A coffee shop on every corner

The sky swam with grayish clouds this morning and I missed the smell of coffee, walking along streets full of not 99% white people. There is a coffee shop on every corner, and the Mormon kids would go to Starbucks and get hot chocolate. But I loved that smell, and wished desperately that my name was Tully.

The hustle crowd, bustling to work—watching them, I longed to stop in the middle and let them swarm around me. I missed that salty, fishy smell from the Puget Sound and remembered how the view from Alki beach looked like the movies, how the sky looks so wide open and from the ferry you can see in panoramic and forwards and downwards and all directions, stretch of city and sea and it is beautiful.

 

I am taken back to Elephant Ears at the Puyallup Fair, samples of grilled corn and almonds at Bite of Seattle. I can only dip my leg in the fountain, cautiously, because my elbow is still busted from being a wannabe gymnast, jumping on the tramp.

I have just been CPR certified to make myself more marketable as a babysitter. Tara Low is coming with me to church and Girl’s Camp. I think all my brother’s friends are marriage material and spend most of my time contriving ways to see them and get them to like me. I even google it, before everyone googled absolutely everything. I am trying to force myself to cry outside the hypnotist show at the fair, because Ben is holding Kelli Harris who ruined everything and I am trying to be so sad that he will notice and take pity and break up with her and marry me…or at least take me on the Extreme Scream with him. I am so young, and my journal and my head are filled with nothing but boys.

 

I am boating at Lake Tapps, tagging along with my brother and the cool kids again. I am sleeping over at Courtny Jarman's, looking up at her ceiling that has clouds painted on it and coveting her hard wood floor. She’s a dancer. I love her and am surprised that she loves me, because I'm not as cool as she is. I am showing her my toe-touch, I am going to try out for cheerleading. I am wandering the halls of Riverside High, excited to be in Vocal Jazz sophomore year and not having a clue that I want to be a music teacher.

 

The summer is sweltering, I am draping my limbs on fans and eating healthy choice fudge bars with Natalie. I love her, and we talk about fashion and kids at school and beg our parents to drive us to Bellevue so we can go to Sephora and coat our arms in eye shadow and perfume—when I get in the car her dad is telling me that I smell very, uh, strongly, and we just giggle and giggle, back home to spend the night with crunch n munch and girl talk and Grease.

Then I am moving away. I am not wanting to leave. We have a going away party and I’m still killing myself to impress Isaac Lomeli and trying to start the boy shorts trend. I need more time for all of these things.

Natalie is there when we are about to drive away. We’ve had a rough few days, bursting into wet tears in between bites of peach yogurt after she gave me that immaculate scrapbook of the reasons she loves me, our memories together, the billions of photoshoots and movies we’ve made.

But we’re somber now, and we don’t cry. “It doesn’t feel real,” she says. I look down at my Old Navy flip flops and try to keep my hair from curling in the humidity. The sky is shining, blaring, no clouds. I need you, I tell her, hugging her long and tight. She looks at me a few times as we mumble our last goodbyes. Neither knows anything epic or movie-worthy to say. Then she turns slowly and walks down Nathan Avenue. My face is prickling in the heat as I walk toward the van, looking back again and again for her red curly hair or her freckles, but I can’t see her.

………………
The sky looks wide open, simmering with mixing clouds and splotches of blue. I scan the contents of this view that I have grown to love so closely, with mountains instead of trees and bikes and backpacks and shade shirts under tank tops. I love you both, I whisper. I look up to the sphere of melting gray and I let myself smile wide with the memory so pungent, the smell of youth and city life, Lakeland Hills and rain, and a coffee shop on every corner.

hey there veronica

Although I highly doubt that wearing, meditating (??) or surrounding myself with “Veronica” will help me balance my life, this thing is pretty freakishly accurate.

Try it here, if you wanna.

universe needs some educashun

   as luck would have it,
   leaving.
   as fate would dictate it,
   one week.
   as destiny that-i-can't-decide-if-i-believe-in would want it,
   probably forever.

     all these reunions and happy feel-good times are no longer  mine, because what the heck august came anyway, against my will. i want june chan back.

                               this sucks.

sux.
thx u r so kewl eye lurve u qt,
now if u could jus be n mi life id be so ha-p bc eye need u more than eye admit n eye am sa-p so sry but plz cant u jus rearrange the universe?

sometimes it doesn’t know what it’s doing so we hafta educate it.

it should go to college. the universe, i mean. it should go to the right college, with me, not in stupid cold small cave apartment place idaho, and do things how they’re supposed to be.

it ain’t posed ta be this way—tell stupidhead universe i said so.

