It's Friday Friday Gotta Get Down on Friday...

Actually it's not Friday.  It's Saturday.  But I do have a dream for you and this one's a doozie!


So I can't remember where it started, but a friend of mine -- Jake --  from freshman year was at my house back home in Minnesota.  I haven't seen him since Thanksgiving, but he's been in a lot of my dreams lately.  His parents were there.  They told me to lie down under their car while they ran over me.  I saw them doing it to Jake earlier and he turned out just fine, but I was still scared.  It took some egging on from his parents before I let myself sink down under their big SUV-sized car. I watched the bottom of the car move above me.  The wheels didn't crush me and it didn't really hurt, but I could definitely feel the pressure on my stomach.  It was like someone was stepping on me, sort of.  Jake was really proud of me, though, for doing it.

Then the dream changed and suddenly I was in some bleachers somewhere before a big event.  I couldn't tell what the event was, but I saw some women's chorus girls there, and my mom, who was talking to a guy in a deaf band (don't know how that one works...).  I was able to talk to him in sign for a little while, about brothers and sisters or something like that.  I recognize all of the signs that I used in the dream.  He looked kind of cute, in a young boy sort of way. His hair was long and straight and almost covered his eyes, and when I saw a picture of them in a newspaper, I noticed that they all looked like that except with different hair color.  I also read in the newspaper that they were opening for Lady Gaga, which made me excited.

Then I went outside and and noticed dusk was setting in.  My roommate's friend Madison was there, planting cheerios, saying they were seeds.  Everyone laughed at her at first, but after a while some popular kids I knew from high school actually started to believe that the Cheerios were seeds and started planting them too.  I laughed at their folly and set fire to all the cheerios.  Now there were a bunch of green flames sprouting from the ground.

The dream changed again.  Now I was in a garage with my roommate's friends girlfriend, Jenny.  It's the kind of garage you would see at a car repair shop, with a bunch of doors next to each other.  She was hiding from someone... someone was chasing her?  I didn't really care if she got caught one way or the other, I was just riding along.  She kept going in an out of each of the garage doors.  I wasn't quite sure what that would accomplish, but I let her do it anyway.

Yup...  I wonder what Freud would think about all this.  He'd probably think I felt sexually pressured by past loves.  My list of past romantic experiences isn't long, but it does include Jake and Jenny's boyfriend.  There also may be this subconscious fear I have with upcoming ASL exams, which I need to ace in order to get an A in the class.  Thus, I sign in my dream.
He might also say that I am suppressing a deep desire to be in the in-crowd.  Madison and those popular kids throwing cheerio-seeds may represent to me the "popular group" that I subconsciously wish I was a part of.  But don't I try to reject what they offer by burning their seeds?  I'm confused at my own self-conscious...


Listening to:  Nothing at the moment.
Things Going On today:  Emily's show, humanities test, ASL video, and a singing recital.
Blessings:  It didn't snow hard enough for me to have to come in to work.  Praise be.

30-Day Song Day 5 -- A Song that Reminds Me of Someone

Steely Dan -- Almost Gothic





Listening to:  That's All
Things Going On Today:  Slept in, so I didn't get to work until around 9, had a drunk time with Jen, and went to classes.
Blessings:  The Internet, Scriptures, and good friends who make me talk things out.

30-Day Song Challenge: Day 4 -- A Song that Makes me Sad

Fisher: You



Listening to: Quando Men Vo
Things Going on Today: Dinner with the Stitts, daylight savings
Blessings: By BFFL, Katie

L-U-V

I'm working on gospel time these days
(The summer - this could be the cool part of the summer)
The sloe-eyed creature in the reckless room she's so severe
A wise child walks right out of here
I'm so excited I can barely cope
I'm sizzling like an isotope
I'm on fire so cut me some slack

CHORUS:
First she's way gone then she comes back
She's all business then she's ready to play
She's almost gothic in a natural way

This house of desire is built foursquare
(The city - the cleanest kitten in the city)
When she speaks it's like the slickest song I ever heard
I'm hanging on her every word
As if I'm not already blazed enough
She hits me with the cryptic stuff
That's her style - to jerk me around

CHORUS:
First she's all feel then she cools down
She's pure science with a splash of black cat
She's almost gothic and I like it like that

This dark place so thrilling and new
It's kind of like the opposite of an aerial view
Unless I'm totally wrong
I hear her rap and brother it's strong

I'm pretty sure that what she's telling me is mostly lies
But I just stand there hypnotized
I'll just have to make it work somehow
I'm in the amen corner now
It's called love - I spell L -U- V

CHORUS:
First she's all buzz then she's noise-free
She's bubbling over then there's nothing to say
She's almost gothic in a natural way

She's old school then she's like young
Little Eva meets the Bleecker Street brat
She's almost gothic but it's better than that

FAIL MAIL...

Because I write to so many missionaries, it becomes quite disappointing when I don't hear from a SINGLE ONE OF THEM in a MONTH. Each day I check the mailbox a hundred times, hoping and praying that this next time there will be something in it for me... But it's always the same. Nothing. The little mail slot belonging to my apartment is either empty, stuffed with ads, or has some letter for one of my other roommates.

