Couture is here, my darlings. Galliano took a big step this time by toning down his collection and banking on truly beautiful simplicity instead of raw shock value to propel the show at Dior. Chanel was brilliant, of course, just uncontaminated brilliance (that gorgeous black gown, the 5th from last, is probably one of the most beautiful I've ever seen.) Valentino was very, very sexy. It was a show that you would like to dislike because of a few drab pieces in the beginning, but after you've seen the entire thing you can't help but adore it.

Out of the four that I've seen, though, I have to say my favorite so far was Chanel, barely skipping ahead of Saab, which was a refreshing burst of perfectly done color.

I'm in Cincinnati. The flight was fine, I'm excited to be here with Dad and Cindy. My room is beautiful; I've settled in and I'm about to go to bed.

Today at church I climbed the carpeted stairs to see that the room was full. For the past couple of months I’ve been going to Sunday school with the grown population of my lil’ religious community and I’ve enjoyed it quite thoroughly. There aren’t any comatose teenagers or ill prepared teachers fishing for the standard answers (read your scriptures, pray, go to church). In this blessed, large room people think. And discuss, disagree, and occasionally insult others. It’s a beautiful thing.

But today, even though I thought I was perfectly punctual as usual (um…right), the room was crowded, without a single chair to spare. So I trudged down the stairs and begrudgingly entered the room I was supposed to be in, complete with unconscious teens and exactly one ill prepared teacher.

There’s a reason I don’t come to this class, and I was reminded of it the second I stepped into the musty classroom. The teacher, a middle aged housewife, is clinically insane. I grimaced and sat down.

I can deal with insanity, for hopefully obvious reasons, but I can’t stand this woman. I think it’s the way she forms her vowels. I think that’s it. She over exaggerates everything she says, yet talks at a normal speed while trying to move her thin lips as spastically as possible. She misspells every word she writes, and speaks to me as if I’m nine.

Today the dear decided to bring in an object lesson. She had baked a batch of lemon bars, and asked us to say how we thought the dessert related to our testimonies.

This is actually not too far-fetched, for those of you who aren’t familiar with the LDS church. One’s testimony (core beliefs, faith in divine truth, etc.) is discussed often and sometimes through food, but I had some trouble, to be honest, comparing my primary convictions to a tartlet, especially lemon bars. So I shrugged and awaited the slew of varied yet conventional answers.

“They’re solid but kind of squishy.”

“They require preparation.”

“They’re powdery on the top.” (How this is related to one’s belief structure I don’t know, but she wrote it on the board regardless)

Her eyes fell on me.

“Well, I don’t really know.”

“Oh come on,” she nudged with a wide, goofy, toothy grin. “Cantcha think of summthin’?”

“Uh…well…no.”

“Okay, let’s think through this. Rachael’s having a hard time with the question, everybody, let’s help her out.”

I have this smile that’s stuck between a grimace and the result of constipation. I smiled that smile at this point in time.

“Think about it now,” She cooed as if I was too mentally retarded to understand three syllable words. “They’re sweeeeeeee…” She actually started to sound out the word so that I might finish it and feel proud about it.

“Do you mean sweet?” I inquired.

“And sooooooooouuuuuuuu…..”

“……sour?”

“Good job!” She exclaimed. “You got it!”

I blinked. She started to write it on the board. I couldn’t help myself.

“That makes no sense whatsoever.”

She turned and blinked at me, capping the marker and placing her hand on the table. “Of course it does. It’s a metaphor, not literal. It means, well…”

“I know what a metaphor is. I simply don’t think this one is apt in any way, shape, or form. I honestly don’t think that my testimony is “sweet and sour”, in any sense.”

“Rachael, sweetie, it’s a metaphor.” She chirped. “And you need to try to be positive and participate, or else you won’t benefit from this class.”

"I will never benefit from comparing my core beliefs and spiritual drive to a lemon flavored pastry, and anybody whose faith is definably ‘sweet and sour’ needs to be shot in the back of the head.”

She cocked her head and looked at me. “Well, okay. You don’t have to participate.” She finally said. She turned to the rest of the class.

“Who can tell me how their testimony can be considered sweet and sour?”

