Dear Dolli

Saturday, February 17, 2007

12 Years Later

Home movies are often all the same – holidays, soccer games, birthday parties – so why do we make and watch so many of them? Maybe it's because the story they show, and the story they tell, are different.

Sometime in the mid-nineties Grandpa purchased a new and sleek Canon camcorder. Whenever he brought it out, my grandma would cover the side of her face and complain about how he followed her around, filming.
"Do you honestly think anyone is going to watch this, Coston? Why do you need to get everything on film? Are you that afraid you're going to forget something?"

My siblings and I were young then and excited about the prospect of seeing ourselves on the screen. We would take turns hogging the lens, each trying to give a word or a face to the camera ("We're bozos! Yeah, we're hogs!") before the shaky photographer took a break to film various sedentary objects and machinery.

My grandma was camera shy. She scowled upon film at family gatherings.
"There should be a law against those things. Can't it wait? It's all well for them, but what about us poor nobodies caught in the crossfire?"

After she died we took turns holding her various belongings to our noses. Grandma's coat. Grandma's sweater. Grandma's pillow. This is what people do when they're left with such paltry iconography-- they smell things, continuing long after the scent has faded, and there is nothing left to help you remember.
I never cried about my grandma's death. I locked everything up inside me and let it rot. It hurt more that way, but I couldn't bear to show emotion.

Last night I watched a home movie shot in 1995, at my father's birthday party. I witnessed myself in the most awkward stage of my life, decked out in jogging pants, with snarly brown hair and large front teeth. My parents and siblings were undeniably younger, and I couldn't remember how life was before everything changed.
I only glimpsed my grandma towards the end. It was such a small thing: grandma and grandpa and me, swinging on the swings in the backyard. She had on cotton polyester pants, and her hair looked exactly the way I remembered. The swings went back and forth, and through my loud unintelligible yelling on film I had an epiphany-- I was once again the six year old girl caught on camera, swinging with her grandparents.
It seemed to me like a miracle.
After it was over I hit the rewind button, and against my grandma's will I drew her back out to the swing set. She was mine now, captured on film and releasing dozens of repressed memories that came free as tears formed in my eyes. I sat there for a long time, only moving my eyes from her face to rewind it again and again.

Monday, January 29, 2007

For The Widows In Paradise; For The Fatherless In Ypsilanti

Every perfect day needs a topper-- an apex from which every blissful moment can delicately unfold before beginning its descent. But what happens when the day is flat lined on a negative scale with no hope of a point of increase?
Your tires get slashed.
It was bad that I could not find my carpool. It was worse that I was stuck in slippery heels without any way to contact my friends whom I was supposed to drive. But the climax-- the minimum point of my day, the anti-apex, if you will-- became tragedy when I coatlessly found the New Yorker sitting on a slope that allowed the rim of the back tire to kiss the asphalt in a most threatening manner.
Someday I would simply like to go home after school. That's it. No unclosable doors, no dead engines. Someday I would like to hop in my car and have it take me places without running the risk of suicide from an imploding radiator.
So I passed this anticlimax by standing in shock next to a car with peeling red paint and 'YSLER' glued in rusted silver letters across the back, utterly at a loss for action.
I decided that putting on a decent facade of knowledgeable tire-changing skills for the sophomores congregating on the driving range would be a good start. I opened up the trunk, where I knew a spare tire was kept. I pulled on it. It would not give. I tugged on the jack next to it. I have found that in calamities biceps and arm muscles are extremely useful. If nothing else, they give comfort in their existence. Mine exist, but only for a taut allowance of minimal tasks-- such as holding a spoon and waving at people in the hallways. My arms are not meant for manual labor.
With half my body immersed in the open trunk, my bare knees anchored on the sagging bumper, and my sleeves rolled past the elbow, I pulled and pulled at that blasted tire. By this time I had grime on my legs and hands, and was feeling extremely frustrated.
And then he came, an enormous angel who was extremely scary and simultaneously wonderful.
"Well, that sucks!" said Coach Gross, as he leaned over me to inspect what little progress I was able to make with the immovable tire.
He moved it with one hand, picked it up like he was picking up a plastic ball. He raised and lowered and unscrewed and basically lifted the entire car, while I stood back, shivering in my stupid little pink heels, feeling the negativity that comes with feminine helplessness-- or perhaps just my weakness and failure as a human being.
As I was driving home slowly on my newly changed, bike-sized back rear tire, I reflected on the goodness of human nature. Nobody had to stop to help me. I could have stood abandoned in the parking lot for a long, long, time.
Every perfect day has an apex.

