well, for the record I love “Annie Hall.”

GIRL
Me too, I watched it when I was younger but I didn’t really get it. You know?

MATTHEW
Yeah, I was that way with “Ghostbusters.”

GIRL
You know I’ve never actually seen that whole movie?

MATTHEW
What?!

GIRL
I know!

MATTHEW
No way!

GIRL
It’s one of those that no one watches now because they’ve all seen it, you know? I think it’s on my Netflix queue.

MATTHEW
Yeah, I use that line. It’s alright, you know? You don’t have to watch it, I guess.

GIRL
Well, thank you.

MATTHEW
But you’re missing out. I actually just watched “Annie Hall” this afternoon.

GIRL
For the first time?

MATTHEW
Yep. I’ve been watching a lot of movies lately, got surgery last week.

GIRL
Oh really? What kind of surgery?

MATTHEW
(Beat.)
How about we change the subject?
(They laugh.)
Sorry, I don’t know why I brought that up.

GIRL
I don’t know why I asked. I don’t really need to know.

MATTHEW
You don’t want to know.
(Beat.)
So...

GIRL
(Looking at “Annie Hall.”)
You know what I love about this movie? That montage at the end, with Diane Keaton singing and, you know, all the cheesy moments from the movie.

MATTHEW
Yeah.

GIRL
I don’t know. And you remember all of that started with a game of tennis, and she gave him a ride, and it all went from there. It’s just interesting, you know, thinking you can find someone to...give yourself to. And it’ll be something so simple. I mean, in the movie...
(Beat.)
It’s a good one.

MATTHEW
Yeah...What’s your name?

GIRL
Jordan. And...

MATTHEW
Matthew.

JORDAN
Nice to meet you. Uh, yeah. I recommend that one.
(Starts to move off.)

MATTHEW
Anything else?

JORDAN
(Turning back.)
What?

MATTHEW
I mean, other recommendations?
(She gives him a perplexed look.)
Sorry, just...

JORDAN
Well, I looked through most of these used ones. Not much here.

MATTHEW
Yeah the buy two get one free thing presumes we can find three we want to take home.

JORDAN
Exactly.

MATTHEW
I actually did a couple times.

JORDAN
Me too.

MATTHEW
We must have snatched up anything worth buying.

JORDAN
Right.

MATTHEW
I mean...
(Looking at the DVD’s.)
“The Love Guru.” Really?

JORDAN
And the, what, seventh “American Pie” movie? How many of these do we need?

MATTHEW
It’s for a generation raised on “Land Before Time.”

JORDAN
(Laughs.)
Right.

MATTHEW
Yeah, this was a bust, I think.

JORDAN
Better luck next time.

MATTHEW
Hey, uh...This is kind of...But, what are you doing tonight?

JORDAN
It’s 9:45.
(Beat.)
Nothing so far.

MATTHEW
I mean, I could get your number and call you up, ask you out, and we could have a great time. But, what about now?

JORDAN
I’m intrigued. You didn’t have any plans tonight?

MATTHEW
Well, I was going to eat a pizza by myself, watch “Citizen Kane,” and probably write a blog about our society’s abysmal taste in movies.

JORDAN
Sounds like fun.

MATTHEW
Actually, I’d probably think about writing a blog but I’d just end up falling asleep watching “How I Met Your Mother” episodes from a sketchy Japanese website.

JORDAN
Side Reel?

MATTHEW
Wow, how embarrassing that you know that.

JORDAN
So, what did you have in mind?

MATTHEW
Uh, I...My plan really only got as far as “Wanna go out.” Do you like food?

JORDAN
I love it. I had dinner a couple hours ago, but...

MATTHEW
How about we split an app sampler at Applebees?

JORDAN
Ooh, that sounds great. Do you like the mozzarella sticks?

MATTHEW
They’re all yours.

JORDAN
Hmmm, maybe we could sub more buffalo wings.

MATTHEW
That’s what I like to hear.

JORDAN
Then what?

MATTHEW
Ummm...

JORDAN
See where the evening takes us?

MATTHEW
(Laughs.)
Wow, I’ve never tried that.

JORDAN
Neither have I.

MATTHEW
Sounds great.
(They walk together out of the store.)
Funny story, I was there with my buddy the other day and he thought our waitress was cute, but he was afraid she saw him checking out this other waitress...
(They exit.)