Come away with me in the night
Come away with me
And I will write you a song

Come away with me on a bus
Come away where they can't tempt us
With their lies

I want to walk with you
On a cloudy day
In fields where the yellow grass grows knee-high
So won't you try to come

Come away with me and we'll kiss
On a mountaintop
Come away with me
And I'll never stop loving you

And I want to wake up with the rain
Falling on a tin roof
While I'm safe there in your arms
So all I ask is for you
To come away with me in the night
Come away with me


Come away with me
-Norah Jones

And alas, it is not long enough! Ah, there we go.

I am so absolutely neurotic. I enjoy posting pictures on my blog; simply because they intrigue me for one reason or another, and I post them so that I can have an easy reference place for this if I wish to access them again. It has close to nothing to do with you, dearest reader.

But I hate seeing the picture when my blog initially loads. I’ve had this white layout since June, and I worked very hard to perfect it (and there were many an unimportant detail that I lost sleep over). So naturally, a big, busy picture that is extraneous to the initial design drives me crazy. I’m driven to the point where I’ve been sitting here, forcing myself to write, so that I can load my blog without seeing that Jennifer Lopez picture. It’s not the picture itself; I love that picture and the concept behind it, it’s simply the fact that it disrupts the visage I’ve labored toward and finally achieved. Once a huge picture is there, however, it’s all ruined and I’m forced into this unhealthy fixation.

Tonight I’ve tried many things to mend this; I posted lyrics, but seeing as the lyrics are aligned on the left side of the page, as they should be, the balance is once again lost because there’s that gap of space between the lyrics and my personalization on the right that doesn’t work at all. I also considered posting a really long quote, but realized there’s no possible way I can assume that I can actually fill up my journal with somebody else’s words and think that I’ll be able to sleep at night. For precisely one-third of a second the positively brilliant idea of another picture popped into my head. I decided that I needed to go to bed before I hurt myself.

I hate Jennifer Lopez. I despise vogue features on actresses. I adore this picture.

“It’s not that I want everything but you, it’s just now that you’re going I want everything else.” Mum said half-jokingly as we sifted through my jewelry to make sure I don’t make off with her jewels.

We laughed as we divvied it out, almost all the rings staying with her and the majority of the necklaces and bracelets going to me.

“Hey mum, when I need furniture can I buy this bed set from you?”

“I’ll give it to you, if you get married in the temple.”

“Mum, it’s fine if you don’t want to give it to me, but I get offended when you make comments like that. I’ll marry whom I wish, even if I don’t get the ten grand.” I finally muttered as I reached over to shut the window.

“Rachael, if you make wise decisions you’ll be blessed. I’m simply encouraging you to make the right ones, just as heavenly father does.”

“So you’re not going to give me the bed set unless I marry in the temple?”

Mum looked away and continued filtering through the box.

“This? This is mine, isn’t it? Or is it something I bought for you?” She inquired, holding up a black necklace with a red stone dangling in front of her.

“Mom, I bought that at traces, remember?”

“Oh, it is yours. I paid for it though.”

“No, you didn’t!”

“Yes, I did.”

I looked up and sighed. “And the bed set?” I asked once again.

“I’ll sell it to you. Maybe.”

Today I finished packing up my room. When I say finished I mean that every drawer has been emptied and cleaned, the closet is inhabited by only a couple articles of clothing that will last me till Thursday, the underneath of my bed has been swept, my chest of drawers is completely vacant. I’ve spartanized my room, as Elisse likes to say. I’ve thrown away everything, and I mean everything, except for the following:

• Two trash bags full of laundered and folded clothing (read: trash bags, not garbage bags. They're about half the size of standard black trash bags, and they weigh in at about 15 pounds a piece)
• The scarce amount of clothing in my closet
• my beloved shoes, of course.
• A small but full makeup bag.
• Two small jewelry boxes.
• my purses.

That is what remains tucked away in a corner of my room. The rest has been tossed or given to D.I. I couldn't be more pleased with the fact that my personal belongings come to a grand 42 pounds. I have a couple of items that will stay in my room (the exquisite bedset I've used for the past decade and the beautiful mirrors Elisse and mum gave me for my birthday . I will leave them in Salt Lake until I have need for furniture) but that's it, really.