Monday, January 22, 2007

Hoarding it for Home

My life as a health addict has not always been severe. Our cupboards at home are usually decorated with Wasa crackers and various healthful condiments from foreign countries. But every once in a long, long while we go on a junk food binge that ultimately leaves us fat and panting for celery and chickpeas.
I remember one such sugar-spree in particular. My father was shuffling through the contents of our refrigerator in an attempt to find something to prepare for dinner. Towards the back of the second glass shelf-- between the Shiitake mushrooms and bell peppers-- he discovered an unnamed science experiment contained within the careful plastic of Glad's Tupperware. Holding the container cautiously over the sink, he slowly pulled the lid off to reveal a medley of molding green nastiness that had been shoved to the back of Leftover Corner and had gurgled happily there for Heaven only knows how many weeks. My mother was away visiting family at this time, and perhaps in a rash act of desperation and helplessness my father emptied the fridge completely of all the organic and easily perishable ingredients that my mother had carefully stocked upon its shelves prior to her departure. From my short perspective I could see a familiar glint come into my father's eyes which could only mean one thing-- chips.
Whenever my mom left town, my dad was left in charge of the grocery shopping. Buying food with Dad was like going on holiday. He is a bargain shopper, which means that he will tear down the cookie and cracker and cereal aisles and throw anything with a 2 for 1 special sign into the cart.
"Pop tarts? Frosted flakes? White bread? Throw it into the cart and let's get out of here!"
For a family who is accustomed to eating twelve grain wheat bread, flax oil, and fortified omega 3 eggs, junk food is a big deal. By the time Dad and the girls (everybody came along for the ride and to help load ice cream into the cart) arrived home, the backseat and trunk of the minivan were weighted down with bouquets and caboodles of sugary and salty snacks that yielded far more calories in one serving than what we were used to consuming in an entire day.
After the initial grocery trip life went downhill. I remember the first few days were glorious; we ate cold cereal for breakfast and bacon and chocolate and Heinz ketchup and other such foodstuffs that most true-blue Americans take for granted. After several meals of unending glory and sugary delight, the novelty of this American life would begin to atrophy and most family members were left feeling chubby and empty and fiber-less.
The crap food would be thrown out immediately before my mom's return, which would be greeted by an empty refrigerator that she would promptly replace with cucumbers, spinach, and mozzarella cheese. She would hustle and bustle and complain, exclaiming:
"For the life of me I can't figure out how you all go through so much food when I'm away!"
So break out the Wasa crackers again, Mom. Our eating habits are as dull as two dry toasts, because after all, you are what you eat.

Thursday, January 11, 2007

Lutefisk: a little piece of Valhalla

My first encounter with 'Death in the Form of Fish' came at our annual Norwegian Christmas party, six years in the past.
The celebration took place in the basement of some shady building sometime in mid-December. The room was very cold, and filled with accented strangers who all wore sweaters and smelled like mushrooms. At last the talking ceased and dinner was served.
Fish.
Mary Hoblastad, a long time family friend, approached the table at which I was sitting and asked if I was going to eat anything. I stared down at the odoriferous goo on my plate, whose gelatinous texture and rancid oiliness rendered the whole creature completely inedible. I shook my head.
"You don't like fish?" she exclaimed wildly, attracting the attention of several suspicious old men passing by, plates loaded with cod, "And you call yourself Norsk! For shame!"
The situation was further worsened when I learned the history of the dish. It was a Scandinavian delicacy known as lutefisk - which means, literally, "cod soaked in plutonium."
I had given a report in Mrs. Powell's sixth grade class about Norway, and to the delight of the sick minded 12 year old boys I had mentioned the gross practices of harvesting the cod, wrapping it in toilet paper, greasing it in Vaseline and then burying it for several weeks to create lutefisk.
I had not cared to try it since.
Despite the fuss I made over the lutefisk- or perhaps because of it-I was persuaded to take one forkful. One bite, and that was all.
How to describe that first bite? It's a bit like describing passing a kidney stone. If you are talking to someone else who has lived through the experience, a nod will suffice to acknowledge your shared pain, but to explain it to the person who has not been there makes mere words seem inadequate to the task.
When I think of that fateful moment when the fork met my lips and the lutefisk touched my tongue, the phrases, "nauseating sordid gunk", "unimaginably horrific", and "lasting psychological damage" come to mind.
There is a reason why lutefisk is only eaten once a year: anything that has been soaked in chemicals and allowed to ferment should not be allowed to pass through the digestive system-- it does detrimental things to the body.
But these descriptions seem hollow compared to the actual experience, so I will have to resort to a recipe for a kind of metaphorical lutefisk to describe the experience.
First, take jet-puffed marshmallows made without any sugar, blend them together with overcooked Japanese noodles, some canola oil, and Parmesan cheese, then bathe the whole liberally in acetone. Let it marinate in cod liver oil for several days at room temperature. When it has achieved the appropriate consistency heat it to just above lukewarm, sprinkle in thousands of tiny, sharp, invisible fish bones, and serve. Voila! You have lutefisk, or at least a very close representation.
Now you can empathize.
And so if I ever create a ruckus over fish, you will know why. There is only one word to describe possibly the most abominable recipe created by mankind-- and it is lutefisk.
Viva la Norge!

Sunday, December 31, 2006

They Are Night Zombies!! They Are Neighbors!! They Have Come Back From The Dead!!

Holidays just aren't the same without the Francises.