More proof that I take myself far too seriously.

oh my. WARNING: I am ridiculously intense lately. My whole life plans are semi once again in shambles and so I feel every emotion to the upteenth degree, good or bad.

………

I’ve spent the better part of an hour now, eating carrots and grapes, discussing canning and cookbooks on beans (!!), reading “ten stupid things women do to mess up their lives”, and not coming back to this blog post. Shall I be ultra dramatic about  ohhhh, how my world is shattered, ohhhh, and I don’t feel like a whole person anymore, and explain that this is precisely the reason I am so intense, yet so paralyzed? I mull it over between tart bites.

Shall I explore the depth of the reasons why I am still overflowing, but now inexplicably, how I just want to shout everything and how I bawl every time I try to practice for voice lessons because it’s hard and I don’t know how to fix and because classical music makes me slightly sick so I have to spend half my time singing the way my soul feels to and the other half trying to do the opposite? I chomp on a carrot stick.

Shall I try to explain my Self, once more, to my dear, dear readers, some of whom know me well, some of whom I’ve never met? To YOU, I wish you’d kindly drop out of my life. To you, I wish you’d get back into it. To you, I wish you’d try to understand. To all of you, I don’t know whether I’d wish you’d read or skip, but I find I have less control every day so I guess whatever.

This baby carrot tastes funny. Shall I apologize profusely for my uneducated opinions, for my biases stemming from some unknown source, for my imperfections and my not-totally-grown-out blonde streak? I throw the empty bag away.

I thought I didn’t believe in any of that stuff. I thought I believed in being who I was, so strongly that I was willing to give up sleep and food and slice off years of my life to live it the way I want. I still am. But the who I am part seems suddenly chaotic beyond repair, strewn across miles of years and with the volume turned all the way up. Shouting, shouting into the braindead megaphone.

So, the point is, I’m intense, more than I’ve ever been.

I’m not really sure exactly why. I’ll let you know when I know, with more impassioned torrents of madness and chaos.

A terrifying, incoherent rant for your disagreeing pleasure

Found this rant from a while back and thought I’d share. I’ve been sucked back into the vortex since this point, so if you don’t agree, no need to worry because I’ve given in, too.

So, lately I’ve been attempting to unplug my life. I’ve gotten fed up with facebook and other things of the like, the dependence of seemingly everyone in the college realm on these things. Anyway, apparently my endeavors may be unfruitful after all: I, as an average American, view 400-600 ads per day.

Is it inescapable? Is it impossible to live a life without demoralizing, time-squandering media and relentless attempts to get me to buy, attempt, or simply believe? I’m not seeking hermitism here. I just want simplicity. Most of all I want reality. I’m through with airbrushed, Photoshopped, consumable people in magazines and on billboards. I’m done with exploitation of the entire human population, through every last element of popular culture.

But apparently this decision is not mine to make. I can’t simply throw up my hands and say “Enough!” and have every tv commercial pulled, every advertising guru unemployed. How can we reverse decades of permeation and infiltration of these hoards of unrealistic sleazeballs being chucked in our faces left and right? How can I force Americans to wake up and become alive again, when “waking up” is what we claim to be trying to do and when we have equated pleasure with “the good life” for so long? We’re trying to educate people, we’re trying to make them more open-minded. We’re going to offer courses in pornography and degrees in gay-lesbian studies so we can be aware. This isn’t life. It’s not reality.

The life I believe in doesn’t consist of this. It is filled with so much more! I dream of impossible things, of people helping each other and taking risks by going out on a limb to connect, not to gain some sort of sick control or pleasure. I believe, alright. In our ability to connect, to be exquisitely creative and wonderful without ulterior motives. Why don’t we channel our immeasurable capabilities to the common good?? Then it wouldn’t be whoever CEO trying to help out starving children in Africa to promote his company, he’d be doing it for them. And he could even do it for himself; he could do it for the challenge, for the sense of fulfillment and satisfaction that can’t come any other way. You’re not going to fall into bed joyfully exhausted when you’ve spent all day researching how to make your audience addicted to your product so you can get more money to spend on your expensive bed.

Why don’t we get to believe in the common good anymore? We have to, instead, be swarmed by thousands of creepsters showing us evidence that we are clearly not inherently good, that the cycle is unbreakable and we can’t and don’t want to be, so why would we even begin to try? We should give up, give in, addict, get addicted, buy, sell, trade. It’s our souls, anyway.

(in) FLATED.

AAAAAANNNNND!

BALLOONS, real ones. with this note attached:

 

We think you’re the greatest! Don’t let The Man crush your soul.

Love,

Your adoring family

Mom, Dad, Garrett, Cameron, Eric, & Brennon

Thanks, Mom. You know how to love me best of anyone in the history of ever.

