In the last two weeks.

My class went on a field trip to a beautiful library at Boston College, called Bapst library. It was after hours, so we had the run of it, which was somehow magical in itself. To add to this, our tour guide (an art librarian), took us upstairs to the "Harry Potter room." I felt reverent and still as soon as I entered, overcome by the vaulted ceilings, columns, and stained glass walls portraying philosophers, theologians, and artists. Our host stood in the center walkway and said that there is something about an environment that can just make you feel smarter. I agree. I felt it.

Other things that struck me, coming home on two separate occasions: my neighbor on his knees, laboring in his garden, and a cool breeze as I stood under the shade of a tree. Then another neighbor to the other side, a young mother playing in a sprinkler with her daughter. I haven't seen them before, but the mother smiled warmly and said hello as I passed. Their sweet, summer fun was the happiest sight. Just getting a glimpse was enough to fill me with delight and I could not stop grinning.

Another day I passed a cute girl on a cute bike. Minutes after arriving at my destination she walked in the same door, being my friend's new roommate. Days (or maybe a week) later, Riley and Damien were sitting in my living room, fresh from the greyhound and their most recent Kerouac-esque adventure in New Orleans. Riley explained that he knew one other girl in Boston before inviting her over. For the second time I watched the cute bicycler enter a door. I learned her name is Kaity, and she swam with us that night. Later after facebook told me the additional friends we have in common, I realized we once played croquet together in a Provo park. Probably exactly one year ago, leading me to believe that we are destined to be friends. Friday I joined her in her explorations of Boston. We ended the evening with Derik, eating at Quincy Market and watching (500) Days of Summer, which movie is perfect.

I also saw a fox while on an evening stroll, and felt a little bit scared. I called Jessica to see if she thought it possible that I was looking at a fox in a residential (though forested) neighborhood in New England, because while it looked like a fox, and while I was fairly certain that it was a fox, I was still slightly unsure. She thought that it was possible and asked if I needed her to stay on the phone, since I was nervous. I said no, but we ended up staying on the phone anyway. It was a good conversation.

That same night, via gchat, Regan and I discovered we share the same intense and long-lasting love for an old Built to Spill song. The Weather. He was going to a free show the next day at Coney Island.

It is quiet and much cooler than the houses.

One night I pumped up my air mattress on my roof, and the world stood above me as I slept. It was quite literally a dream come true. And despite the fact that I was slightly nervous I would fall to my death, when sleep came, it came well. I didn't wake until morn, with the first rays of sunlight and the gentle coaxing of birds chirping. I finished watching the sunrise before returning through my window to the comfort of my bedroom. As I was still tired, I lay on my bed for hours reading before drifting back into a deep and easy sleep.

The Master and Margarita

"You are not Dostoevsky," said the citizeness, who was becoming addled by Karovyov.
"Well, but how do you know, how do you know?" replied the latter.
"Dostoevsky is dead," said the citizeness, but not very confidently.
"I protest!" exclaimed Behemoth hotly. "Dostovesky is immortal!"

Amen, Behemoth (who incidentally is a cat). Amen.

I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately.

And to picnic. And to swim.












































Bless sunshine, and Saturdays, and the Seawrights for coming back from Portugal to take us to Concord, as well as Elizabeth's delicious cookies that reinstated Dessert First Adventure Club before our picnic on a perch. Bless vegan sandwiches made with produce from a farmer's market and eating potato salad out of plastic bags. Bless Katie and her precious mandolin and ginger chews. Bless Jessica and all of her transcendentalism. Bless Thoreau and Walden Pond forever.

I'm glad it's your birthday, Dear Mother.

Happy birthday, happy birthday to you.


A few things about my mother: She is nice. She likes cats more than dogs. She is very, very good at Jeopardy and/or Trivial Pursuit, and will smash me every time. She loves other games as well. She is not very good at answering her phone, but is very good at calling back. She is overly generous (especially to her grandchildren, but frequently to her children). She is a good tucker inner, and would lay in my bed with me for extended periods if I happened to be sad. She gave me as many popsicles as I wanted when I had the flu, and let me wear my tiara every time I got sick. She attended every track meet, every volleyball game, every basketball game. She is the best letter writer. She is the queen of Sunday dinners and graciously allowed my siblings and I to invite our friends. She loves whoever we love. She loves us. She is an Oregonian at heart. She is very pretty and is aging well. She is funny. Her ice cream is very important to her. This love was inherited from her father. She has since passed it on to me. It was not uncommon growing up to have 6-9 different flavors in the freezer at a time. This may be because she let whatever child accompanied her to the grocery store choose his or her favorite. Other things passed on to me by my mother: my blue eyes, my love of gardening, reading, sparklers, Disney Land, cinema, and The Beatles.