In any ordinary suburban neighborhood New Year's Eve is celebrated by watching the ball drop on TV, making nugatory promises for the coming year, and toasting memories. These quiet, conventional, and thoroughly American customs have been tossed aside by the former residents of a certain dark and rather foreboding dead end street where I happen to live.
.........................................................................................................................................................................

There were five boys in the Francis family. Each one was taller and crazier than the next, with long lanky legs and ashen complexions from drinking too much alcohol and staying up late every night. They dropped dummies on passing cars, swam in the putrid canal, vandalized fence posts, and stole Ron Lewis's freshly killed bloody sheep head out of his barn and mounted it for all to see on a pole in their front yard. They were hooligans and hellions in every respect. Every time a dog was poisoned or a shed caught fire the residents of my road pointed their fingers at the infamous Francis Five.
They were the bane of 10755, the annual hosts of the New Year's Insanity, and they lived across the street from me.

Every New Year I recall as a child was ushered in by the raucous parties they would throw. Sleeping on this special night was difficult when Beastie Boys kept pervading my dreams and every time I looked out my window I could see my neighbors chain smoking and drinking beer on their front lawn. Often illegal fireworks were added to the mess of drugs and music and dancing, but if they were unattainable there would surely be an added bonus show of colored lights from homemade rockets and various explosive chemicals.

Life with untrustworthy neighbors is not easy. Young and innocent children are easily impressed upon. Because of this I was absolutely forbidden to associate with the Francises; I was not allowed to approach, speak, or even so much as to look at them. Because I was sheltered-- or perhaps to spite that fact-- I could not deny a lurid fascination with them. I enjoyed analyzing them because it was like gazing into bent glass: the reflection was completely contorted and twisted and crazy, but I could still see a bit of the original shape in the image.

The Francises moved away years ago. They simply packed up and left unexpectedly, taking only what they could fit in the bed of a pick-up truck and returning for the rest later.
After they left, the neighborhood gossips congregated in my kitchen and surmised the cause of this sudden departure. They ended the discussion with the assumption that Donna had gotten pregnant, or Tex had been expelled from high school, or the boys had started making a bomb in the basement and the toxic fumes had forced the whole family to leave.
I suppose we will never know the truth.
.......................................................................................................................................................................
Today is New Year's Eve once again. All is still and peaceful-- a completely different greeting for the New Year than what the residents of my neighborhood have come to expect. There are no fires, no rowdy boys riding goats, no fireworks, and no boom boxes blasting Duran Duran.
Even so, on nights like this I hear in my head the faint beat of a drum and the elusive whine of a synthesizer a little way down the road. The Francises are gone, but their obstreperous ways will forever haunt 10755 every New Year's Eve until the city inevitably decides to take a steamroller to this hill-- causing my quirky neighborhood to be evened out and average once again.

Friday, December 22, 2006

It's Christmas! Let's be glad.

Even today the slightest mention of Christmas shopping leaves an empty gnawing in my stomach-- a dull and colorless pain that reminds me of fluorescent department store lights and tube socks. It is no wonder that after years of enduring The Christensen Family Christmas Crisis I have grown to despise the holidays with the same deep antipathy that one usually reserves for truly horrendous things: like racism, terrorism, and corporate fraud.
All my life I have been trying to reconcile this phenomenal event--the incarnation of God-- with Santa Clause and blue-light specials at Kmart and the weird preoccupation people have with buying a lot of junk and giving it to each other every twenty-fifth of December. There is something incredibly phony about Christmas. Or maybe it's just the commercialized holiday cheer speaking.
And then again, I can be a bit of a curmudgeon at this time of year.
The guest bedroom in my house is present-wrapping central. Idle hands in the month of December earns any family member several locked hours in this gift wrap purgatory, with no hope of release until that day's load is safely bundled in brightly colored paper. This crinkly, gaudy, and extraneous material will litter the living room floor on Christmas morning, and then will quickly be torn into millions of shreds by The Babes. Then the gift wrap crumb shavings will sit and sit and catch on jeans as people try to wade through the mess and then will float and slide under the couches and rugs until it is eaten eventually by the vacuum sometime in mid-January. This is just like the pine needles from the fake Christmas tree (that we didn't put up this year) that become embedded in the carpet where the cat finds and eats them, and then gets sick and throws up.
The worst part of Christmas is not the hoarfrost on the windshield or the schmaltzy yuletide carols on the radio or even the extra thick eggnog and fruitcake. The very worst part of Christmas is how it is advantageously stuck between Thanksgiving and New Years, and how when you least expect it, it tiptoes from behind and bites until you bleed... until you bleed money and sleep and health out your wallet and eyes and nose and before you know it you are completely obliterated and Christmas is still three days away.
And then it sinks in-- something that I privately refer to as, "that Creepy Christmas Feeling".
It comes around when families act out the nativity scene and we picture the baby Jesus wrapped up in swaddling clothes- burping and spitting and smiling- a supreme being come to the Earth to save mankind from their sins. It comes on bright snowy nights when every sound is muffled by whiteness and everything is clear and cool and perfect, and the houses are lit up by a hodgepodge of blinking colored lights strung haphazardly from rooftops with the most tacky best intentions. It comes on Christmas Eve when I am lying in my bed, and even in my most mature state and Scrooge-like persona I can't close my eyes because that Creepy Christmas Feeling has spread from my chest to every appendage and extremity of my body until my heart is feverish with the warmth that comes with the Creepiness of Christmas.
Bah humbug!