Just the perfect blend-ship

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 06:26:00 +0000

This will be one of those sappy blog entries that makes people wonder who I am and what I’ve done with Matthew Greene. I hung out one night last week with a group of friends I haven’t seen for a while. It was a good time and I was happy to have the chance to catch up and see how life has been treating them. (You know, marriage, babies, missions, the basics.) I was glad to see they have kept in touch and a little disappointed that I haven’t stayed as close as they have. But most of all it made me reflect.
You see, this group of friends came into my life right when I needed them. And I do not want to sound like some overstuffed New Era testimonial in saying this, but I realized what a blessing their friendship was. I was going through what was indisputably the most difficult period in my life and I was determined not to let anyone know. I had moved into a new student ward and I was wary of diving into any social scene. A combination of health issues, personal struggles, and big disappointments gave me enough misguided motivation to keep to myself. My acquaintance with these few good souls (wow, what am I, one hundred years old?) changed that.
The really remarkable thing is that, barring espionage or supreme powers of perception, they had no way of knowing really what was going on with me. Of course, as we got to be closer friends I told them some of the gory details (and wouldn’t you like to know what they were) but for the most part they had no idea. I was just a guy in their ward who struck up a conversation at a “Linger Longer” and got roped into a “Dinner Group.” (I was not yet dead set against such singles ward festivities.) They weren’t trying to “reach out” or “fellowship” someone they thought was in trouble. At least I don’t think they were. (Not any more than people in general think I’m “in trouble,” that is…) The fact is, they were a group of fun people who liked to have a good time and shared their general love of living with everyone around them.
I didn’t realize it at the time and perhaps I didn’t think about it as fully as I should until the other night, but these friends, simply by being themselves and being able to show kindness and love to each other, lifted me out of the proverbial rut and helped me to have a better time than I would have thought possible that fateful Spring term, oh so long ago. They weren’t trying to be anything more than they were: good people and good friends. But that was exactly what I needed.
I got me thinking (because, really, what doesn’t?) about my own interactions with people. Often I find myself wanting to help people I think are having a difficult time. I’ll try to do exactly what these people did not: reach out, extend sympathy, offer advice, try to understand what they’re going through, etc. Perhaps we all just need to simply be cool and have a good time. I guess what I’ve realized is that when we’re doing that we’re giving more to those around us than we realize. And the nights when I think my time is better spent sitting at home and working on my latest project could perhaps be better spent just having fun with friends. Apparently, it makes a big difference
So, other then a public cyberspace “thank you” to any of those few and pround who know who they are, I guess this blog should serve to reaffirm my commitment to be a good friend to those few friends I have and the those I should be making. It’s also a reminder to all you tuning in at home that maybe we in being ourselves and loving each other are working miracles in the lives of those around us every day. And chances are, we have no idea.

Graveyard Shift

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Wed, 06 May 2009 21:21:00 +0000

