Additional discovery: There is an entire Twitter account dedicated to Mark Hamill autographs. Because Mark Hamill autographs are the best.
Showing posts with label FOUND. Show all posts
Showing posts with label FOUND. Show all posts
Monday, October 03, 2016
"Keep this in your wallet if you are a pansy fan-boy."
Recent discovery: Mark Hamill autographs. They are the best. He is the best. I love these so much.
Additional discovery: There is an entire Twitter account dedicated to Mark Hamill autographs. Because Mark Hamill autographs are the best.
Additional discovery: There is an entire Twitter account dedicated to Mark Hamill autographs. Because Mark Hamill autographs are the best.
Sunday, June 05, 2016
Walmart stake out
I had a homework assignment last week to go to a public place and write what I was observing all around me in an unusual form. Inspired by my beloved X-Files, I did a stake out.
Note--At 9:38 pm, I was approached by a police officer and asked to move out of the handicapped parking spot. My explanation that I was doing a homework assignment did not impress him.
Observation Log
Saturday night, June 4, 2016
Orem, Utah Walmart
Stakeout location: a handicapped parking spot just north of the market entrance (where I am illegally parked).
9:03 pm
I am Dana Scully, sitting on watch duty, badge hidden, red hair framing my face. I’m looking for stories. I’m an emotional voyeur, watching the faces of the people walking in and out of the Walmart, waiting to see if their faces will tell their secrets. Trying to remain somewhat inconspicuous, laptop notwithstanding. Carts roll with a metallic rumble across the pavement, the white noise of the I-15 in the deep background. In the summery dusk, potted flowers wilt in front of the store entrance. It’s warm, in the upper 70s. My allergy pill is wearing off.
9:06 pm
Older couple. 50s or 60s. Both wearing striped shirts. His is white, hers is pink. A silver car rolls by, windows down, classical pop piano blaring. A guy in his twenties walks past my cracked window; he’s too thin, angular jaw and long brown hair. He’s got a goatee and he’s talking with concern to someone on a cell phone, one hand in his pocket.
9:09 pm
Students from Utah Valley University push each other around in one of the carts—the kind that has the plastic seats for kids. They’re laughing hysterically, and in my 30-year-old wisdom, I think fondly of the days when I could be obnoxious in public without feeling obnoxious. Sirens suddenly ring out from Sandhill Road behind me. A fire truck and two ambulances. Their alarms change in pitch as they get closer, closer, then farther, farther.
9:11 pm
Inside the lobby, vending machines stand side by side with two redbox kiosks and a “treasure shoppe,” one of those rigged arcade games where you use the claw to try and get a stuffed animal. Two kids—I imagine them siblings—stand side by side to try their luck. I wait to see if they’ll win, but of course they don’t. Growing up, I always begged for quarters whenever I saw one, and my parents never let me try. My mom finally gave in at a Denny’s when I was 11 or so, and with one swift, smooth movement, I gripped a white puppy and let it fall into the slot. My mom was astonished, but I don’t know why. I always knew I could do it.
9:14 pm
This is the second person I’ve seen walk out of the Walmart with a limp. I feel like an a**hole for taking a handicapped parking spot.
9:15 pm
Two boys in their late teens stand next to the potted plants. They chat, with false shows of bravado. One’s got mismatching socks. They take turns pulling out their phones and scrolling through. Displays of masculinity so absurd, they’ll crack into a thousand pieces if you bump up against them too hard.
9:17 pm
I hear a wolf whistle…once…twice. It’s not aimed at me, but I’m enraged by it anyway. I could give whoever whistled the benefit of the doubt (maybe they’re just signaling a friend), but these teenage boys by the potted plants have got me all caught up in toxic gender constructs.
9:19 pm
A flashing yellow light signals a line of carts being returned by machine to the overhang. I wish they’d had that machine when I worked at Walmart, walking through the parking lot with an itchy yellow vest, Idaho sun high above me. Age 19, working full-time with two other roommates. We’d get snowcones on our way home every day, then sit in the warm living room, discussing episodes of House.