Thursday, December 14, 2006

Don't forget to drink your Ovaltine!

I am an Ovaltine addict.
The vast quantities of this powdery and sometimes chalky beverage consumed by my family is an abnormal custom in almost every respect, but one which I enjoy immensely. In fact, I believe my life with Ovaltine as a daily ritual makes up for any lack of sugar I may have complained of in other areas of my diet.
Ovaltine has been shunned by society as a healthy form of hot chocolate, or as a mineral-enriched fortified drink for old people. No doubt this is because of the creepy commercials with the pedophile like Ovaltine man calling together a force of unattractive children who simultaneously chorus, "More Ovaltine please!" with just the perfect degree of cheesiness as to induce vomiting in the spectator. But Ovaltine doesn't usually have that effect on me. It's my comfort food.
I'm not the only crazy one around these parts either. One in ten people have heard of Ovaltine, and one in seventy-five actually like it. About half of the Ovaltine drinking population of Utah belongs to my family. Everybody else is extended or distantly related. In the rare occurence that I should meet a fellow Ovaltine fan, an instant connection is forged and an automatic friendship is inevitable. The easiest path to my heart? Drink Ovaltine.
Sunday nights are dedicated solely to Ovaltine drinking and classic cinema. I have another confession; I love masterpiece theater, and I watch it every week. Daniel Deronda, Wives and Daughters, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, and Doctor Zhivago... My first taste of the classics came from KUED and a pitcher full of Ovaltine. Koseli and I would camp out on our living room floor and squeal over the gory Mysteries as we cuddled in our blankets.
Because of this I became an Ovaltine advocate; the first ever, and probably the last. Without any benefit to myself I began to promote this drink in the hope to spread health, happiness, and the intellectual stimulation that a delicious glass of frothy Ovaltine can stimulate. This is why the League of Ovaltineys was started, and why its legacy still lives on today. If you are curious about the advantages of drinking Ovaltine- over Nesquik or regular chocolate milk- just take a good look at me. I'm completely healthy, loaded to the brim with strong muscles, and practically the next Albert Einstein.
Who knew a ballyhooed and puffed up beverage could be so beneficial?

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

A static and solemnly invincible alibi

The moment the cold air rushed in from my open car door I could feel it coming.
The atmosphere was permeated with the smell of campfire smoke and the ominous gray calm before a snowfall. Standing on the front porch I sifted through my bag, searching frantically for my lost key while juggling and dropping my books and violin case. Something monstrous twinged in my stomach as I crossed the threshold and I sat down on the stairs for a minute with my head between my knees.
Leaving school early had been a blessing in disguise.
I stumbled up to my bedroom and shut the door, throwing my books onto my bed. Outside the snow was already beginning to fall, illuminating the room with white light until the sun passed behind leaden clouds and left me huddled in shadows.
I opened my history book and squinted at the section on Louis XVI. The words blurred and once again I felt anemic and queasy. Leaning my head back on the pillows I commenced to daydream and gaze out the window, taking deep breaths and trying to regain control over myself. I watched a Chickadee cock his head at me through the glass as he followed a trail of winter sunflower seeds. My hands and feet were very cold, but my forehead was feverish; already a silver sheen of sweat enveloped my skin, and I could hear my heart racing in my head-- thumpthumpthump.
I closed my eyes.
I had nightmares as I slept. I was lost in a confusing maze of black and nothingness. The emptiness of the space scared me more than the darkness. There was quiet screaming somewhere in the back of mind, successively raising volume decibel by decibel. I twisted and turned until I was hopelessly tangled in my sheets. The screams became unbearably loud. I awoke suddenly and sat bolt upright.
With shaking fingers I stuck my finger with the lancett and drew a perfect drop of blood.
37, the meter read. I had dropped with unbelievable speed.
I drank some grape juice-- greedily and hungrily, still shivering. I immediately felt the heat appease and I dropped off into the state of peaceful rest I had hoped for.
Somebody barged noisily into my room, and stopped short of the bed. A worried silence ensued as I unconsciously felt my mother's eyes rake over my bloodless cheeks and weakened state. I did not open my eyes. I felt her cool hand on my forehead and her lips on my cheek. With the reverence befitting a tomb she backed slowly out the door.
Outside the snow continued to fall.