I'm absolutely thrilled with myself. I didn't even procrastinate, as every salt lake county resident speculated I would.

Smashing, wouldn't you say?

We approached a field that appeared to boast a crop of rice or some such short grain. Though speeding ahead rapidly, the small vehicle progressed smoothly, wrapping around the spindly gray snake that was the paved road. It was beautiful; the field appeared to be naturally full and solid until viewed at an angle vertical to the rows of grain, and only then could one observe the fascinating texture of the plane. The stalks of grain and the line of moisture that lay complacently between were hidden until faced dead-on, when the stark differences were juxtaposed, side by side. How rhythmic was the vision of the light glaring back at me from the water of the field, how the line of vision curved and danced with the movement of the car. It was a stream of fluid pouring horizontally down the flat field that stood before me. There was neither a beginning nor an end; this stream appeared to be lacking an origin and it offered no final result. Rather it just trickled down beside me, dancing between shades of pale-brown harvest and blinding reflection.

Originally written June 22, 2004, while driving up to Seattle from Salt Lake

You deserve to hear this without the pretentious adjectives and well crafted sentences that I use as another wall to hide behind. I could say this in a paragraph, perhaps even a couple sentences, but I’d rather write pages and pages and distort what I feel and observe, hoping to lose you in this superfluous maze of description and empty references. I’ve been so open, though, so very open and exposed, surely I can’t behave in a purely honest manner. Surely I can’t leave all possibilities for temporary refuge and finally address what I must finally battle.

I will attempt this, though. I’ll try to be completely open and honest; I’ll try to utter every word I know you deserve to hear.

I’m too tired, however, to even begin tonight; I wrote a paragraph and already I’m lost in frustration. I’ll arrive on Thursday collected and prepared, but I can’t begin to articulate this tonight. Sleep beckons me, and dreaming about this will surely only help me to do the impossible.

Today I signed the Stop Ashlee Simpson Petition. My good deed for the week has been done.

Oh, BYU is the school of God! Although I took the final for one of my independent study courses a week after the course deadline, I’ll still receive credit. Huzzah, huzzah indeed.

I was going to call you. I stared at my phone while puttering about, but never really found the balls to pick it up and ring you. I’m glad you liked the music, I am. You sounded despondent when I talked to you last, that’s why I didn’t call you. Not that it’s your fault; you and I both know that’s not true, I just want to explain why I’m acting defensive. I hope you haven’t decided to be noble, weak, or defeated. I’m going to turn into a real wretch soon, I can feel it, I know myself well enough to predict it. Take this as an official premature apology.

My instinct tells me, upon finding judgment, to fight and claw until everyone around me sees my reasoning, or pretends to in order to pacify me. I don’t really care anymore, however, not because I’m leaving and running away from them or whatever have you; even if I stayed I doubt I’d mention what I hear. I’d voice my opinion once, not twice. You can’t really change them, see, and it’s foolish to try. Even if you think you do, you begin to see that they think what they think, and even though you batter them away from certain behavior the second you leave the room it’s as if you never entered it.

And that’s fine; I’m the exact same way. Contention forces my mouth shut but it doesn’t change my mind. In the end everyone sees the situation differently but you still care about everybody around you.

Screw the rest, pick your battles, accept those around you, learn to love. That has to lead to something positive, I’m almost sure.

Today the family watched the Lion king. I realized, once again, that scar rocks. Jeremy Irons plays him and is quite possibly the sexiest ugly man ever.

Today we found Aunt Susan’s long lost Christmas package. The dear had made us all thick flannel pajama bottoms, each in beautiful patterns. We called her to thank her and apologize for losing them.

“Susan, we love them! We’re sorry for losing them, really we are.” mum cooed into the phone as she stroked her flannel.

“We’re geese!” I yelled to Susan from across the room.

“They were beside the garage, we must not have thrown it there without looking,” mum continued.

“Useless! We’re useless!”

“But we found them, and we absolutely love them! Rob will love them. I’m glad we found them.”

“USELESS GEESE!” I bellowed.

“STOP THAT, SHE KNOWS! Anyways, Susan, here’s mom. I’ll let you talk to her. We love you so much.” Mum handed the phone to the bat.