Building up from seven inches high

from brooke beecher <brookebee@gmail.com>
to Paul Broomhead <paul_broomhead@byu.edu>,
Jean_Applonie@byu.edu

dateWed, Jul 22, 2009 at 3:15 PM
subjectThank you
mailed-bygmail.com

hide details Jul 22 (5 days ago) Reply

Dear Dr. Broomhead and Dr. Applonie,

I want to thank you both for taking the time to interview me today.
I was flabbergasted to learn that I missed the audition, albeit through miscommunication. I know you are both extremely busy, especially in this time, but I would like to see if there is any way I can schedule a live audition. I understand if this is not possible at this point, but I want to make sure I have exhausted all possible avenues before I give up and leave my acceptance to chance. I am also willing to gather the letter of recommendation, the aural skills test score, and any other materials needed if you are willing to accept those.

Again, thank you for your time today and for considering me for the program.
Sincerely,
Brooke Beecher

 

fromPaul Broomhead <paul_broomhead@byu.edu>
reply-toPaul Broomhead <paul_broomhead@byu.edu>

tobrooke beecher <brookebee@gmail.com>

dateMon, Jul 27, 2009 at 12:20 PM
subjectRe: Thank you
mailed-bybyu.edu

hide details 12:20 PM (21 hours ago) Reply

 

Brooke,

We have made our decisions regarding admission to the Music Ed Program and you were not one of the 5 who were selected at this time. I know this is not pleasant news to you. I’m writing you personally because I anticipate that you may think, “But I didn’t get to do the singing audition.” I wanted to personally assure you that the audition would not have made a difference. Indeed we were looking at you on a level field with the assumption that you would pass the audition—and still your qualifications did not quite get you in the top 5.

Brooke, I wrote the above for the sake of clarity and it came out sounding quite negative. So, now I want to tell you that we were actually quite impressed with you and believe you will succeed well—perhaps even in music education. You have many strengths that we recognize, and I would personally enjoy working with you some day.

All the best,

Dr. Broomhead

 

from brooke beecher <brookebee@gmail.com>
to Paul Broomhead <paul_broomhead@byu.edu>

date Mon, Jul 27, 2009 at 1:54 PM
subject Re: Thank you
mailed-bygmail.com

hide details 1:54 PM (19 hours ago) Reply

 

Dr. Broomhead,

Thank you again for considering me and for writing personally. I appreciate your honesty and timely response.
I have learned much in this round of the application process, and look forward to this upcoming January for another shot. I would be interested in meeting with you soon to discuss how I can improve myself as a candidate, as well as exactly how I should go about the application this next time so I can eliminate any further miscommunication.
Please let me know when you will have time in the next few weeks to meet with me--and again, thank you for your help and consideration thus far.

Sincerely,
Brooke Beecher

 

………

No toil nor labor fear

but with joy

wend your way.

…

I feel seven inches high.

But I feel good, now.

Feeling good is a good spot from which to build from seven inches

high, a good space from which to fill pages. Not only are you spared

salty water smudges but a view of this thing through red, puffy

eyes and smeared makeup. I can polish now, I can accept, and I can

be serene.

…

Food still tastes like sawdust, and I am somehow not quite as much

of the same vivacious, bubbly girl so aware of her own heartbeat. I

am deflated Mylar, heaped-but still steady, ready to blow air

back in slow, refined pace. I can no longer afford a bulletin board

dream-this is an aspiration worthy of all the work I can muster out

of myself, all the oxygen I can blow into my balloon, for the picture on

my desktop to become my reality.

…

I would personally enjoy working with you some day, All the best, he signs.

You BEST be enjoyin, Dr. B, because I be workin my butt off.

……………….

The day after my interview, after being discouraged and wondering if I’d been wrong all along about this path being The One for me, I was reading and stumbled upon this accidentally.

"The dreamers are the saviors of the world. As the visible world is sustained by the invisible, so men, through all their trials and sins and sordid vocations, are nourished by the beautiful visions of their solitary dreamers. Humanity cannot forget its dreamers; it cannot let their ideals fade and die; it lives in them; it knows them as the realities which it shall one day see and know.

Composer, sculptor, painter, prophet, poet, sage—these are the makers of the after-world, the architects of heaven. The world is beautiful because they have lived. Without them, laboring humanity would perish.

Cherish your visions; cherish your ideals. Cherish the music that stirs in your heart, the beauty that forms in your mind, the loveliness that drapes your purest thoughts. For out of them will grow all delightful conditions, all heavenly environment; of these, if you but remain true to them, your world will at last be built.”

James Allen, As A Man Thinketh

…

I have not been wrong all along.

‘Tis not so, all is right.