THE TUBA IS NOT A MONSTER!

When I was in high school, my Spanish teacher asked us to write and illustrate a children's story. I wrote a vaguely autobiographic story about a young girl and the perception of a tuba. My high school teacher had kept the book as an example for future classes, and I forgot about it. Recently it fell back into my hands (when said teacher retired), so I figured I would post some photos of it on this blog.

Hellboy the Refugee Fiddler Crab Moves in!

A friend of mine and her roommate were at a store where I don't shop anymore. I don't know how it happened, but somehow they found their way to the pet section. Maybe it was the midwinter boredom getting to them or maybe it was just an impulse as they say, but they bought a Fiddler Crab and named him Luther.

Like many impulsive purchases, they started regretting it after a few days. I came into the picture as my friend's roommate was contemplating ways to murder Luther. She mentioned boiling him and seeing if he could be cracked open for meat (he is the smaller than a silver dollar). Her other sadistic and crackpot schemes included releasing him into a mall wishing well or hotel pool or throwing him out onto the foot of snow that has accumulated this week.

I was disgusted. As my visit wore on, I realized that I could do something to save this poor living creature that was about to become a victim of the sickening cycle of big box pet peddling (always low morals, always). My friend seemed relieved when I offered to take Luther (though I think she experiened a touch of disappointment that she wasn't going to see what sort of creative end her roommate would devise and carry out).

I decided that his name ought to be Hellboy after the comic book character. Male fiddler crabs have one huge claw and one tiny one. Appearently the big claw is completely useless except for the occasional ritualistic mating brawl with another male. Hellboy, the world's greatest paranormal investigator, has one large stone hand (the Right Hand of Doom) that just happens to be the key to the end of the world. I figured that being named after a character who is a force for good in spite of the dark destiny that he inherited would be good for this refugee Uca.

I bought a nifty thrift store glass jar and sand to keep him in. I even got water conditioner and salt so he would be happy. Damn my big heart for helpless creatures. Stupid exotic pet industry. May the blood of sewer alligators forever be on their hands.

Lost & Found and Re-read

There is something about buying a used book. There is a slight musk smell that you can't help but relish as you finger through soft, already-loved pages. There is a meta history often recorded in the marginalia. There are flat objects lost and found in the creases of the book.

Ms. Isabel Harding owned the copy of Charlotte Temple that I recently read. She and I had a conversation separated by years and miles and the worldwide market of Amazon textbook purchasing. But here I was with an insight into how she viewed the world. At points she would highlight and interject "why is this here?" Or "by whom was this letter written?" I was impressed with her correct usage of 'whom' and mentally complimented her as I continued to read the text.

I recently purchased a used copy of A Confederacy of Dunces (this novel was suggested to me back when I was a recent high school graduate by George Roth--a bastion of the "nerd table" [at the time I preferred "intellectual lunch group"] that existed for the first couple of years of my high school experience). I found an artifact of the anonymous former owner on page 227: A corner of paper ripped from a Chinese takeout menu. An impromptu bookmark for the takeout consumer who has found a new "favorite Asian place." I wondered if they happened to be as obese as the main character in the novel. Perhaps it hit a little too close.

When I was at ISU I took a literary analysis course with a textbook titled Reading Narrative Fiction. Tucked between the pages was another story: a photo cropped down to two inches by three inches with various printing errors. Two woman stand in the center of the photograph with their legs propped up on a cut log as if they are on the label of a Captain Morgan bottle. They are in a campground with pine trees some fifteen feet behind them. A black dog lies and pants at the base of the log with a leash curled into an unsure, uneven, unattached serpentine pile beside him. The lady in the left's head is cut off by the photo some inches above her dark sunglasses. On the right the lass is wearing a light floral print halter top and Capri pants. Her smile is infectious, almost drunken looking. It seems to be both the fuel for the forced smile on her companion's face and also the destroys its effect by un-suspending our disbelief. Somedays I think these ladies are lesbian partners spending a relaxed weekend in the woods. Other days I feel that they are old high school buddies reconnecting over a few brewskis in the woods after years of collegiate separation. The enigma for me with this artifact is who holds the camera.

This all makes me wonder how my margin notes, chicken scratch and doodles are being seen in the world of used books. Am I some poor college freshman's Half-blood Prince? Maybe my doodle in a Music Theory textbook just made some brunette alto roll her eyes but secretly be glad for the momentary distraction from the stress of finals.