I’ve found I’d rather watch my second choice TV show than endure the commercials they show on Lifetime. This should, perhaps, make me wonder why I want to watch Lifetime programming in the first place.
I’m working a graveyard shift tonight and I’m employing everything in my disposal to stay awake. My friend told me to write a blog entry of my late night thoughts. The night is still young but I figured I’d get started now.
I really need to pace myself. I think among the many lessons I’ll learn tonight will be the importance of saving either the box of cookies, the bag of chips, or the package of candy for a little later than midnight. Tasty as the Zours are they would probably be of more assistance when my eyelids inevitably start drooping to the point of slapping myself to stay awake.
1:41 AM: I just finished watching “Slumdog Millionaire,” a movie that I would recommend without hesitation to just about anyone. I love that there’s still a place somewhere for the unabashed optimism we see in Bollywood films. “Slumdog” deals with some tough stuff but there is a sense of destiny, of the universe conspiring for the good of our hero. And there’s just something cathartic about rooting for the underdog and watching him win a fortune AND end up with the girl of his dreams. Sometimes, things DO work out. We lose sight of that in the grit and cynicism that we often associate with real artistic merit. Maybe this fascination of mine has more to do with the fact that I’ve lost a good deal of my own cynicism recently than anything else. (This is thanks, fittingly, to the girl with whom I first watched this particular movie.) And I like to think that losing some of my “edge” doesn’t have to negatively affect my writing. Maybe happy endings can be beautiful too. There, I said it.
4:02 AM: Time is moving by astoundingly quickly. I’m supposed to check the kids every fifteen minutes to make sure they’re not sneaking out or up to anything other than, well, sleeping. I had a bit of a heart attack a couple hours ago when one girl decided to move from her bed to the empty bunk above her. I saw an empty bed and my career as a group home tracker flashed before my eyes. However, I found her and all is well. That was, up until now, the most interesting part of the night. And I hope it stays that way. “Ed Wood” was a fun show. I’ll probably watch one more movie to pass the time. What a great job!
6:13 AM: So, “City of Angels?” Not such a good movie. And it came so highly recommended by everyone who tried to talk me out of hating Nicholas Cage. I didn’t mind it much but I was severely underwhelmed by the whole experience. I am currently caught up in a “very special” episode of “Saved By The Bell.” Zach and Slater were suspected of smoking pot because, I mean, what could be more likely than that? Then they went around a circle and told stories about their friends who had gotten involved with various types of hard drugs culminating in Jesse’s (the one who isn’t Tiffany Amber Theissen) confession about her crippling addiction to caffeine pills. Why I am watching “Saved By The Bell” is a mystery to me. I must be tired. Especially since I’m blogging about it. Come to think of it, caffeine pills might be a good investment for future graveyard shifts. I’m just kidding, of course. The temptation to sleep wasn’t even much of a reality tonight. Maybe I’ve found my calling at last: staying up all night.

Life is good...

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 20:53:00 +0000

Okay, now it’s time for the game. This one is called “What class is Matthew not paying attention to today?” And the answer is…World Religions. But, in my defense, I am paying a sort of half attention.
So, what is going on with me right now? I’ve noticed that this blog has become a sort of sounding board for my frustrations and confusions. At this point in my life, however, I am not feeling particularly frustrated or confused. I am pretty uniformly happy; see me for details.
ANYWAY, I think in an attempt to make up for the negativity that has pervaded my posts here, I’m going to try and concentrate on the positive for a few moments. What follows is a list of some reasons I have to be happy right now:
-New music. (That sounds like a “Ragtime” reference.) My latest iTunes purchase is “Poses” by Rufus Wainwright and I am FURIOUS I lived 22 years without it. (Never mind the fact that it came out last year.)
-Food discoveries. I HAVE to give a “shout out” to the Penny Royal Café, which is probably the coolest place in Provo and whose sandwiches are revolutionizing my life.
-“Berenice.” I am pretty proud of this show and I’m glad people are enjoying it. But to add to the happiness, it’s almost over! It’s bittersweet, but the enormous relief that will come on Saturday night almost eradicates the bitter.
-The weather. I forgot how much I love the sun.
-The exciting feeling you get as the semester winds down. A little bit of stress, a little bit of relief, and everything in between seems heightened in a way. Really.
-Friendly wagers with my roommates. We bet pizzas and Frosties back and forth. I am not ashamed of this, maybe because I always win.
-People who make you smile whenever you see them. If you don’t have one of them, I suggest you find one.
WHAT? So much happiness. This must be something of a shock for everyone who knows me. I blame the sunshine. But really, life is good. Have you noticed? If you’re not feeling so hot, maybe my list can give you some ideas: listen to Rufus Wainwright, eat at the Penny Royal, come see “Berenice” (shameless plug).
And I’ll have you know I took two good pages of notes while I wrote this. I’m beginning to think I learn best when I’m mid-blog. I guess we’ll see at the end of the semester…

A close encounter...read at your own risk...

