Twilight Disclosures of a Grandmother

Though it doesn’t help much, I keep telling myself
It’s only dirt, it’s only dirt, it’s only dirt.

His casket (the color of wilted dying tulips
Six years ago my gift) snapped from its platform and
Slammed, with screeching protest, into the earth
Causing a crescendo in the weeping
Then more eerily, though inaudible
Settled in like home.

Now scratchy blades of grass grow there
And though the work of his bones and
His father’s bones cry America!
He’s not decorated with any flag or ribbon
For his was an essential occupation
But he does get irises, and garlands, and wreaths
And a pallet of memoranda that he didn’t care
Much for in life.
They are all planted about him—growing things.
And underneath his own height worth of
Pathetic, lifeless dirt. Six feet.
Six years.
Six eternities.

And all I can think of is the loneliness
Of that cold dark soil. And lament that the only
Thing planted there that matters
Does not grow.

It's So Easy

{poem was here}

A Baby's Timeline

Timeline for the yet-to-be-named Blake Baby!

Sept. 2005 – Conception! This most likely occurred on a beautiful and breezy Sunday afternoon. My guess would be the 18th or 25th. We are obliviously all smiles.

Oct. 26, 2005 – Christy takes a home pregnancy test at about 5 P.M. and it comes out positive. I get home around 6:30 P.M.—the exact same time as the visiting teachers. Christy opens the door to see the three of us standing there. I wash the previous nights dishes as Christy, seated in the adjoining room, proceeds to tell her visiting teachers she is pregnant. She solidifies her place as World’s Worst Secret Keeper. I am the third to find out. We cry. We laugh. We cry.

Oct. 30, 2005 – We travel to Idaho to tell the news to the Blake family. They smile and cheer. We return to Salt Lake and tell the news to the Bateman family. They smile and cheer. Nausea begins.

Nov. 11, 2005 – Christy realizes that she can’t brush her teeth without throwing up, which sort of cancels out the teeth brushing. We buy mints and floss.

Nov. 14, 2005 – I step on the scale and am surprised to see that I’ve gained about 8 lbs. since we found out Christy was pregnant. I feel bloated and overly in touch with my feminine side. I resolve to not get fat, and to be better at consoling Christy in her nausea.

Nov. 17, 2005 – We attend our first doctor appointment. His name is Layne Smith, and I find myself getting weirded out that this is the one other guy who sees my wife with no pants on. Christy decides she hates blood work. Dr. Smith gives us the very scientifically accurate due date of “mid-June.” We see our first ultrasound. The baby looks like a Peanut Butter M&M.

Dec. 4, 2005 – We go to Maui, Hawaii with Sam & Stephanie Larson. The Baby is already well-traveled. Christy punished him/her by eating some authentic Polynesian cuisine. The baby punished Christy by causing her to barf while snorkeling at Molokini. They call a truce and live peacefully for the rest of the trip.

Dec. 18, 2005 – Our friends Brian and Mandy Cheney scare us half to death with “Tales of the Maternity Ward.” All we lacked was a half decayed mummy with a stethoscope. I learn about afterbirth and the placenta, episiotomies, painful breastfeeding, canoe panties, and the spray bottle. That night I have a nightmare that I’ll only tell if you twist my arm real hard.

Jan. 1, 2006 – We speculate about names over dinner with the Batemans. “Shiz” and “Teancum” seem to be gaining popularity. We make the mistake of actually throwing out a couple of our real name ideas only to get stink-eyes and crusties.

Jan. 5, 2006 – I notice a slight curve to Christy’s belly. She places a sizeable order of Old Navy maternity clothing, which she says “makes me feel comfortable and cute, and goes further than you might think in allowing me to face the workday.” Elastic bands go from being unfashionably nerdy to being the cat’s meow.

Jan. 9, 2006 – Christy’s sister gives birth to twins Henry and Owen. We learn more about the frightening concept of C-Section and prematurity.

Jan. 11, 2005 – Christy has her second doctor appointment. They weigh her (increase of 6 pounds), and she skates by without doing any blood work.

Jan. 23, 2005 – We have our second ultrasound, this time at Jordan Valley Hospital. The Peanut M&M actually looks like a baby now, and we cry. The technician takes many measurements (femur, cranium, abdomen, etc). The baby strategically positions itself to not show any genitalia. Christy secretly does jumping jacks in the bathroom, thinking the baby will bounce out of position. It does not. One hour and 45 minutes and two technicians later, we leave not knowing the sex of the baby. If the technicians were to take a guess, however, they would say “girl.”

Jan. 27, 2005 – We schedule a “sex-check” wherein we return to Jordan Valley to find out at last, boy or girl. Once again, the stubborn little thing will not budge out of position. One hour and two technicians later, we find out that IT’S A BOY! We are both kind of surprised, as we had sort of anticipated a girl. Happiness ensues.

