a brief moment of honesty & unhappiness

I realize that this blog post is not typical of the other posts on this particular blog, but no one ever reads this blog anymore so whatthehellever.

I'm not a very honest person (and for good reason). But for some reason or other, I showed a quiet glimpse of honesty to a dear friend tonight by not saying yes when he asked if I was happy. We were having the sort of conversation where it could be easy to assume that I meant to add a 'right now' at the end of my answer ("I'm not very happy right now, but I'm happy most of the time"), which is why the conversation went on without a hitch after I said it. To leave it at that would be characteristic of the kind of dishonesty through which I filter most of what I say.

But I'm not writing about being dishonest.

To be honest, I'm not happy.
To be honest, I can't remember a time where I could describe my life, in general, as a happy one.
To be honest, I'm at peace with it.

For various reasons, I have never felt comfortable in the place I called home. I'm sure the years between infancy and adolescence were happy ones, but I can hardly remember what life was like back then. For as long as I can remember, I have been on edge. The home where I grew up was a toxic one, a fact I didn't realize until I was preparing to leave for college. My 17-year-old sister is starting to realize the same truth, though she has discovered an out that I never had at her age, and I'm sick with jealousy about that. If you know me at all, then you know that Provo has been a very difficult place for me to live. I don't feel comfortable in this city unless I am completely alone, and even then I can feel the pressure of this place building up around me so much that I have to read a book or take a nap or do something hurtful to myself just so I can remember that there is more to life than what is being pushed on me here. And don't get me started on how I felt when I was in Russia. With the exception of one awful experience in my childhood, I have never felt more empty and low than when I was living in Moscow.

Clearly, being unhappy is something that I've grown accustomed to. But being used to it doesn't, in itself, make it much easier to deal with. Expecting to be unhappy doesn't make unhappiness any less painful. Misery is misery, no matter how long you've had to deal with it or how far back you saw it coming. However, it does make the highs much higher. When my team wins, when a stranger compliments me, when I find five bucks in my pocket, I can't describe what it's like. I assign so much joy to those little things, an unhealthy amount almost. This because they carry the ability to pick me up out of that pathetic pit of misery that I'm so used to, even if only for the smallest moment. And on the good days, the ones where the will of the Universe seems to match my own, oh what rapture!

Of course, this means that even the smallest hiccup during a glimpse of happiness could send me back to the floor in a pitiful heap, but who cares? I'm used to being unhappy. But I'll hang onto that ray of sunshine for as long as my memory remembers it because for at least that moment, I was happy.

And that's why I'm at peace with my despair. I feel more deeply because of it. I don't pity myself for my unhappiness, and neither should anyone else. I'm convinced that I'm experiencing a greater breadth of life than any of those smiley people I sometimes feel myself envying. And what is this life for if not to experience the highest highs and the lowest lows?

(right?)

perfect

If you have anything to tell me of importance, for God's sake begin at the end.

-- Sara Jeannette Duncan, Unknown , 1861-1922

QUOTE: see, love, eat.

Once a little boy sent me a charming card with a little drawing on it. I loved it. I answer all my children’s letters — sometimes very hastily — but this one I lingered over. I sent him a card and I drew a picture of a Wild Thing on it. I wrote, “Dear Jim: I loved your card.” Then I got a letter back from his mother and she said, “Jim loved your card so much he ate it.” That to me was one of the highest compliments I’ve ever received. He didn’t care that it was an original Maurice Sendak drawing or anything. He saw it, he loved it, he ate it.

—Maurice Sendak

VIDEO: Sarah Kay: If I Should Have a Daughter...

I've always been fond of Spoken Word Poetry. Typically, people hear that term and think of rap (which is appropriate), but there's more to it than that. Performance Poetry, to me, is inspiring and entertaining. It's something that needs to be listened to, not just heard. Observed, not just seen. It's an art form, it really is. Sarah Kay is a very talented poet and performer, outstanding in her field. The first three minutes of this video include her performing one of my favorite Spoken Word Poetry performances, a poem she wrote called B. I love poetry, reading it and writing it, but I've never taken my shot at performing it. Perhaps this was the inspiration I needed to make that first attempt. I hope it's just as inspiring to you.

WEBSITE: eggwatchers.com

I can imagine, given the season, you might be considering hard-boiling some eggs soon. You know, for dying purposes. But hard-boiling eggs is such a bother, isn't it? It takes enough time that you can't just wait in the kitchen for them to be done, but it's not like you have time to pop in a movie or something. So you're stuck in limbo. Might I introduce you to eggwatchers.com, a website that not only tells you exactly how long your egg(s) will take to boil but entertains you for exactly that amount of time. A cousin of YouTube, eggwatchers is the perfect solution to this Easter dilemma.

Happy boiling, friends.

And Happy Easter :)

SONG: Francesca da Rimini, Op. 32 by P. I. Tchaikovsky

As a budding musician, once upon a time, I participated in a performance of this piece. It is meant to represent Francesca's descent into hell. And you can hear it in the tone, tempo, and character of the entire piece. IT'S SCARY.

Inasmuch, this piece has become my theme song for Finals Week. The temper of the timpani, the wailing of the high strings, the hopeful cadence of the clarinet, the chilling rumble from the celli. There's nothing I can think of that could better describe the haunting ballad that is Finals Week.

It is quite lengthy, but if you venture to listen to it at all, I would suggest starting around the 8 minute mark and follow it to 16 or so. But only if you want the story to have a happy ending. I can picture the snakes, like fast approaching deadlines, slithering closer and closer while you lay there, helpless. And then tumbling into disarray as you plummet to the bottom of a volcano. Total chaos. But soon comes a sliver of light through the storm clouds. You realize you've made it out alive. And life is good :) You skip along and birds fly around your head and the sky is blue and you sing a song of gratitude that it's all finally over. Or is it? I'll let you figure that one out for yourself. Listen to the whole thing. You won't regret it.

VIDEO: Mommy's Nose is Scary!

Okay, I'm not usually one for "cute baby" videos, but this one is a classic. And I think this baby's reaction to his mother blowing her nose fits in pretty well with the way I live my life. Terror followed by sheer joy in the aftermath. (Granted, I don't have a cool walker like this kid does. ..)

Just watch the video. Remember what it was like when you didn't have to worry about anything. BE HAPPY.

Have a great weekend, everyone.