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Wed, 04 Mar 2009 19:10:00 +0000

I’m sorry, I have to tell this story. It is not for the faint of heart.
The other day in the Cougareat (BYU’s food court) I witnessed one of the strangest displays I have ever seen. As I sat eating my five-dollar footlong, there was at a nearby table a boy and girl who seemed to have never touched someone of the opposite sex before. They were adorably awkward They made quiet conversation for a while, sitting across the table from one another and I relished in the discomfort of it all. These ugly ducklings seemed to be turning into swans in one another’s eyes as they sat in the crowded student centers with their forgotten teriyaki bowls. It was sweet. Then it got weird. All of a sudden, I looked up again and they had shifted position so they were sitting right next to one another. His eyes were focused so intently on hers that I thought she might burst into flames. I really couldn’t believe what I was seeing as his hand shakily made its way from his side to hers and hovered over her knee. This was bizarre and I was riveted. To my shock, the girl looked at him and NODDED. I kid you not! With the green light, the boy proceeded to lower his hand and rested it gingerly on the girl’s knee. She reacted with…delight and then returned the favor. Hands on knees. It could have stopped there and I still would have been quite disturbed. But it did not. At this point I averted my eyes for a moment and saw the table next to mine, its inhabitants also watching the unorthodox scene before us. A quick glance around the surrounding tables confirmed my presumption: we were all watching. The love fest was encircled by tables at which sat an audience of befuddled BYU students. Surely these two noticed they were the object of bewildered observation by more than a few. THEY DID NOT. They only saw one another. When my gaze made it back to the lunchtime spectacle she was guiding his hand slowly from her knee up to her shoulder. He put both hands on the girl’s shoulders and I was hoping for a minute that he would shake her out of her hormonal trance and she would do likewise to him. No such luck. The exploration continued. I tried to concentrate on their faces (though by this point trembling fingers had settled there) and I saw that accompanying the unbroken eye contact were occasional bits of dialogue I couldn’t hear. I don’t know if I have ever wished more fervently for super-sonic hearing than I did at that moment. My best guesses as to what was being said included gems like: “Touching? This is great! I can’t believe we’ve never tried this before,” “I wonder if anyone else knows about this,” or my personal favorite, “I really liked the knee, what else is good?” I’ll spare you the gory details. Suffice it to say, it took about five minutes for the make-out session to begin at which point the situation ceased to be fascinating and became just another PDA. Up until that point, however, they had out rapt attention. Try as we did, we could not look away. Like a train wreck. I looked around when the show was over at my fellow spectators and we breathed a collective sigh of relief that this macabre extreme expression of sexual frustration and twisted public display of…whatever that was had come to an end. I finished my sandwich and went back home to the HFAC, not quite sure what I had just seen.
I tried to tell myself that this had been a sweet scene of chaste physical expression of love. In a food court. At lunchtime. Sure. And it was none of my business, I know. Goodness knows, when you’re out in a very public place you can expect the degree of privacy you need to discover the body of your significant other. What?! I try to be understanding, but you know what? No. It was just weird.
PS: If you are reading this and you were one of these two Cougareat lovebirds, please contact me. I have a LOT of questions.

Stream of consciousness

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Wed, 18 Feb 2009 19:09:00 +0000

I don’t know why I so much do not want to be in my World Religions class right now. I woke up this morning completely uninterested in going to any of my various commitments today. I ditched my first class so I could swing by the HFAC and try and track down the hat I wore yesterday and left in D-341. I found it. Someday I’ll go to the HFAC to see my kids in shows. I think it might be nice not to feel at home in there. I have another year of HFAC-dwelling ahead of me and, really, I can’t complain about much.
That isn’t to say that I’m sure my children will do shows. I’m not going to force them into theatre by any means. But that’s neither here nor there.
The girl next to me is eating a peanut butter sandwich. I hate that. I hate whenever people eat in class. I mean eat anything, not just foods I’m allergic to. Okay, not everything. If you want to crack open a bag of Swedish Fish or sip on a Jamba Juice, have a party. But don’t bring your lunch into class. That bugs.
“That bugs?” I don’t say that. Who am I? The protestant reformation. Luther preached that the daily life should be a repentance. Just in case you were worried I wasn’t paying attention to the lecture that’s going on. I like that. The daily life should be a continual, renewed turning oneself unto God and living closer to His teachings. That’s a good way to look at it. Protestant as he was, this was probably in reaction to Catholic confession. I have a strange desire to go to Catholic confession someday. I’m just curious about the whole thing and I imagine it’s a romantic, liberating feeling. I took communion once. In Italy. I was also blessed by the Pope. I love Catholics.
I wish I could do that thing where you wear a long-sleeved shirt under a short-sleeved shirt. That never looks good on me. Someday I will be rich enough that I’ll never be thirsty. That would be my first order of business as a rich guy: Jamba Juice on demand for me and my kids. Who may or may not do theatre. I’m indifferent. I just hope I have some someday. I have to find a wife first. Ha! And that is a subject for another time.