“Susan,” the bat drawled. “I justs wanted to tell you that, you know that accident that I had with the pohlice a while back? Where they had them 5 officers at the house. Well, I can’t remember any of that, and Susan, I don’t think it was me!”

Mum and I rolled our eyes and grinned.

“And, well…what? The scratches? on my car? I think they put them there. The pohlice, Sue, I think they put them there. I don’t know, but I don’t think that was me. I can’t remember any of it, and I don’t think I would do all that damage.”

Mum sputtered and turned to the counter to begin washing it.

“I’ve been so careful with that car you gave me, Susan, and I don’t think it’s time for me to stop driving because I’ve been so careful.” The bat said three days after overdosing on Xanax and taking out numerous street signs.

“I’m such a good driver, they can’t take away my car!”

"GOOSE!"

I suppose I jest simply because I don’t fear the end; absolute bliss fills me now and that’s all that matters. What good would it do me to mourn the loss of something so breathtaking to the point where my bereavement holds my breath inside of me, straps it to my being so it is incapable of departure, unable to be taken? Why would I rob myself of the chance to enjoy this moment, and the next and the next, just because the instant following would be the second I realize the euphoria has fled?

No! I will live in this moment, and disregard the next until it seizes me. I’ve protected myself as well as I can; the only vice I have yet to save myself from is the frustration that inevitably comes when one overanalyzes a situation. I don’t mind curling up on my bed, sobbing, completely horrified by the shattered remains of the balanced ecstasy I found in our delightful rapport; once the tears dry I’ll turn my head to look behind and realize it was beautiful while in existence.

So here it is: another vague tribute to the unnamable, another accolade to the element that sustains my elated contentment for but one moment more. My rapture enlightens me, opening my eyes so that I might allow myself to be blind, so that I might plow ahead and feel the angst that will shape me if I can keep it from crushing me.

Come now my love, placate me once more and promise never to forget me. There is no culmination needed here, after all, merely an adjustment. I await my changed life with that healthy fusion of fear and excitement that everybody understands, so smile for me and write and never forget all the times we’ve laughed together.

I move to Cincinnati on January 27th at 8:00 AM.

"How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live."

-Henry David Thoreau

Less than a day after I posted a link to these they sold out. I think I’ll take this opportunity to trick myself into believing that I am a hopelessly influential person…

*sigh*

Cute, cute, cute, cute.

I'm a bit worried. I've always loved shoes and the likes but I've never seen so many things that I want at one time. Perhaps it's the season, perhaps I simply adore the new wave sweeping the market. Or perhaps my insecure need for material has finally gotten out of hand.

I doubt I'll ever know.

“Here you go, Rashel, here’s the phone.” The bat slurred as she feebly handed me the tv remote.

“Why thank you, mormor. I’ve been wanting to turn off those bores on the phone for ages.”

“What?”

“This is the TV remote.”

She studied the piece of machinery extensively for half a minute.

“Hmmm, so it is.”

Yesterday the bat returned from the store accompanied by two lovely police cars and three burly officers. Apparently the bat had doubled all of her poppers, and had gone on a crashing spree, running three red lights, driving over two people’s lawns, and flattening a stop sign before reversing and driving over it again. She came home, parked on half the sidewalk, and promptly tried to take a nap.

We worked things out, but ever since then everything’s been a bit more interesting around the house.

Uh, looking over my last two entries I feel a need to clarify: I am not materialistic. Any inklings you have that point you to that hideous assumption should be eradicated immediately, you easily misguided twit.

Ah, noble wit! I want this.

Note to self: find a pair of adorable espadrilles. Preferably like these without the $545 price tag. Also consider these and these.

Oh blessed possibility! Today I stood in my kitchen, with every window open and a strong but almost warm breeze pushing through the room. Wind chimes danced in the distance, circling about down the street.

Things have cleaned up rather well with my family. Mum and I have come to terms and accepted that I’m moving to Cincinnati because of the necessary change, not because of her. I’ve become disappointed, however, with the last little bit of Utah, the only piece I truly would have grieved leaving.