Last summer, my sister decided that SNAIL MAIL isn't quite the correct term to use when describing a lack of missionary correspondence. This is FAIL MAIL. A mailbox with no missionary letters is most pathetic. Here are other types of mail one can receive:

EPICFAIL MAIL: There's nothing in the mailbox but junk that you don't want. Not even a meaningful magazine... just ads and wasted paper.

FRAIL MAIL: Letters from a missionary in poor health. I would express concern for this missionary.

ALE MAIL: A letter written while intoxicated. Hopefully you never get one of these from a missionary. Not only is it bad form, it's impossible to read a drunk person's handwriting.

QUAIL MAIL: Mail delivered by homing pidgeon, which would be epic.

YALE MAIL: Letters that are waaaaaaaaaay to smart sounding for you to properly understand them. When you have to look every other word up in the dictionary, this missionary may be too smart for you.

JAIL MAIL: Letters sent from prison. I would be a little concerned if you suddenly get one of these... which leads me to...

BAIL MAIL: A letter asking you to help bail out a person from jail... Also not a very pleasant letter to receive in the mailbox.

NAIL MAIL: A letter with holes in it. Yes, these do exist. I just sent one to a friend of mine in California.

FLAIL MAIL: Mail that makes you have an epileptic seizure because it's so freaking cute.

STALE MAIL: The kind of letter you get when you really have nothing to say in response. I get these from missionaries I don't know all that well. I end up simply rambling about useless, random topics like the weather and asking questions about missionary work that I already know the answers to.

HAIL MAIL: A letter that discusss the weather.

VEIL MAIL: Letters that include marriage proposals. I really can't tell you how to adequately respond to these letters...

SCALE MAIL: Mail with content that discusses weight. These are actually more common than you think. Missionaries like talking about how much weight they've gained or lost on their missions. Which brings me to...

WHALE MAIL: Letters from an obese missionary. Hopefully you don't get too many of these. Missionaries should at least be TRYING to stay healthy while they're out.

FEMALE MAIL: Letters from a sister missionary.

BRAILLE MAIL: Letters written in Braille. (I plan on sending one of these to Mr. California Missionary as well).

WAIL MAIL: Letters that make you cry out in sorrow.

IMPALE MAIL: Letters that make you want to kill yourself out of embarassment for the sender.

BETRAYAL MAIL: A letter that states that a missionary has been discussing the content of your letters to his companions.

GALE MAIL / DALE MAIL: Letters from a missionary named Gale or Dale. I don't know any Dales or Gales in the mission field...

TO-NO-AVAIL MAIL: A letter that completely ignores all that you said in your last letter. Your words and opinions aren't even acknowledged. This is worst when it involves romance.

TELLTALE MAIL: Mail that reveals waaaaay too much about a missionary that you really didn't need to know.

PREVAIL MAIL: Mail you FINALLY get from a missionary you haven't heard from a while. These are the best kinds of letters.

A Very Special Birthday Card...

Oh Yes, and a dream...

Forgot it's friday...

So my dream a few nights ago was a weird one. I dreamt that Elder Wall-E was home from his mission, and I went up to campus from my apartment to meet him. I cross 700, cross 800, walk up the rape hill ramp, and I'm passing between the Benson Building and the JSB when I realize there's a bunch of people in that green area, waiting for some speaker to come and give a presentation out on the lawn. For some reason, I concluded that person to be Elder W. So I was really surprised when he tapped my shoulder. I asked why he wasn't preparing to go and talk to all those waiting people. He said they can wait, and then led me back over to the back of the JSB.
The rape hill ramp was now gone. Instead, there was a hundred-foot drop-off behind the Joseph Smith Building, with nothing to help us get around it on that side except for a small bridge thing. It was more like a wrap-around balcony, actually, connected to the JSB and with a railing on the outside so that people wouldn't fall off. I've seen plenty of balconies like that at multi-level apartment complexes.
Except this one had caved in at the middle. Instead of walking on the stone walkway, eventually you had to walk on the barred handrails instead because the walkway went vertical on you. That's just what Elder Waffle and I decided to do. We crossed that bridge, hanging on for dear life as we inched our way along the treacherous path. It was like climbing around on a jungle gym, except if you fell, there wouldn't be a nice bed of sand to catch your fall. I don't even remember how far that forested hill went down. I was scared.
But we did make it across, and suddenly Elder Whistle was just laying on the ground, wearing nothing but a blue bedsheet. I sat down beside him and stroked the back of his leg, right at the crook of his knee. And for some reason, I felt as if someone was petting my own in the exact same place, though I don't remember if someone was actually there or not.

Then I woke up.

If this isn't love, tell me what it is?

A few interesting things have happened to me this week. Most of them made me start thinking about what love actually is and what it means. I've come to this conclusion: I don't know how to love yet. I know how to act like I love someone, and I know that someday I will know how to love someone, but I just don't actually love anybody yet.