More adventures in over-thinking

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Mon, 26 Jan 2009 22:53:00 +0000

Some more ideas I’ve been tossing around…
I started reading a book in the Freshman Academy office called “Generation Me.” It’s one of those books about my generation written by someone of my parents’ generation voicing the same complaints we’ve heard our entire lives. It was amusing if not totally edifying.
It did get me thinking. What is my generation? I was thinking about this in my Dramatic Literature class today. (Yes, it was a productive day for me in TMA 396.) Theatre majors spend two semesters dealing exclusively with what people have written about theatre. We look at theories, at criticism, at different movements in the history of performance. (We spend two other semesters just talking about this history.) We read plays but only incidentally, only to see how they illustrate, refute, confirm, or engage in some sort of dialogue with one theoretical idea or another. We report on assigned reading and try to prove we’ve understood the concepts presented. We sit at desks, listen politely, raise our hands, and engage in academic conversation.
Sound familiar? Probably, if you’ve ever been a student. I started thinking about the play “The History Boys,” a text that questions the validity of academia and examines how this all-too-familiar scene intersects with the ubiquitous “real world” we hear so much about. In one memorable scene, a teacher’s excitement about his student’s understanding of the Holocaust is met with hostility on the part of another instructor. When Irwin, in response to this student’s astute comment, exclaims “Good,” Hector responds: “No, not good. Posner is not making a point. He is speaking from the heart.” Bu that’s what we do, isn’t it? We make points, we prove our worth, our intelligence. We prove it to our professors, our peers, and most importantly (of course) to ourselves. We have learned from a young age that success, meaning, and some sort of transcendent worth comes from the classroom. I’m no exception to this rule. I tear up at the end of “Dead Poets’ Society” just like the rest of you. BUT, when the dust settles, what happened in that classroom means nothing if it is not followed by something meaningful, if those boys’ newfound self expression or sense of individuality does not lead them to lead good lives, to help others, to be productive, and to overcome the resistance they’ll meet out in the real world.
Granted, I am not saying that the classroom is a useless arena for self-discovery and enhancement. I am saying that I’m afraid that all too often it stops there. That’s where “my generation” comes into this. We are the inheritors of postmodern thought and have grown up with the assumption that questioning anything and everything was the norm. Actually, maybe more and ideal than a norm. My generation would bristle at the suggestion that the classroom or lecture hall was paramount. We are all about alternative methods of education and deconstructing the accepted behaviors and ideas in society. But what does that really mean? Are we still trapped by the legacy of the past that tells us that the pinnacle of understanding is a thesis or dissertation? We talk a lot about alternate schools of thought. But often that’s what we do. TALK. (“Yes, you’re absolutely right. We can’t take for granted that traditional forms of expression are the most effective. Why don’t you write a paper about that?”) So, what do we do? As someone who has played the game of academia (and quite successfully at that) for fifteen years, how do I escape this black hole of original thought? Is it worth playing the game to be able to have the chance to fix it? Or am I already a sell-out? Yes, I’m getting my degree. Yes, there is probably more school in store after that. But I have to keep asking myself: “Then what?”

I don't have a title for this

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Mon, 26 Jan 2009 20:00:00 +0000