Oh brilliance, oh language, oh possibility! Come, the world awaits me! I leap forward and how glad I am! I’ve finally discarded my concern for those who push and suffocate me. I simply don’t care if I sound naïve or immature or selfish. What can they do? What would they do? Why would I let them?

I won’t anymore. I don’t care to explain it; I’ve finished attempting to justify everything. All problems will be ascribed to my childishness, and that’s fine. It’s not as if I have to struggle to pacify anymore: the world is mine.

I am completely mental. Lately, for no reason at all, I have completely dreaded washing off my makeup at night, to the point where I will stay up till 3 in the morning doing absolutely nothing. It's gotten bad, my dearest reader, very bad.

I'm actually listening to Britany Spears.

"The world is a tragedy to those who feel, but a comedy to those who think."

-Horace Walpole (1717-1797)

I am not one to favor the sun when snow falls. In my mind, the picturesque snow-white landscape involves a perfectly gray sky that steps aside to lend the spotlight to the purity that falls from it. The sun slips behind the clouds to allow the viewer to grasp that delicate, scintillating snow, and the lustrous substance ignites to fill the vista with a soft glow. Listening to the snow fall on such occasion is truly divine. What a pity it is to witness the snow transform into a hazard that is to be stepped around and avoided once the clouds part and the sun restores the sky to that brilliant blue! The light from a fully exposed sun yields a reflection from the snow that is simply too harsh to enjoy, and the innate desire one has to stop and gaze at the scene departs almost immediately.

A moment from today flickers in my memory as one that remains a very rare exception. I was in my backyard, playing with Roo, waiting for him to finish his business so as to spare my rugs. The house cast a massive square shadow on about 3/4^ths of the yard, and an L-shaped fragment of brilliant light sat silently to the right of it. The sun beat down mercilessly, summoning an almost abrasive reflection. For some reason, perhaps it was that certain time of day combined with the particular backdrop, it was absolutely breathtaking. The brilliant white of the snow blazed gloriously, and burnt on even more so when juxtaposed with the damp shadow of the house. Roo moved through the deep snow as if he were swimming, hopping about happily in this visage of unforeseen beauty.

I observed this curiously but gladly, and continued to watch my darling puppy frolic about in the powder that encircled him. I let my mind wander to the pursuit of training Roo, an endeavor that has dominated my thoughts whenever I am with the little canine. He meandered about the yard, sniffing at the brick wall and snuffling around in the snow, and I wondered exactly what the alfa male in any given pack does when the rest of the pack is playing. Surely he doesn’t simply stand and wait for the other dogs to finish satisfying their curiosity. I came to the well calculated conclusion that the head of the pack probably snuffs about aimlessly as well.

But I wasn’t interested in the snow or the brick walls of the yard, and I didn’t care to trot about in search of something to occupy my time. I wondered why this is; we are animals as well, captivated easily by any object during youth. I glanced around me and paused momentarily before walking over to the wall to inspect the ivy that climbed up it. I instinctively reached out and grasped the snow-covered spine of ivy, encircling the leaves with my hand and feeling the cold greenery. The snow began to melt, leaving the ivy watery and dripping, shining in the wake of the brilliant sun above. The sight was enticing; the crisply green leaves returned the white light in such a manner that one simply could not look away. I gaped at the sight, wondering when the mystique of light will finally cease to enchant me.

I was drawn from my silly reverie by a snowball, launched from daddy who stood across the yard. He had thrown one before that had gone completely unnoticed, and smiled to see my captivation, telling me it was time to go pick up mum and Rick. I beamed at him, glancing back once more at the palatial spectacle I would have missed had I not been willing to mindlessly look to the doubtful in order to see it.

“Where…” The bat let an exasperated chuckle fall from her lips. “Where do you find the moon? I can’t seem to see it.” She laughed a bit more. Even she could tell it was a startlingly stupid question.

“Er…well, what do you mean?”

“Well, you see, Susan (mum’s sister) and I were talkin’ today and I missed her an awful lot. Her and me decided that tonight at exactly 7:00 my time, 8:00 her time we’d look up at the same moon to bond over the thousands of miles that separate us.” She spoke in her slow Alabama drawl, her blue eyes flitting about the room. “But I can’t find that stupid thing. Should I, should I be able to see it out my winda?”