Thursday, November 23, 2006

Twilight of illiteracy

Well it was inevitable. I never thought it would happen, but I've finally done it.
I've taught myself to read.
Today, the Thanksgiving of November 23rd, 2006, I read over 500 pages of an honest, true, undeniable, bona fide novel. There was no class sophistication in this particular book either. It involved the supernatural, the fiction, the cheesiness... and yes, even the romance of modern literature. What? No Dickens? No pocket dictionary required? Joslynn read something... normal? And she liked it? What?
It began while I was waiting for the Turkey. That icon of holiday goodness- that symbol of gratitude, and pilgrimage, and thanksgiving- took forever and a day to cook. I had grown restless watching my father marinate and massage that horrible fowl, so I casually picked up a novel that had been thrown haphazardly on my bed by Shirsti. Twilight, written by Stephanie Myer. Not only did it involve vampires, but the author was a graduate of BYU. I distinctly remember thinking, 'Uh-oh, this could be more than a little entertaining! Let's have a go at it.'
And then I started. And then I never stopped, except for short snippets of time to casually converse with a cousin or two, or to steal another roll. My Thanksgiving was utterly lost within the pages of a book. That has never happened to me before. Ever.
I do feel guilty for my introverted ways. I honestly believed I could pull off a sociable facade. For the first time in months I was under the same roof as the Parker family: possibly the most entertaining people in the world to watch. Unfortunately, I suck at life.
"Watcha reading Joslynn?"(said consecutively by at least twelve nameless relatives).
"Um... a book." (Obvious, "Go away, I'm reading" response).
"What's it about?"
Not wanting to give them a synopsis of my ridiculous novel, I would then ween the conversation away from me until they felt their obligation to pelt me with questions fulfilled.
So perhaps my day was not filled with the expected sunny joys of family and food. I could hardly manage to eat a bite in between chapters. However, I have discovered yet another thing to be grateful for: entertaining books. And for now I am not speaking of great books that change minds and lives and institutions, nor educational books that enlighten the brain and inspire the heart. Good, old fashioned, entertainment in the written form is what I'm thankful for today, because I have not enjoyed it since I've discovered I could read.
I think I'm in love.
Again.

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

Ode to the Winkles

In the Looking Glass
Who am I?
What face is this?
This face...
These lines of crusty wrinkles?
These memoirs of days past...
Who is this woman I've become?
This old hag,
With her crooked teeth
And shagged hair?
This bar wench,
That strung her beaus on a kite string,
Who attracted the men like flies to a junkyard mutt?
No Loreal crinkle cream can change the mark
Of time on this face.
"I hate it when people have stinky teeth."
--Shirsti

A beautiful siren's song--
Undulating waves
Of the most dELiciOus kind.
A bellyLaugh...
A low rumble
Deep within the guts,
in our BoWELs.
Oh capture me again!
Into the moonlight we ride
Together
My beautiful Pegasus of the sea...
Just the two of us--
Me, and my Manatee.
--Shirsti
"Oh there you are Peter!"

Blood pulsing...
Eyes shifting...
Parchment of the tongue....
Water! Water!
Where is Water? Oh, Spear of Tridant!
Wilt thou not come
And wet my tired lips
With nature's kiss?
And
With thy tinkling tears
Sing a song
of OCEANS...
and an oasis
In the mist?
--Shirsti
"Giga-who? Giga-what? Gigabixel."

Winkles and Winkettes
Once upon a time...
Ha!
I forget the rhyme
Uh, sizzle fo' shizzle, my nizzle
Whateva.
Signin' out.
Peace!
--Shirsti
"Long live Bill Clinton!"

Here a Winkle, there a Dinkle

Everywhere a stinky Stinkle.
Hopping
There's no stopping
A bee-bop
A boo-bop
A rhubarb pie.
--Shirsti
"Anyone want a piece?"

Monday, November 06, 2006

Everybody needs an editor...

These are the gems of my picture library that I simply could not keep to myself. My personal favorites? Shirpa sports a frumpy blue morning jacket and a not-yet-brushed, pre-breakfast smile, and Winky blushingly belly laughs while giving a clear view up her left nostril.
How, you may ask, can one be so cruel as to delight in the misfortunes of others? Well, friends, I can tell you one thing: They do not face the curse of bad photography alone. I have enough blackmail in my possession to rule the world. Almost.

Shirsti, Koseli, Kristian, Kari: If you read this post, my most sincere apologies. It can't be helped. Remember, we are all beautiful until the camera catches us at a bad angle.
If these produce such a laugh elsewhere as the one I enjoyed when I saw them, then I have done my duty.

Bon Apetit! (WHAT?)