I’m sitting in my Dramatic Literature class, thinking about life. Actually, I’m thinking about how much I hate Sam Shepard. I wonder sometimes if I can still call myself a theatre artist if I hate Sam Shepard. I also hate “Endgame.” I’m going to theatre major hell.
Lately, I’ve been reconsidering plans and dreams I have taken for granted for years. Mostly, I am tired of being an undergrad. I’m tired of trying to balance school and education. I’m curious as to how different my life will be in grad school. Will I still have to do silly little “response papers” and “reading reports?” Will I find myself wondering on a Saturday afternoon if I should take time away from writing the play I care about to do the class assignment that I don’t? Most of all, I wonder if my desire to get my MFA is tied more closely to my growing fear of going out into the “real world.”
When it comes down to it, I suppose, I’m either talented or I’m not. I’m either working hard enough or I’m not. Is it really prudent for a writer (who would be ill-advised to predict a future of plentiful monetary means) to spend several years and thousands of dollars to sit around a table and pontificate about every draft I write? I can’t hide behind a master’s degree once I’m out of grad school and greatly in debt. I need to improve, of course, but I don’t know if that’ll happen if I continue to spend all my time in a classroom.
Cynical? Maybe. I should, perhaps, adopt the role of the idealist and assume that all my dreams will come true when I get to Yale, NYU, New School, the Mischner Institue, or wherever I end up. Perhaps I should believe whole-heartedly that I’ll graduate from one of these exemplary institutions ready to revolutionize the literary and theatrical worlds. But I can’t buy it.
I’ve recently had a crazy idea bouncing around in my head, a wild hair, if you will. I want to be a high school teacher. I KNOW! I haven’t given up the dream of teaching at a college or university either. And I find myself passively looking for other employment opportunities, perhaps something part-time, something to tide me over while I’m making my way as a writer or director. Or something else.
It’s frustrating, but it’s kind of exciting. I have a little while until I need to make any real decisions. But they need to be made. Soon enough. Let me know if you have any guidance for me. But for now I’ll leave it at that.
Class is over.

A love letter to the theatre...

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Fri, 09 Jan 2009 08:37:00 +0000

Sometimes I wonder why I do what I do. Let’s be honest, I’m not going to become a millionaire (unless I can indeed write the next “Twilight”-esque phenomenon) and theatre is not the easiest filed in which to carve out a life for oneself. I still have days when I consider throwing in the towel and becoming a civil engineering or business management major. However, today was not one of those days. Today was the antidote to days like those.
The designers came to the “Berenice” rehearsal tonight and gave their presentations to the cast to show what they’re looking at in terms of how the show will look sound and feel. (“Berenice” is a new script that I wrote/adapted, in case you didn’t know.) I listened to the director talk about how she sees the script and the story she wants to tell. And I heard the actors talking about their characters and the major themes that speak to them in the script I wrote.
This was an incredible feeling! People are sketching costumes for characters I created and scoring scripts full of lines that I wrote. People are finding meaning in something that I generated, something personal and close to me. I was honestly awestruck seeing the coming together of diverse talents to create something that will hopefully be a beautiful work of art. I put words on a page and for the first time I think tonight I saw what that can actually mean. Creative minds are coming together and synthesizing; I don’t know if there is much that is more exciting than that.
I love theatre. I love creation. I hope to create things of worth, things of beauty. I feel that this is something divine that I have been given, the ability, as Racine put it, to create something out of nothing. And, like I said, it’s nights like these that can get me through the frustrations that inevitably follow an obnoxious temperamental artist such as myself.

Learning the Rules

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Fri, 09 Jan 2009 08:35:00 +0000

(This is another piece I wrote for that creative writing class last semester.)