9:21 pm
Spotted! Returned Mormon missionary! Modest khaki shorts, navy blue t-shirt with a compass on it, the words “Arise” written across it. Hair tidy and militarily short. Glasses. He’s carrying two bags, and I feel certain that if the doors weren’t automatic, he’d hold them open for you.
9:23 pm
In the few minutes I’ve looked down to type, I missed it—the moment that shifts between dusk and twilight. I wait to catch it every summer evening, but it always happens in the moment I blink, or look at my book, or get distracted.
9:24 pm
Orem, Utah is mostly white. Lower middle-class and blue-collar folks frequent the Walmart the most. People speak in that regional accent peculiar to the Rocky Mountains. (“Mou-ins.”) I hear an occasional phrase in Spanish, a sentence or two in Arabic that makes me glance up. Two brothers, each pushing a shopping cart, in what sounds to me like heated debate, but it could be the media informing my interpretations.
9:27 pm
A middle-aged woman in her Sunday best strolls by, holding an unopened game of Monopoly. I begin to make up a story about her. Her college-aged children are in town, and she ran out at the last minute to pick up a game to play, to keep everyone awake and together at the kitchen table. Or maybe she’s teaching Sunday School tomorrow, and she’ll use the fake money as an object lesson. Or maybe she’s found some craft on Pinterest, and she’ll spray paint each of the pieces and glue them to a frame.
9:37 pm
My allergies are getting the better of me. I’ll wander into the store myself now, make my way to the pharmacy. One package of Allegra D. One of the white, lower-class Mormons in Orem, Utah.
Note--At 9:38 pm, I was approached by a police officer and asked to move out of the handicapped parking spot. My explanation that I was doing a homework assignment did not impress him.
Observation Log
Saturday night, June 4, 2016
Orem, Utah Walmart
Stakeout location: a handicapped parking spot just north of the market entrance (where I am illegally parked).
9:03 pm
I am Dana Scully, sitting on watch duty, badge hidden, red hair framing my face. I’m looking for stories. I’m an emotional voyeur, watching the faces of the people walking in and out of the Walmart, waiting to see if their faces will tell their secrets. Trying to remain somewhat inconspicuous, laptop notwithstanding. Carts roll with a metallic rumble across the pavement, the white noise of the I-15 in the deep background. In the summery dusk, potted flowers wilt in front of the store entrance. It’s warm, in the upper 70s. My allergy pill is wearing off.
9:06 pm
Older couple. 50s or 60s. Both wearing striped shirts. His is white, hers is pink. A silver car rolls by, windows down, classical pop piano blaring. A guy in his twenties walks past my cracked window; he’s too thin, angular jaw and long brown hair. He’s got a goatee and he’s talking with concern to someone on a cell phone, one hand in his pocket.
9:09 pm
Students from Utah Valley University push each other around in one of the carts—the kind that has the plastic seats for kids. They’re laughing hysterically, and in my 30-year-old wisdom, I think fondly of the days when I could be obnoxious in public without feeling obnoxious. Sirens suddenly ring out from Sandhill Road behind me. A fire truck and two ambulances. Their alarms change in pitch as they get closer, closer, then farther, farther.
9:11 pm
Inside the lobby, vending machines stand side by side with two redbox kiosks and a “treasure shoppe,” one of those rigged arcade games where you use the claw to try and get a stuffed animal. Two kids—I imagine them siblings—stand side by side to try their luck. I wait to see if they’ll win, but of course they don’t. Growing up, I always begged for quarters whenever I saw one, and my parents never let me try. My mom finally gave in at a Denny’s when I was 11 or so, and with one swift, smooth movement, I gripped a white puppy and let it fall into the slot. My mom was astonished, but I don’t know why. I always knew I could do it.
9:14 pm
This is the second person I’ve seen walk out of the Walmart with a limp. I feel like an a**hole for taking a handicapped parking spot.