Joslynn looks ugly in an attempt to wink

Monday, October 23, 2006

History of Imagination

I was six years old the first time I thought of Avaland. I was crying over an unmemorable something, and in bitterness and tears I began to imagine a complex world where everything was undeniably Utopian. From that moment on, my tiny, wingless, imagination took flight and soared to tremendous levels.
I don't know how I thought of the name. I think it was something I picked up from a cheesy fantasy novel. However, it seemed to fit and that was what I called it.
Sitting on the back porch I would close my eyes and transport myself to a parallel universe. Usually my wanderings in this strange land took place on mossy cliffs of towering ruggedness- stepping down to the sea- and over what I pictured as foggy, enchanted moors.
My hunger for perfection did not stop when I was done playing. I would spend hours arranging the furniture in my room, and daydreaming about my chimerical land.
I only got worse as time went on.
I used my backyard as the stage to my play. The willow trees were no longer just trees, but a haunted wood. Under the apricot boughs was a fairy ring, and in springtime I would visit them in the evenings. On rainy days I could go fishing for whales in the puddles, and in the crisp fall I roped down a dragon and rode him into the clear, blue, sky.
My playtime became even more extravagant and complicated. I added characters, and dilemmas, and relationships. It was a book, I thought. My own personal play; complete with protagonist, plot, sub-plots, and scene.
It was all so real to me, and so deeply personal, that I never shared my secret place with anybody.
Until now.
I'm not quite sure what the purpose of Avaland was. A method of escape, perhaps. But after several years of bonding, it became so much more to me. Surely I was a severely troubled child, as I never really lived in the real world, but only truly existed in the fairyland in my mind. This probably accounts for any strange quirks that I still have today.
Looking back on it all, I marvel at my ability to hallucinate and call it art; to believe in a dream that was so completely unreal.
But I still think it was the most beautiful delusion imaginable.

Thursday, October 12, 2006

Prodigal Heirs and their Sons

As independent females we cannot escape the dissolute habits of men. 'Eye raping' is a fact of life we'd all rather disregard. I know there are countless, creepy, males crawling this planet; and I know it is inevitable that someday I will be forced to come into contact with at least one of them. I have been warned against these things. I have been prepared for the storm.

Unfortunately when it rains, it pours.

It seemed every scary old man in Salt Lake City was out today, and I had the terrible misfortune of meeting them all.
I was sitting across from Carla and Kathy on TRAX, recovering from my embarrassing dare of dancing the can-can on the train. A man entered the car and his eyes locked onto us. He wore a checkered shirt and facial hair. I glanced at him briefly and thought, "Suspcious." And there it was; an undeniable wink. I did a double take. And there it was again. It was true; he was hitting on me.
As we stepped off the train at Gallivan Plaza, the sight of the bustling city met our eyes. A lonely hobo was playing his cello on the corner. He followed we three as we nervously waited to cross the street. Nodding and smiling at me, he tipped his hat. A harmless, homeless man? Perhaps.
"Do you have two quarters?"
"I'm sorry, I don't have any change."
There was an awkward silence as he stood before me, staring with shifty, twitching eyes.
Run away!
A while later I was alone in the elevator of Wells Fargo, floor number twenty-one. Another man enters. He stares. Up goes the elevator. 22-23-24...
(Door opens, enter Carla and Kathy, laughing.)
Another wink.
"Have a nice day ladies."
On the train ride home I felt the nervous pressure of Carla's hand on my leg, as we tried to avoid eye contact with the person sitting across from us. He did insist on talking, however, and asked us several too personal questions. I zipped up my jacket, bit my lip, and nodded politely to his rambling.
Perhaps I was disturbed by these minor occurrences because I am not used to being accosted and bombarded with questions from strange old men. And someone screaming, "I want you!" from their car is not my idea of fun.
In other words, I am back to my man-hating stage. I simply wish that these things would not happen. I wish that raggedy old men could keep their eyes in their own sockets so I would be spared the pain of witnessing them look at my friends in that way.
Ugh.
There is one thing I don't understand. Do I appear so needy... so desperate for attention that these men think it is favorable in my eyes to wink, to question, and to flirt?
I most certainly hope not.

Sunday, October 08, 2006

Mud + Heels = Humiliation

I knew my life had taken a turn for the worst when I realized I was stuck on top of the Turnbow's chain link fence.
It is a common joke amongst the people in my ward that I drive to church every Sunday. Certainly, the chapel is terribly close to my home, but I do think I have a sound argument in saying that when one wears uncomfortable shoes, one cannot be expected to trek across fields full of mud and horse excrement. Even so, they still said I was polluting the Earth. Today I decided to prove them wrong. So I walked.
I knew the muses were frowning upon me when I saw the gate that links the top of my street to the chapel. It was padlocked, wrapped tight with a good strong chain and some sturdy rope. How could my lifetime of good luck have run out so quickly on such a deserving, cheerful, Sunday morning?
I had a choice: go back defeated or surrender my pride and climb over. I climbed. My heel stuck in the chain links. I abandoned it. The tulle of my skirt caught and snagged, exposing a good deal more leg than it is appropriate to say. At that moment several high priests from my ward chose to walk by. In desperation I wildly beat at my skirt, trying to lengthen it. By the time I became visible to them through the trees I had managed to compose myself on the top of the fence post-parakeet style- nonchalantly gazing in the opposite direction, praying to Heaven or to the cruel muses that I would blend in with the scenery.
It didn't work.
They questioned my position. They asked me if I would be joining them at church anytime soon, and did I need help? Oh no, I told them. I'm just... sitting. Enjoying the morning.
Sitting? On top of a fence? With my skirt tucked under me, scraped legs, and mussed up hair like an amazon woman? I think not...
Oh, muses!
By the time I made it to the other side of the gate I was sufficiently bedraggled; I had pine needles in my hair, and mud on my feet. I spent a good while trying to get my shoe unstuck, and the harder I pulled the more disconcerted I became. Needless to say, I was a complete wreck.
Earth, I do indeed love you. But until the Turnbows decide to be better neighbors and unlock their gate, I will continue to pollute you with my Sunday drives.