Thank you, Madre!

Saturday in the park. I think it was the fourth of July.

I liked:
Bus conversations with Derik. Wishing Jessica a happy birthday on her birthday. Zen pizza. Australian licorice. All of Provo being in New York. Sitting on the curb at Union Square with Regan and watching people pass. Sunshine. Battery Park. The honey voice of Jenny Lewis. Seeing Conor Oberst in the flesh. His darling hat. Being surrounded by so many people that I love, including my two favorite philosophers and all of my favorite graphic designers (minus Meg). Later choosing to turn around and walk home instead of watching the rest of NY's fireworks. Eating candy. Sleeping. Waking up slowly. Sunday School. Sitting with Julia. Regan wearing his perfect red vest. Passing Stephen on NY city sidewalks. Blueberry pancakes made by Jessica with love (which was actually the second time she made me pancakes in one week). Sunday napping. Laying on the grass eating cherries and reading at central park--Jack Kerouac's On the Road. Vegan buritos. Wandering nearly empty streets. The night air. The water we walked to. Eating street falafel on park benches the next day. Coconut popsicles. Getting back to Boston after a long ride. Having it not be rainy. Sleeping in my own bed.

Bless Jessica for taking such lovely pictures.

Sleepover city.

Derik: Who would you have tuck you in?
I know who I'd have. President Obama.
No...who would be really good at tucking in? A really motherly person?

Me: Mother Theresa.

Derik: No. That would be kind of weird. Who would tuck me in?
I would actually want some really big black lady to tuck me in, like Aunt Jemima from the pancake comercials. She would give me warm maple syrup.

Me: And cold water.

Derik: And cold water. She would sing me some gospel song. Kiss me goodnight. But wouldn't you think Aunt Jemimah would be really good? Aunt Jemimah. She'll treat you well, you know.

Jessica: Paula Deen. I bet she's a really good tucker in lady. She'd bring me milk and cookies.

Me: Oh. I know who I would want. I would want a really great story teller, like Orson Scott Card. Sci fi. He could tell me really creative stories everyday.

Warmth. Alive. Light. Green. Stars. Summer.

"Warmth. Alive. Light. Green. Stars. Summer. Warmth. Alive. Light. Green. Stars. Summer..." quietly at first, and slowly, but increasingly louder and faster as we danced around the circle in our mid summer celebrations. This chant was preceded by summer poems, summer readings, summer things. Katie had me read quotes about H.M. and we each shared what we love about this season in cheesy-go-around the circle fashion. We lit and relit candles which the wind blew out all too quickly and we danced and twirled the length of the dock, scarves in hand, flowing behind us and before us.

These festivities were followed by secret summer wishes written down on white paper and made into boats. Katie's began, "My secret summer wish is..." reminiscent of an assignment in the 5th or 6th grade starting "My summer vacation..." Still there was something healing and meaningful in writing down goals, hopes, desires in this way. I lay on my stomach and reached my arm over the edge until my white boat touched the cool black water. Then I followed its course with my eyes.

I cried on the train ride home as Rachel Sorensen held me.

Wilco will love you.

Last week I got this in my inbox:

Dear Wilco Customer,

Your order for Wilco tickets @ LeLacheur Park shipped today.

Your tickets should arrive within a few business days.

Enjoy the show.

Thanks,

Front Gate Tickets

Then I got this in my mailbox:


Yes!

It rained all June.

For the love of everything summer, please, please July be kinder.

Yesterday was simultaneously my favorite and least favorite day of library science school.

Favorite because the topic was philosophy. And when asked what philosophers we knew from different centuries I could throw out names like the best of them. And say why they were important. And even quote famous lines from them when called for. Which it sometimes was.

Least favorite because I gave a mediocre speech. One of those speeches where you tried to prepare, but when you're up there you feel like you hadn't, and you want to sit down the entire time, and also leave the classroom and not come back.

Our professor told us we could teach however we wanted. The situation was hypothetical and it was up to us to decide the details and the topic, as well as the mode of presenting. Everyone else decided to be so digital. Websites. Powerpoints. Etc. I on the other hand, was so analog, and showed books. Real books.

It seemed appropriate for my chosen topic, or what I wanted to get at. But afterward and during I felt inadequate.

As I wasn't one of the first to go, maybe I could have tried harder to be creative, to rack my brain for a last minute electronic fix. But alas, I was tired and couldn't be bothered.

The King of Pop is dead.