It must have been a strange day, the first time my father led me into a public restroom and introduced me to the amenities there. I can’t know for sure, but I imagine it was quite a relief; boys who are young enough to go in the women’s bathroom with their mothers are still old enough to be humiliated by it. I wonder what he said to me, or what I’ll say to my own son when the time comes. What’s funny, I suppose, is the fact that going to the bathroom is the most basic, most uncomplicated process I can think of. We’re born without inhibitions but that freedom is squashed soon enough and rules are gradually introduced. We are told when to go, where to go, and, as soon as young boys are brought into the bathroom, how to go.
Rules are important. I’ve always appreciated them and the comfort they seem to provide. I was never a Tom Sawyer or a Dennis the Menace. I was never “up to no good.” I liked to do what I was supposed to do; life was manageable then. I learned that in the bathroom, when your first choice urinal is taken, you take the one furthest from that in use. After that, you fill in, leaving a buffer zone between you and the man to your side. This presents an uncomfortable grey area for a law-abiding citizen such as myself who needs structure in order to feel at ease. Still, ruminating on options means loitering and another potential infraction. So a decision has to be made. I learned that your eyes face front and that before you turn to move to the sink, a decisive step backwards from the wall must be taken before truing to one side or another. (This is especially imperative in the unfortunate circumstances in which no “privacy barriers” are present between the urinals.) I think even Dennis the Menace would agree that these rules aren’t worth breaking. That is, if we ever discussed these rules out loud.
I’ve been told that when I was three years old or so, I would watch my mother iron. Always the inquisitive little tyke, I asked her one day if I could touch the iron. She told me I could not. As the story goes, I asked if I could touch the “white part” of the iron (the handle I knew full well was not hurting her) and she conceded. My curious little finger got closer and closer to the “hot part” until a quick burn met with three-year-old tears and a loving scolding from my mother. My finger swelled under cold running water and I determined in my young mind that the “hard way” is not the wisest choice when a lesson needs to be learned.
The “hard way” was often unavoidable, however. When I got a few years older, I would learn that I was not an athlete. My one-year tee ball career culminated in being awarded the “best dancer in the outfield” honor when my coach handed me the trophy my parents had paid for. I’ve wondered what possessed the man to crush a little boy’s athletic dreams with a single joke. I doubt this occurred to him, though. In a desperate attempt to find something to say, he must have remembered a fateful afternoon when his outfielder, in desperate need of a bathroom, couldn’t stand still and pay attention to the game. Little did he know, perhaps, that the snow cone at the end of the game was the only motivation keeping me out there. Even before the pizza and trophy party, I knew I didn’t share my teammates’ dedication to the sport. The other boys watched baseball games, spent hours a day playing catch, and knew terminology so mysterious and useful that I wondered why we never covered it in Mrs. Menz’s kindergarten classroom. With every trip or screw-up came an assertion that the baseball diamond was not the place for me. But the other boys stayed.
I remember little else about my life as a baseball player and even less about my early bathroom experiences; I do remember the same way walking into a crowded restroom that I’d felt in the Little League dugout: exposed, intimidated, under scrutiny. The bathroom isn’t a frightening place, but the same meticulous care is taken to avoid a misstep, one that might get you labeled as the “best dancer in the outfield.” That team party was forgotten for years, until it turned from a painful memory to an amusing anecdote. I was thrilled a couple years later as opening night of my first play approached. Excited as I was, I was careful whom I invited to the occasion. Boys don’t do plays and, though I’d seen plenty of men onstage, I knew this very well. The confidence that I’d found my niche was tempered with a healthy does of self-consciousness with regard to where I’d finally resolved to “belong.” I’d broken some mold. I was a maverick, an exception to the rule, and too young to feel anything but embarrassed.
I certainly wouldn’t say I never break the rules. I defy expectations and push boundaries when I feel secure in doing so. But for the most part I think there is strength in security. And rules give security. A calculated risk loses its flavor when rebellion becomes a habit and I take pains to ensure that the charm of a step out of line remains a “special occasion” of sorts. I often skip breakfast, I cut across the grass, I don’t brush my teeth on nights when I’m especially tired, and I eat Top Ramen far more often than I ought to. I’m ashamed, sometimes, by how fervently I want to “fit in.” But there is a time and place for living on the edge, I suppose. And I’m grateful for those who showed me the rules.
My dad is an obedient man. He’s also a strong man. He knows what to obey. He’s religious, and I’m fully confident that if he were in Abraham’s place I’d be tied up on the altar and he’d raise a knife in faith to sacrifice his son according to his God’s command. That thought is strangely comforting; the father taking care of me always had a Father taking care of him. And my dad follows His rules. He also likes to fall into line when convenient and when doing so doesn’t disrupt his highest priorities. When he steps up to a urinal, he faces front and takes a step back before turning to wash his hands. And my dad always washes his hands. I’m sure as I was running out of the bathroom to rejoin the rest of my family he made me stop at the sink and wash thoroughly. I have always trusted my father, and for the most part I still do what I see him do. He watches ESPN but he’s been at every opening night performance and has always made it clearer than the boys in the dugout ever could what it means to be a man. And I think that dancing in the outfield or loitering by the sinks can be forgiven. Some rules overrule the rest.

In Defense of the Innkeeper

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Mon, 08 Dec 2008 07:46:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Sat, 06 Dec 2008 07:47:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 07:24:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 02:10:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Tue, 21 Oct 2008 09:36:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Thu, 16 Oct 2008 07:30:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Mon, 29 Sep 2008 02:16:00 +0000

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...

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Sun, 21 Sep 2008 16:20:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Sun, 21 Sep 2008 16:17:00 +0000

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.