Wednesday, October 04, 2006

Automne

I have denied its presence for several weeks now. But after today, I believe I can truly usher in the Autumn with the felicity and good humor a new season brings.
My appeasement began with the rain. It seemed providential that heaven should choose the moment I was outside to lift its floodgates and let loose a storm. The water poured down in buckets and sheets and seemed to penetrate the skin and absorb into every line-- and then to overflow and bubble over. The howling wind, and the vividness of the lightning led me to one conclusion: rain is the most perfect state of being. Now, given that truly makes no sense at all, but I have no other way to explain it.
After the storm ended everything was fragrant, and clean, and filled with October clarity. It seemed to me that the trees and plants were stretching forth their last moments of growth before closing into their sleepy dormancy. The fire bushes were aflame and little pearls of water dripped from their leaves.
This comely little Earth never fails to fill me with rapture.
So, bid adieu to seasons past everybody, and say hello to Fall.
Because whether we appreciate it or not, it's here.

Saturday, September 30, 2006

Haves and Have Nots

Today I did plenty of nothing; or, if we're being optimistic, plenty of things that weren't worth my time. And although I can't pretend to enjoy days like these, I did discover some mildly entertaining things.

5. Desire: This is a TV series that I just happened upon. Possibly the worst I've seen. Ever. The plot consists of two beau monde and macho jocks who are in love with the same slutty woman. Oh, and the Mafia is after them. It seems as if the directors tried to spin this novela off of Desperate Housewives or something. And where that show can actually be funny while it is crude, this one is just stupid. The episode I saw had detestable acting, especially in the oddly soap opera-ish moments when a grisly old man tortured one of the surfer dudes because he wouldn't marry his daughter. Needless to say, I found it funny.

4. Pudding: Today was my first attempt at making pudding from scratch. Surprisingly, it worked. However, my chocolate concoction slipped out of its bowl in such a smooth, polished, even mound that I could not resist making a face out of it. I used whipped cream for the eyes, chocolate pupils and nostrils and little white cream fangs and lots of hair. "Here you go convalescent friend who is too ill to leave the couch. Hope this doesn't scare you too much..."

3. While outlining the chapter for history, I have discovered that I hate the French. If it wasn't for Henry III and the Huguenots I would not have been trapped in front of the computer screen all day. And then again, if it hadn't been for Europe at all I would not be taking this class in the first place.
Blast!

2. General Conference: Okay. While this wasn't exactly entertaining, it was enlightening. And that totally counts. Too bad I slept through most or all of the second session.

1. My dreams: While I was sleeping through the aforesaid portion of conference, I had a dream I was riding the ferris wheel at Lagoon with a tank full of Piranhas on my head. On the downward trip they spilled all over me and aggressively seized my flesh and commenced to eat me alive. Natalie and Brittany then started to yell, "Nice job Joslynn! Now we have to go buy more!"

Days like these... you've got to love 'em.

Monday, September 25, 2006

A true Dogface

This is my tribute to all of Heaven's creations that never should have been conceived. We fear them because they are different. But surely on the inside they are just the same... Or are they?

This is Sam, possibly the most repugnant creature to grace God's planet.

As you can see, what Sam lacks in hair is made up in numerous goose pimples and warts. Below his neck hangs a flapping fold of flesh, and his crooked smile is crowned by a set of snaggle teeth.

Did I also mention he's going blind?

Owner Susie Lockheed is proud of her pet. She said, "People are always horrified when I kiss him. He may turn into a prince yet. He's definitely a toad."

Yes Susie. He most certainly is.

When I was first introduced to Sam, I, like many others, recoiled in fear but was soon drawn to him in morbid fascination. He looked like some kind of hideous beast that had been hit by a train and then wrung through a washing machine while simultaneously being beaten with a stick.
The owners of the other contestants in the World's Ugliest Dog Contest may have thought their pooches had a chance at winning - that is, until they saw Sam. He's so ugly the judges recoiled in shock when he was placed on their judging table to claim his winnings for the third consecutive year.
Surprise, surprise.
Although Sam has regretfully passed away, his monstrous legacy will live on and on.

Monday, September 18, 2006

Miss Domesticity

With the recent absence of my mother from our home in South Jordan, I have felt a sudden and decisive pull towards all things domestic. My reason? The alpha female leaves, and another takes her place--me.
Tonight I cleaned the house. I vacuumed, dusted, scrubbed, and set the Beatles going. Then I made dinner. I even stuck toothpicks in the entree. Was this enough? Oh no... as if things weren't getting bad enough! I baked a cake, feeling that I couldn't continue on with the test for which I should be studying until I chopped up at least a dozen peaches and blended some whipping cream. Of course, the cake was lumpy, as my cakes always are. But I like to think I'm getting better.
I'm afraid that those around me have also felt the relentless pressure of my new role. Lately I have been much more naggy. An undeniable know-it-all. "Don't do that! Don't sit there! I knew that was going to happen..."
I could kick myself in the foot.
And now, the confession:
Mom, please come home. Because I am turning into you.