9:15 pm
Two boys in their late teens stand next to the potted plants. They chat, with false shows of bravado. One’s got mismatching socks. They take turns pulling out their phones and scrolling through. Displays of masculinity so absurd, they’ll crack into a thousand pieces if you bump up against them too hard.
9:17 pm
I hear a wolf whistle…once…twice. It’s not aimed at me, but I’m enraged by it anyway. I could give whoever whistled the benefit of the doubt (maybe they’re just signaling a friend), but these teenage boys by the potted plants have got me all caught up in toxic gender constructs.
9:19 pm
A flashing yellow light signals a line of carts being returned by machine to the overhang. I wish they’d had that machine when I worked at Walmart, walking through the parking lot with an itchy yellow vest, Idaho sun high above me. Age 19, working full-time with two other roommates. We’d get snowcones on our way home every day, then sit in the warm living room, discussing episodes of House.
9:21 pm
Spotted! Returned Mormon missionary! Modest khaki shorts, navy blue t-shirt with a compass on it, the words “Arise” written across it. Hair tidy and militarily short. Glasses. He’s carrying two bags, and I feel certain that if the doors weren’t automatic, he’d hold them open for you.
9:23 pm
In the few minutes I’ve looked down to type, I missed it—the moment that shifts between dusk and twilight. I wait to catch it every summer evening, but it always happens in the moment I blink, or look at my book, or get distracted.
9:24 pm
Orem, Utah is mostly white. Lower middle-class and blue-collar folks frequent the Walmart the most. People speak in that regional accent peculiar to the Rocky Mountains. (“Mou-ins.”) I hear an occasional phrase in Spanish, a sentence or two in Arabic that makes me glance up. Two brothers, each pushing a shopping cart, in what sounds to me like heated debate, but it could be the media informing my interpretations.
9:27 pm
A middle-aged woman in her Sunday best strolls by, holding an unopened game of Monopoly. I begin to make up a story about her. Her college-aged children are in town, and she ran out at the last minute to pick up a game to play, to keep everyone awake and together at the kitchen table. Or maybe she’s teaching Sunday School tomorrow, and she’ll use the fake money as an object lesson. Or maybe she’s found some craft on Pinterest, and she’ll spray paint each of the pieces and glue them to a frame.
9:37 pm
My allergies are getting the better of me. I’ll wander into the store myself now, make my way to the pharmacy. One package of Allegra D. One of the white, lower-class Mormons in Orem, Utah.
Monday, April 04, 2016
Monday boost
Are you struggling to get this week started? Is the weight of all your responsibilities bearing down on you? Did you wake to find that you slept at a stupid angle and your displaced rib is giving you enormous amounts of pain?
I feel that.
But luckily, there's a remedy. I found one cute baby video and it led me down a rabbit hole of others. Here's some stuff to warm that cold heart of yours.
Singing baby loves you!
There's something so strangely beautiful about this.
May we all be filled with this kind of wonder at the small things in life.
If this doesn't make you smile, you have no soul.
My favorite moment is the very end, when she wonders what just happened.
I feel that.
But luckily, there's a remedy. I found one cute baby video and it led me down a rabbit hole of others. Here's some stuff to warm that cold heart of yours.
Singing baby loves you!
There's something so strangely beautiful about this.
May we all be filled with this kind of wonder at the small things in life.
If this doesn't make you smile, you have no soul.
My favorite moment is the very end, when she wonders what just happened.
Thursday, July 02, 2015
The Art Assignment: Stacked Books
Almost two months until my birthday, and I'm almost done with my "9 Things To Do While 29." One of those goals is to complete three "Art Assignments." The Art Assignment is an online PBS show hosted by Sarah Green, where she interviews different artists, gives some art history knowledge, and gives viewers an assignment to create a piece of art on their own. Each assignment has specific inspiration and instruction.