I swallowed and looked at the clocker, which read 7:27. “You know Mormor, I think you can see it out your window. I can see it out my bedroom window.”

“Oh thanks, darlin’.”

She left the room and promptly headed towards the dining room, which lies in the opposite direction.

I allow a deluge of images and possibilities and anticipation to flood my being, to wash over me again and again and again until it seems as if this tide of desire has finally carried me away from reality’s clutches. I drift with this current, flushed out and away. My sighs fill the air above me and the depths below, and for once I’m buoyed up away from the despair that comes up to own me so sporadically and habitually. Through the web of duplicity that binds me I see the world beyond, and the weather’s absolutely breathtaking.

Today was marvelous. I hate to converse through conundrums and ambiguity, I do, but I understand the necessity as I hope my dearest reader does. Hopefully it suffices to say that the world is a delight of piercing light and ruthless shadows. The daylight shone graciously today; in the brisk morning I smiled to see the radiance.

Perhaps tomorrow I’ll go for a run before dad gets here. He comes at 6 in the morning, and I can’t wait to see him. We have a lot to discuss, him and I, I pray it goes well. And honor I will defend, will all my might, my dear.

 

 

 

 

 

It looks like Roo is just being nice, but don't be fooled. He's really trying to eat me. He's a warrior. 

 

Noble Roo. 

But we just call him Roo for short. 

His name is Roald Amundsen, after the famous Norwegian Artic explorer. 

By the way, did I mention that one of our Christmas presents was a 6 week old American Eskimo mini? 

I stand before a very important decision. I have the option of moving to Cincinnati with Dad, and he’s flying in on Tuesday morning to discuss it.

When this was first brought to my knowledge on Monday night, that bitter, sullen evening, I was actually quite relieved. In the midst of the excruciating angst of that night the glimmer of something new reached out to me from the distant horizon, and it shone quite pleasantly. Looking forward to a new city, with its crisp but familiar smells and tones was much less painful than looking behind and around me at the shattered power struggle that my family life had become. I imagined, and still do, the sweet release of just leaving the shambles of a time crushed by greed and deceit rather than sweeping down and trying to piece them together. The angry voices seep out of my mind as I let my eyes close and picture the lushness of Cincinnati, of cutting my hair into that adorable bob I’ve dreamt of for two years, of a job in a coffee shop in beautiful Eden Park, of a new name and a new image a new slew of possibilities. Just thinking of a household run by reason as opposed to insecurity makes me yearn for a complete and immediate change.

But what if, upon my arrival, I step into that world simply to see that nothing has changed and that I still have yet to learn to be happy?

I’m not a fool; I realize that leaving Salt Lake will only rid myself of the manageable problems and leave me with nothing but the internal, vital struggles to live through. I understand how nonsensical it is to run. And running is exactly what I’m doing in some senses; I don’t want to beat out a shaky compromise with mum just to forget to turn my phone on and return home to see the FBI dusting my front porch for prints. It’s possible to work things out here, it would be good for mum and me, but I’m sick of trying to find a middle ground that her and I both know we’re not capable of standing on. What happens if dad departs on Thursday night without me and I’m cemented in this cycle of bliss and misery, struggling through another monotonous semester at the U, battling mum in the middle of the night, coming to realize that my life is hell and, just to top it off, that I still hate this wretched climate?

It would be so easy to kneel down and ask, but I’m afraid of what I’ll then know I need to do. I’m terrified to think that I could make life work in Utah because I no longer want to. I hate the feel of the air, I hate the sight of 13^th East. I’m sick of hearing my phone ring and I’m tired of panicking when I truly have yet to do anything devastatingly wrong.

In the end I’ll throw my hands up and leave the decision to everyone but the One I need to follow. Defeat will be an event my weaknesses will suffer eventually, but I know neither when nor how this will happen. Until then, my darlings, I’ll glide above without plunging in or even as much as feeling the water below me, darting about in an attempt to avoid every sensation that hurtles by.

How I hope to walk the path I yearn to experience. May bravery and determination appear and linger for but a moment and leave me fitter to endure.

Oh, make me thine forever!

And should I fainting be,

Lord, let me never, never,

Outlive my love for Thee.