May the wonders of the aftermarket book trade forever bring a light to your life and to mine!

Charlotte Temple and I Are Bosom Buddies

Last night at midnight, I came to the sickening realization that I am Charlotte Temple.

If you don't know who she is, She is the main character in Susanna Rowson's novel, Charlotte Temple. This novel is a quintessential sentimental novel. It is full of exaggerated emotions, vermilion cheeks, streaming tears, fainting (lots and lots of fainting), joyous outburst and, sappy letters. I read Charlotte Temple recently for my Early American Literature course. It was a real page turner. You just can't wait to find out what is going to happen to Charlotte next. She is a very ambivalent character, usually allowing her mind to be made up by those around her. In general that makes for a very boring person. Unless a character like this is surrounded by villainous characters (and, you had better believe they don't get much more villainous than the type she hangs with), then this sort of character has a turbulent life journey. Charlotte worries about what is proper and what is not. She takes pride in herself for being the sort of girl that never disobeys her parents or is alone with men. Nevertheless, she ends up being influenced to elope with a soldier who has no intention of marrying her. She is left alone, in a foreign land, and because she fornicated----that's right---she has a baby in the belly.

I feel I must stop here to clarify. I am not exactly like Charlotte Temple. My sickening midnight realization did NOT come after I was deflowered. I am not pregnant. (Don't worry mom) there has been no, and will be no, premarital deflower-ification in my life. Also, if you think my parallel to Charlotte is my propensity toward fainting: you are close, but no cigar.

Eventually, everyone in the novel gets what they are due and the world moves on. I have to admit, I enjoyed it. Maybe not for the reasons that Rowson would want me to, but I am fine with that. I am also enjoying reading some of the recent criticism of the novel.

Last night I was reading one such criticisms and was really hungry. I pride myself on having a fairly healthy diet. Really, over all, I do well. For dinner last night I had banana squash, a baked potato (both with olive oil and salt and pepper), some grilled chicken, 2% milk, and spinach. Usually this would fill me up. But last night, I just had to keep on snacking. I snacked and snacked. Finally it was 11:40 p.m. and I was staring at the pantry thinking "I have had all of the snacks I have on hand, I don't want anymore of these. If it didn't cost money and if it weren't really unhealthy, I would go get some fast food." Then my roommate walked into the room. I said "Man, I am really hungry. I might just bread down and get some fast food."

"You should. Well, I am off to bed" said my roommate.

With that suggestion, I grabbed my overcoat, my keys, and my cap and got into my '94 Cadillac and went to a fast food place. As I drove home, the warm fat-sodium-sugar-and-disease sitting on my lap, I pondered my indecisiveness and how my inability to choose lead me to choose exactly what I wanted to avoid.

Pellucid drops of solemn woe fell down my cheeks as I bit into that warm nutrient-less bun and processed the cheap rubbery cheese, the fragrant onion and the firm ground beef between my molars. Okay, so I didn't cry, but if my life were a sentimental novel, I probably would have cried, fainted and choked on that dollar menu hamburger. And then whoever found me in that sad condition would have gasped and fainted too.

Paints For The Canvas

I like the person I am becoming. Mostly. Well, kind of almost entirely.

I am sure that 22 years down the line (when I am double my current age) I will look at my 22 year-old self in that "benefit of 20/20 hindsight" way and know that I had a lot to work on. I recognize that. I embrace that. And I have a theory that this is why I am happy right now. I realize that I have a lot of work to do, but therein lies the beauty. I am a canvas unfinished. A canvas that I can continue to add pigments to and blend and play with composition and lighting---- In short, the masterpiece of "me" is still a work in process and I am enjoying the journey.

I love my classes. University studies are phenomenal. I recommend it to anybody willing to learn. I am enjoying so many facets of the process and it is an integral part of the progress towards a better me. My classes are rad. Here is the run-down:

Early American Literature
My professor for this received her doctorate from Brown. Which I think is pretty nifty. My literary analysis professor at ISU (Dr. Brian Attebery) was fantastic, and he was a Brown graduate. Brown is two for two in my book. But I digress. I enjoy this class for various reasons. I've been exposed to Native American folklore and conquistador texts and the autobiographies of self-made men Benjamin Franklin and Equiano. There have been Puritans and plantations, spiders dangling over the fires of hell and a woman held captive by a (supposedly Native American) giant. All of this is coupled with some great discussion and a professor who expects a lot out of her students (especially when it comes to written assignments) but she is as helpful as she is challenging.