So here's my first one! This is called "Sorted Books." You can watch the video about the assignment here. The idea behind it is that you can get a glimpse into someone's life and personality by examining the books they have in their personal library. The artist, Nina Katchadourian, selects books and stacks them to form "found poems" or short sentences. You can see some of her brilliant work here. The instructions are simple:
1. Choose a person you know or would like to know better
2. Take a look at/through their library
3. Make 3 stacks of books to develop a portrait of the person
4. Upload it to your social media platform of choice using #theartassignment
5. Fame and glory (your work might be featured in a future episode)
I decided to work from Jacob and I's own library, but to only use books that Jacob has contributed--books he owned before we were married, or books he has purchased since then for himself. I used my iPhone to photograph the stacks I created, so they aren't exactly high quality, but they get the job done. I decided to photograph the books on our bed, since our bookshelves are in our bedroom, right across from where we sleep, and because the bed is the place we do the most reading--together and separately.
I feel a little uncertain about whether or not this assignment really does give an accurate glimpse into the life of a person. It's such a selective glimpse, and such a constructed glimpse. It's difficult to distill someone's entire personality into three stacks of books. These stacks sort of represent certain aspects of Jacob, certain ideas he thinks about, but these stacks are mostly using Jacob's books to represent what occurs to me...the ideas and constructions that I see.
Still, it was a fun assignment, and I'm excited to do more!
So here's my first one! This is called "Sorted Books." You can watch the video about the assignment here. The idea behind it is that you can get a glimpse into someone's life and personality by examining the books they have in their personal library. The artist, Nina Katchadourian, selects books and stacks them to form "found poems" or short sentences. You can see some of her brilliant work here. The instructions are simple:
1. Choose a person you know or would like to know better
2. Take a look at/through their library
3. Make 3 stacks of books to develop a portrait of the person
4. Upload it to your social media platform of choice using #theartassignment
5. Fame and glory (your work might be featured in a future episode)
I decided to work from Jacob and I's own library, but to only use books that Jacob has contributed--books he owned before we were married, or books he has purchased since then for himself. I used my iPhone to photograph the stacks I created, so they aren't exactly high quality, but they get the job done. I decided to photograph the books on our bed, since our bookshelves are in our bedroom, right across from where we sleep, and because the bed is the place we do the most reading--together and separately.
Ladies and Gentlemen, The Bible!
The Given Day
The Way it Spozed To Be
The Ancestor's Tale
How We Are Hungry
Armageddon Summer
Paradise Lost
Where I'm Calling From
All Who Go Do Not Return
With Good Reason
Crucial Conversations
Who Am I?
I Am A Strange Loop
I'll Seize the Day Tomorrow
Still, it was a fun assignment, and I'm excited to do more!
Thursday, June 25, 2015
Another Reason to Love Salt Lake City
There’s this little café on the corner of 900 East and 3300 South. It’s an old house, transformed into a little cafe called "The Greenhouse Effect Coffee & Crepes." It’s full of local art, and local artists. The crepes are divine, and there’s a “Take a Book, Leave a Book” shelf among the tables and chairs. The people here have dreadlocks and hemp jewelry. There was a group smoking hookah on the porch, and there are skateboarders out back. Right now there’s a guy tuning a guitar on the couch. Another guy is drawing at a table near me. A few other people are writing. I can hear someone playing hand drums outside. All the men have beards and all the women have gauges. People are BAREFOOT and TATTOOED and PROFANE and BEAUTIFUL. Many of them seem to know each other--like this is a regular place to come and go from.
It’s this tiny corner of Ashland, Oregon, of Haight-Ashbury, of Berkley. A hub of modern philosophers and mystics. Phrases I’ve overheard in the last ten minutes include:
“…but it’s Schrodinger’s cat all over again…”
“…it’s like this old school hip hop with rock…”
“…the layers of meta are so deep at this point…”
“…we had been partying, and I was really hungry, and all the Christmas potluck was gone except for the ginger snaps…”
“…I don’t care who fires the first f***ing missile, because whoever wins will be the world leader of the biggest cinder…”
“…the missing link for everyone’s psyche…”
“…there really is an Elizabethean collar for cats…”
I almost feel like I don’t belong—like I'm not actually hip enough to be here. Because I'm straight-edge and introverted and don't converse easily with strangers. But I am barefoot and wearing a peasant skirt and I do henna tattoos and I love the earth. But whether or not the people who come and go here are to be my tribe, I’m in love with this café. I’m going to come often to this café. I’m going to share this café with my husband and my sisters and my friends and my co-workers.