And the people are mourning. I am mourning.

In some ways I am grateful for this collective grief, and the way the world is answering my need to be with others who remember.

I was in my three hour class when The King passed. Facebook statuses first broke the news, then a text from a friend I thought I lost. The way our silence was traversed: "Michael Jackson just died." I could only respond with my own knowledge and my own shock. During break it was all anyone in my class could talk about-- the professor included.

In another state, my brother's friend had a dance off with the girl in the car next to him at a stop light. They were listening to the same Michael Jackson tribute.

Then this morning at Urban I heard the Jackson Five' s "ABC, easy as 123" blast from the sound speakers. I felt immediately sad, but also grateful for this music and this person that influenced, and brought pleasure to so many.

A few minutes later Jessica and I found ourselves at my neighborhood's farmer's market. An attractive hipster/granolla type selling macaroons and other pastries initiated conversation by asking us our favorite Michael Jackson song. Jessica told him that she couldn't think about it, because it made her too sad. He agreed, but said he needed to remember. We talked for some time, and in the course of that simple conversation this stranger became someone with whom we could relate, someone with whom we realized we had something in common. We were bound by our shared recognition that the world has lost someone great.

I wonder if we knew how lucky we were to have MJ while we did, or if it always requires an absence to make such things known, or at least felt.

And while we may find some behavior in his later years troubling, I hope that we can be compassionate in our remembering. I don't think we can understand the things in his life that led him to such a place, or even what we as a culture did to propagate his pain and seeming self destruction. The glass houses in which we place our icons don't always allow for the same chances in learning and growth that we would wish for ourselves.

Ultimately, I am thankful for the conscious act of remembering a life, and right now Michael's life. It suggests someone is worth remembering and that there is value in life and in existence. I think remembering also leads to healing.


RIP, MJ.

Lately.

I feel an urgent need to write everything down. To try to grasp the things I am feeling and experiencing. To simultaneously imprint them on my memory and clear my mind of them.

It is true for the things in my life that are beautiful, as well as the things in my life that are hard. This need currently motivates many of my hours.

I am also reading so much and sleeping so little. The two are only loosely connected. I read to remember that I love books, so I may in turn care more about libraries and want to study what I am studying.

I did recently realize that I love when my friends ask me what they should read, which realization gave me comfort that I may be cut out to be a librarian after all.

My friend Jessica is in Boston this day and for the next 6 days. Then 3 days after that I am joining her in Manhattan. For her birthday, and also to hear Conor Oberst play a free 4th of July show.

We spent this evening at the MFA. The first exhibit we looked at was filled with Japanese art. It made me think of Becca.

After filling my last few weeks with as much summer goodness as possible I am already a student again. Just one class. Literature of the Humanities. My professor is from Ireland and I like his voice.

Lately I have been so tired. Tired more than anything else.

Henry and Francesca.

Mine and Lia's new obsession/creations, thanks to the magic of xtranormal.com/.

If you can type, you can make movies.

Take One: Crepes and Waffles

Take Two: A-W-E-S-O-M-E

Things to do everyday, or nearly everyday.

read good books in good parks
sip fresh lemonade
sit on my roof
leave my house
pray
bike boston
run boston
bedroom dance party
journal/blog
h.w.

Since Summer

Reading now:

Winter Reads

The day I learned how to open my window changed my life.

I said this once to my friend Katie in all seriousness, some time back in April, during a particularly hot/humid spell. As hard as I would try, I could not get my window open. I had previously opened it. in late summer and fall time, but it had been months, and nothing was working. I don't even remember what the trick was, when I finally did get it to open again but am happy that I did and that it opens easily now. My life really was made more pleasant by fresh breezes flowing into my room.

Now I have taken to climbing out of said window onto my third story roof. Which may or may not be a good idea, but for right now I am going to say it is a very good idea. The view is pretty. And new england. Mainly of new england trees and new england houses. I like it, and feel better out there. More peaceful and quiet and free. It also makes me like my room more. And my house. That it holds this secret. Even climbing back into my room from this space seems somewhat magical.

And last night Katie and I went on my roof together. Twice even. We just sat and talked and took pictures. The second time, when it was dark out, I had my lap top in tow, and played a song for us. Carole King. Up on the Roof. Katie hadn't heard it before. "At night the stars put on a show for free, up on the roof." I love that line and that song. Thank you roof, and Carole King, and Katie.

Sing me to sleep. Sing me to sleep.

I'm tired and I, I want to go to bed.

My nephew was born today.

Congrats Hyrum, and Pegah, and Henry.

Welcome to the world, little one. I love your dark hair, and you, already.