Earth Systems
The scope is intense. This class attempts to cover the natural processes of the earth---all of them. This is my last semester of taking honest-to-goodness general studies classes. So I am trying to relish it. This class is good for my awareness of the science that happens around me. My teacher is really good at finding interesting Youtube clips to illustrate different phenomena. That is the highlight. I guess the fact that the professor has great metacognition of her horribly punny sense of humor is a plus too.

Biological Anthropology
Another science class. This one is about the physical aspects of being human. The professor is a expert on primates and has spent some significant time in Southeast Asian primate research stations. That said, she couldn't write a multiple choice test to save the orangutans or her own life. The real winning aspect of this class are the discussions she facilitates. I find it quite stimulating to ask What Makes Us Human? and that question is what this class endeavors to answer every week using primates and culture and DNA.

Terrorism and The Radicalization Process
This class leaves me really unsettled at least once a week---at least. I have always loved the social sciences and I think I have been aware of what is going on in the world around me, but actually studying terrorism for an entire semester is great. The textbook is written by Bruce Hoffman (who is often featured on NPR and other news outlets as a "Terrorism Expert" ---He also was head of the RAND corporation for a long time, so I guess he earned the title). It is beautifully composed. My professor's passion for the topic is readily apparent, which is a huge benefit and the subject matter is topical and fascinating.

On top of this I am:

• Working 20 hours in a job that I enjoy (but couldn't do for the rest of my life).
• Producing and hosting a two hour literary radio show called Belletrism (it starts at 6:00 every Wednesday night www.radio.usu.edu) on the student run internet radio station on campus.
• Taking in a lecture or cultural event at least once a week on campus (I have gone to a lecture about Jon Van Eyke, a film screening about the future of energy, poetry readings, concerts, comedy shows, religious studies lectures, etc).
• Having movie nights (usually weekly).
• Dating --- like I eat meat --- sparingly
• Attending an LDS Institute class and singing in the Institute choir.
• Trying/creating new recipes (I really need to get back to my pre-mission habit of executing a new recipe every week).
• Attending meetings of Bull Pen, the creative writing club.
• Cleaning my bedroom/bathroom/apartment every weekend while listening to This American Life and Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me. 
• And trying to keep myself as busy as possible.

 The above lists are part of what is currently shaping my life. It is a great life to be living and I like where I am headed even if I don't really know what the future holds. 

Fieda and the Red Turtle (a Work Of Flash Fiction)

There once existed a little red turtle. This red turtle ran around with a strange crowd of avant-guard bohemian amphibians (they accepted him even though he wasn't a frog). One day he decided that he ought to move to Prague. So he did. He found himself a little out of place because all of the avant-guard animals in Prague were mammals. However, with time he met a beautiful lemur named Frieda. She had an extensive collection of pretentious looking hats, but that was only one of the more superficial reasons for the turtle's affection for Frieda. They would stay out late into the night speaking of Kafka, Bartok and the individual. Eventually Frieda and the turtle grew old. Frieda died but the turtle lived on, because turtles live a copiously long time. The end.

Haven't You Seen Me Somewhere?

Last night I was sitting on my couch, writing a response to a few questions about The Account of Cabeza de Vaca for my Early American Literature class. There was a greasy burrito de carnitas sitting on the coffee table and I was in a good mood.

Suddenly, the door opened. That was nothing new. My roommates have riff raff coming in and out of the apartment constantly. They don't knock on the main door to the apartment, but instead they knock on my roommates door, which incidentally is always locked. This has always seemed a little odd to me. But this time was different, the young man had a bewildered look on his face.

"Is this Andy and Braden's place?" he said.

"Well, I am Braden, but there is no Andy who lives here" said I.

"They must be in building A."

"must be."

"I am on the baseball team! That is why you recognize me!" came boastfully from the intruder.

"Oh" I said feigning interest "Well good luck finding Andy and the other Braden."

The door was shut behind the young man and it was then me who was left bewildered. I didn't recognize him. I didn't even vaguely think "oh he looks just like that guy from Sixteen Candles" or "I just can't place that face." Now I am left wondering, is it my moral responsibility to pop that man's ego balloon? Should I have said that I wasn't remotely interested that he was a baseball player? Maybe I should have played along and complemented him on his plethora of double plays. I am like 90% sure that is a commendable action in baseball---in dating however, that is another story.

I think that my real moral responsibility here is to continue quietly snickering to myself and wait and brace myself for my next encounter.