And I’m going to write a novel in this café.
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Through the looking glass, or "Mythical Egin," or "Guys, Brigadoon is in Idaho"
During the summer of 2009, Jordan Tait let me borrow his Honda Trail 110 from April to August.
During that summer, I got in the habit of joyriding among southeast Idaho's back roads. The Honda topped out at around 45 mph, but it was fast enough to make me feel alive in the afternoons when I should have been in grammar class. I never paid attention to where I was going--I just took corners when it pleased me to do so, and wandered until I was ready to go home, then made my way back. I suppose you could say I got lost, but I was never really trying to get anywhere, and my internal compass always led me back to Rexburg.
In the summer months of 2012, I drove a Kymco People 150 scooter. It was an automatic, so it was easier to steer, and topped out at 50 mph, so I could feel 5mph more alive while joyriding through Rexburg's surrounding countryside. I got used to several routes, and my favorite area to ride was around Hibbard.
There was one afternoon when I started out in Hibbard, but just kept wandering. I found myself in an area where I'd never been...there were more trees than usual, and flocks of birds rose up from the fields and lakes nearby. Maybe it was something about the angle of the light, or the time of year, but it seemed enchanted.
In retrospect, I don't know how I found out I was in the Egin area. But it was MAGICAL. I came home and told Jacob that I'd discovered a mythical land where everyone waved at you and had a pet goat. I kept passing people in their yards, watering their gardens in the late afternoon light. It was that time of day when the sun is lowering, and the air cools, and the bare earth beneath your feet is still warm from the noon heat. Every person I passed raised an arm in greeting. And there were a bizarre number of pet goats. It seemed like I saw a goat on a tether in every other yard I passed.
But it was the ferris wheel that truly won me over. I was already charmed by the friendly people and the tethered goats, but as I turned a corner, I passed a yard with a huge metal structure in front of it. It was a ferris wheel. A FERRIS WHEEL. Like, a small one with six cars or so, that looked like it had just been made at home, in some guys' welding garage. Maybe it was unsafe or structurally unsound or something, but the whimsy of it completely enchanted me.
I've tried to find Egin a few times since that magical afternoon, but I've never succeeded. In this modern age, I realize that I've got GPS and Google Maps and all kinds of tools at my disposal to re-find Egin, but I kind of don't want to use them. It would take away from the mythical nature of it. Besides, it wouldn't tell me exactly where in Egin I was wandering that day.
Maybe Egin is like Brigadoon...it only appears once every hundred years or so. Maybe the conditions have to be just right; like, the light has to be at a certain angle, and it has to be at a certain time of year, and you have to be on a motorcycle or scooter or something.
I keep looking. Every now and then I drive out in that direction, instinctively following tree-lined streets, looking for goats and ferris wheels in the front yards. But maybe it can't be recreated. Maybe it was a moment in time, and everything was magical and it can never quite be the same way again. Maybe I'm Gatsby, reaching for the green light, trying desperately to "recreate the past."
But whatever. It's pleasant driving around the backroads outside of Rexburg, turning corners by impulse, waiting to stumble upon something magical.
Me with the Honda Trail (and my regular bike), back when I wore shorter shorts.
In the summer months of 2012, I drove a Kymco People 150 scooter. It was an automatic, so it was easier to steer, and topped out at 50 mph, so I could feel 5mph more alive while joyriding through Rexburg's surrounding countryside. I got used to several routes, and my favorite area to ride was around Hibbard.
There was one afternoon when I started out in Hibbard, but just kept wandering. I found myself in an area where I'd never been...there were more trees than usual, and flocks of birds rose up from the fields and lakes nearby. Maybe it was something about the angle of the light, or the time of year, but it seemed enchanted.