I have come to two conclusions about my personal relationship with love. The first is that I now know what it feels like to do something for someone, with someone, TO someone that should require love, but didn't. I'm really not in the mood to write down any details but lets just say I felt absolutely nothing. It meant nothing. There is no attatchment, no passion, no emotion whatsoever. Furthermore, there is no regret, no remorse, no shame either. It's just empty. I look back and I remember it and it should be a happy memory, but it's not. It's not a bad memory, either. It's just a memory. Yikes, that's not supposed to happen. I feel I'm becoming less and less human with every relationship I form.
The second conclusion involves another romantic encounter I have had this past week. This one was not as direct or discreditable. It involved a man expressing his feelings about me against his better judgement. This was a man I thought I loved, but now that I've finally had those feelings reciprocated, I'm not sure if it's love anymore. As a matter of fact, I KNOW what I felt for this guy wasn't love. As I think about it now, I realize there are a lot of things I have to be willing to sacrifice in order to love him, and I'm not ready to sacrifice those things yet. I may end up loving him in the future, but at this point, all I feel is that empty feeling again. That feeling of robotic non-emotion. This is not love.
That's the bad news. The good news is that it's not lust, either. I had a physical relationship with this guy, but it has long since been over and now I wonder if I even really find him attractive. The answer is no, but yes. I find his personality and charm attractive, and I think that counts for something much deeper than looks. So if it's not love, and it's not lust, what is it? Fascination? Infatuation? Fear, even? What is happening to me? Will I ever be able to truly love a man for everything he is, or will it all just be this plastic, selfish, love-lust crossover that I feel right now?

This makes me wish boys didn't even exist.

Fight

"Well, Jacob, some things are just important to me!" she screamed, running into the bathroom to try and erase the blemishes that appeared under her eyes, made up of mascara, sweat, and tears.
"I already told you I'm sorry!" he answered from the other side of the bedroom. His hands were at his sides, as if surrendering.
"But you're NOT!" she screamed, stomping back out of the bathroom again without even completely reaching up to run her finger across her eyelids before another cascade of tears left their prints across her cheeks. "You wanna know what your problem is? You. Don't. CARE!" The last word ended in a choke, a wretched sob, and then another and another. She's buckling over now, as if the weeping were possessing her. "About anybody!" her mouth moved but nothing came out. She looked up at him with searching eyes, but all she found was a gape. A worthless gape that proved even further that he understood nothing.
All he could do was stare. Suddenly his wife had become someone else; a monster about to swallow her with her gaping mouth and roaring sobs. What could he do? He dare not run. She would always out-run him, out-scream him, out-push him. Where had this started? The tube of lip stick? The phone call? The bill notice lying on the table? He could not remember. All that took his mind was this thing that was crouching over the bed, shaking, wailing.
Finally one word escaped his lips. "Honey..."
"Don't 'honey' me!" She screamed, suddenly losing the sobs that had so overcome her just seconds ago. "I hate it when you call me honey! I hate it when anybody calls me honey! I want honey to go to HELL!"
"Okay! Hannah. Please. Look at yourself! Just look at yourself for at least a minute! One MINUTE!?" Suddenly the words poured from his lips. It was not like him to talk so much without thinking. He was always the one in control; patient, forgiving, almost all-knowing at times. But suddenly feelings began to rush to his head like vomit and there was only one way out. "I don't care? I don't care about the fact that my child is in your womb now, waiting to come out into... this?? You think I don't care about you? Geez, I only let you walk all over me because it feels good?? You think I take your... your baggage around because I feel like it, huh? Am I a bad husband? Do you regret marrying me? Are you better off without --"
"SHUT UP!" She screamed.
"SHUT UP!" He replied
She lunged from her place beside the bed across the white covers. He flinched out of reflex, but there was little need. Her fist swung at his face, but there was so little control it hardly hit his shoulder. She crashed onto the bed, sprawled out like an oozing ball of tears and snot. And there she stayed, completely miserable. He stood above her, completely lost. There they stayed for eight seconds... three sniffles from her, six deep heaves of breath from him. Finally, out of the corner of her wet, stinging eyes, she could see his shadow on the carpet sink away toward its founding source of the downstairs lights.
"No," she moaned. "No, no, n-n-no, no wait. Wait! WAIT!" She sat up, her eyes fixed upon his retreating shadow. "Don't go!"
The figure stopped and turned. She finally snapped her head towards his own.
"Don't go! Please, no!" She was now a child, clambering on her hands and knees as quickly as she could across the mattress, nearly tumbling head first over the edge of the bed, forgetting how to walk as she dove at his form. "I-I don't want you to go! No-no I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it!"
She clutched at his chest with her groping hands and dove her face into his neck, drowning it in tears.
"I didn't mean it! I want you to stay! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it! I really love you!" More tears.
He put his arms across her back, buried his face in her wild brown hair and rocked side to side, cradling his beloved monster-child of a wife, chanting, "I know, I know. Me too, me too. I know I know."
There they stood, rocking and weeping and chanting, until finally her words came out, "I hate this fight and I never wanna fight again. Never, never, never!"