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Introverts unite!

I am an introvert.
The idea occurred to me recently, but I have refused to accept it until last night, when the thought actually became pleasureable.

The telephone was ringing, and my mind was hovering somewhere between apprehension and terror. I hesitated until it was too late. The ringing stopped and I was relieved. And that's when it hit me flat over the head: I would rather stay safe in the shadows and away from conflict rather than face it head on. An introvert!

Ah ha! How much better would life be from that angle? There would simply be an excuse for everything!
"Oh, don't mind me. I'm an introvert... Sorry, I can't go to prom with you. I'd rather stay home-- didn't you know? I'm an introvert."

Of course, I am not all introverted. I have my glorious extrovert moments, which are mostly me being abnormal and foolish. But over all I feel much safer standing next to someone else.

I have found in my new position that I do not feel inferior to extroverts, nor do I feel like I need special care and feeding instructions now that my case has been identified. Just let me have a bagel, and a cup of hot chocolate and I'll be content to watch an entire season of The Office by myself.

I suspect introverts were probably put on this planet to provide balance to all of those jabbering extroverts running around talking about nothing 98 percent of the time. Extroverts have a driving passion to be the center of attention. They have a comment about every subject in the world and they have a joke for every situation. In one conversation, an extrovert will make ten statements to one introvert comment.

I was always told that being an introvert was never a popular characteristic. A negative personality trait, if you will. I don't think so. I find that introverts tend to be incredibly thoughtful and intelligent people.

So I only have one thing left to say:
My name is Joslynn, and I am an introvert.
Are you?

Sunday, August 27, 2006

Farewell Sweet Summer

I could not go to bed without formally recognizing the official end of summer on this blog. Despite the dullness, the drudgery, and the heat, many good things (and not so good things) have happened.

Allow me to list:
1. A couple days in a houseboat, giggling non-stop with Nicole.
2. Trips to Maggie Moo's. Cinnamoo ice-cream. Mmmm...
3. Wave runners on Bear Lake. (I tore up the water and overcame my fear of tipping over.)
4. Paychecks from Lifetime Fitness
5. Visits to and from Brittany, and a brief glimpse of the magical Beatle's Anthology
6. Maxwell's Silver Hammer
7. Bowling
8. Helping with Brenda's neighbor's wedding reception. Delicious food, beautiful flowers. The company of close friends. Who could ask for more?
9. Pirates Premiere. Yes, Megan and I did wear cheesy shirts, but it was very fun.
10. Cousin visit in Idaho.
11. House shopping with Keenan and Koseli
12. The dollar theater
13. The water park. Cowabunga dude! Kos and I rocked those water slides.
14. Abner
15. A surprise early morning visit from Kathy and Brenda, and then IHOP.
16. Visits from Lindsay at work.
17. Chalking driveways. Everybody's and anybody's.
18. Swinging on the swingset and talking to Nat, Britt, and Brenda. A daring game of 'Truth'.
19. Daph, Britt, and I attempt to run.
20. Some very intuitive conversations with Doyle. (That's Brittany's horse, for those of you who don't know.)
21. Death Cab for Cutie concert. Seeing Mates of State live and falling in love with both of them.
22. Wendy's, Del Taco, and Wendy's and Wendy's and Wendy's.
23. Wild kitten craziness and the desperation that comes with trying to get rid of it
24. IP relay, some messed up notes, and some very yucky cookies.
25. Violent games
26. Visits from Kari, Cambria, Kevin, Sasha, and Kristian.
27. Non-stop Winkle voice.
28. Hormones.
29. Meeting Grace at the mall
30. A completely black solstice party
31. Noodles with Lindsay. Movie with Lindsay. Slurpies with Lindsay.
32. Talking with Brenda until two in the morning.
33. Dead car battery that magically came back to life.
34. Tristen's birthday party
35. Brittany's surgery.
36. My terrible haircut
37. Dinner at Paul and Jaylynn's
38. Scum
39. Sleepover with Kathy and Megan
40. Costco lunch with Megan
41. Starting a journal
42. Cambria's book signing
43. Sam Weller's
44. Gardener Village
45. Skipping Sunday school
46. Starting this blog
47. Scary man experience
48. Drive-in movies, movie theaters, and rented movies
49. Crazy costumes, a Russian hat, a sword, and three sheets
50. Ice-cream 'til two in the morning
51. Hours spent in delightful reading
52. Postcards and letters from afar (or not so much)
53. Hours, and hours, and hours, and hours of laughing. Really hard.

If you have more to add, by all means do! Let us not let this next school year murder the summery feel. Though the days get colder, and shorter, and our lives get busier, we will keep summer in our hearts.
Because, after all, we must continue to glorify its dullness so we have something to be excited about next year.