In retrospect, I don't know how I found out I was in the Egin area. But it was MAGICAL. I came home and told Jacob that I'd discovered a mythical land where everyone waved at you and had a pet goat. I kept passing people in their yards, watering their gardens in the late afternoon light. It was that time of day when the sun is lowering, and the air cools, and the bare earth beneath your feet is still warm from the noon heat. Every person I passed raised an arm in greeting. And there were a bizarre number of pet goats. It seemed like I saw a goat on a tether in every other yard I passed.
But it was the ferris wheel that truly won me over. I was already charmed by the friendly people and the tethered goats, but as I turned a corner, I passed a yard with a huge metal structure in front of it. It was a ferris wheel. A FERRIS WHEEL. Like, a small one with six cars or so, that looked like it had just been made at home, in some guys' welding garage. Maybe it was unsafe or structurally unsound or something, but the whimsy of it completely enchanted me.
I've tried to find Egin a few times since that magical afternoon, but I've never succeeded. In this modern age, I realize that I've got GPS and Google Maps and all kinds of tools at my disposal to re-find Egin, but I kind of don't want to use them. It would take away from the mythical nature of it. Besides, it wouldn't tell me exactly where in Egin I was wandering that day.
Maybe Egin is like Brigadoon...it only appears once every hundred years or so. Maybe the conditions have to be just right; like, the light has to be at a certain angle, and it has to be at a certain time of year, and you have to be on a motorcycle or scooter or something.
I keep looking. Every now and then I drive out in that direction, instinctively following tree-lined streets, looking for goats and ferris wheels in the front yards. But maybe it can't be recreated. Maybe it was a moment in time, and everything was magical and it can never quite be the same way again. Maybe I'm Gatsby, reaching for the green light, trying desperately to "recreate the past."
But whatever. It's pleasant driving around the backroads outside of Rexburg, turning corners by impulse, waiting to stumble upon something magical.
Wednesday, March 05, 2014
A poem
Dug this out of the archives a while ago. I've been too busy/too tired/too writer's-blocked/busy-reading-instead to blog much lately. So here's this.
Fields
I drove fourteen miles today
through the same potato fields
I passed the summer I drove Jordan Tait’s
red Honda CT 110,
skipping grammar class
to wear my father’s old leather jacket
and go joy-riding.
That same year, between sessions of April’s
general conference,
we rode his motorcycle—a real one—out to
Barney Dairy Road
stopped and wandered through the same graveyard
that Jacob Chapman and I would eat cereal in
years later.
Just talking.
I’m surprised the car has made it this far today.
Riding out here between sessions
of April’s general conference.
This car is rusting away at the edges
and like so many things, it seems about to die.
Every day I think “This week, this month, this year,
it’s going to die.”
And every week, every month, every year,
it rustily carries on.
You press the gas pedal and the damned thing
just keeps going forward.
There was an afternoon in these fields
when Shaun Scrivner and I drove and drove and drove
I remember some old potato bunker
roof gone
that we climbed around in.
I sometimes wonder if I dreamt it
Lately, most memories seem like that.
Too surreal to have actually happened.
You get out of the habit of making things extraordinary.
You get too old to unthinkingly say yes.
We go through days when we are
as ships in the night and when I drive,
I imagine—I keep picturing—
that I’ll see Jacob, meet him in a field somewhere
between the cemetery and that roofless potato bunker
and he’ll play the guitar
and I’ll keep saying yes
and we’ll pull everyone out of the cave behind us.
So many things keep going.
Ted, the car, marriages.
And every few years, I sit in the driver’s seat of a car
and write a poem that feels important.
and write a poem that feels important.
Sunday, December 15, 2013
Inspiration: Romance in Black and White
love is more thicker than forget
more thinner than recall
more seldom than a wave is wet
more frequent than to fail
it is most mad and moonly
and less it shall unbe
than all the sea which only
is deeper than the sea
love is less always than to win
less never than alive
less bigger than the least begin
less littler than forgive
it is most sane and sunly
and more it cannot die
than all the sky which only
is higher than the sky
e.e. cummings
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