Jan. 30, 2005 – Beginning of week 20—the half-way point. Life is beautiful.

Top Albums of 2005

10. M. Ward – Transistor Radio

This is a quirky album, and sounds sometimes like it should be coming from my grandfather’s radio. Ultimately it was played on very little radio at all, and so went the way of many good indie albums and didn’t get enough said about it, but M. Ward is a masterful songwriter. He does things his way for better or worse, and I respect that. This one started out slow for me, but got better and better as the year wore on.


9. The Decemberists – Picaresque

I’ve had a like/dislike affair with the Decemberists. They are problematic because I don’t often want to listen to songs about pirates and chimney sweeps, but I can’t deny the brilliance at work here. They are geeks to be sure, but extremely lovable geeks, and they deserve every inch of the stage they are playing on. This is my favorite in their discography, and now that they’ve signed to a major you can expect even more things Decembery.

8. John Vanderslice – Pixel Revolt

One of my most pleasant discoveries this year. The plinking piano, humming organ, and the acoustics of his pure voice make the production of Pixel Revolt all that much more titillating. Not all songs hit, but those that do, hit the center. The next time I’m driving through the mountains in the dark, thinking about the craziness, sadness, and loveliness of life, this is what will be playing on my iPod.

7. Ben Folds – Songs for Silverman

Oh, stop rolling your eyes! Because we know what we can expect from Ben Folds, we forget that we are getting excellence. His is a lightning bolt wonder on the piano, and an equally formidable songwriter. He is growing older, wiser, and I really enjoy hearing the songs of this thirty-something Ben. Maybe because I’m almost there myself. A highlight for me was his touching elegy to Elliott Smith.

6. Iron and Wine – Woman King

Yeah, yeah, its an EP, I know. But I don’t care. This was the year that Sam Beam opened up to further experimentation, and he took large strides on this project—making grittier, bolder music with that same lyricism I love. Besides, when has a guy with a beard as terrific and full as his ever released an unlistenable album? (Clay Aiken hasn’t grown a beard has he?)

5. My Morning Jacket – Z:

This band is why we can definitively say that the South still rocks (there has been some descent since the untimely death of Ronnie VanZant)! Bury your pimp cups and take out your diamond studded crunk teeth, there is a new king of cotton. Jim James’ reverb soaked voice delivers on all levels. Z improves upon It Still Moves in every way and shows that they’re no one-trick pony. This album is olfactory candy.

4. Jose Gonzales – Veneer:

I guess technically this came out in Sweden pre-2005, but I set my watch to Mountain Standard Time, and it didn’t drop in the US until this year. Jose is the first person to truly channel the departed spirit of Nick Drake and build onto it in meaningful ways. Veneer left me in awe after the first few songs and was perhaps my most pleasant discovery of the year.

3. Bright Eyes – I’m Wide Awake, It’s Morning:

This was the first dramatic statement of 2005. Conor Oberst has been hailed by some as the next and only troubadour to fill the shoes of Bob Dylan. That is a tall order for anyone to live up to, especially in these times, but if this album is at all a foreboding of his life’s body of work, I’m invested.

2. Andrew Bird – The Mysterious Production of Eggs:

This was an easy #2 for me. This guy could win a whistle-off over most of the songbirds in the Western Hemisphere. I first heard him before Weather Systems came out and I remember comparing his voice to a mix between Rufus Wainwright and Stephen Malkmus. For that reason alone he is worth checking out. Bird is a rare combination between gifted producer, expert musician, and exceptional songwriter. This album is a wellspring of joy from start to finish.

1. Sufjan Stevens – Illinois:

Everything else good that came out this year are mere Scotty Pippens to this Michael Jordan. Illinois was so grandiose, so full of life and “pageantry” (as Sufjan puts it) that I scarcely know where to begin. The day it came out I listened to from start to finish three times. I dare you to find a weakness in it! This is an album that is so literary, so lyrically dense, so complex, that you might, at first glance, think it a pompous charlatan. But it isn’t. It is so melodic, so accessible, and so full of life and color that it deserves every last lick of hype that its received this year. Well-done Sufjan, on making the top notch on this list that no-one will read.

Mr. Brownthumb

Remember Aron Ralston? He was the guy who went hiking in Blue John Canyon, Utah and got his arm wedged between the canyon wall and an 800 pound boulder. He stood there lonely, stationary, hungry, and dehydrated—hopelessly stuck in the canyon with no rational expectation for rescue. On the fifth day of his wretched plight, Death was knocking his boney hand on Aron’s door. But at that moment he had a revelation. Aron took out his pocket knife, the blade of which had been worn down small and dull from both chipping at the boulder and etching his own epitaph into the canyon wall. He then maneuvered his body to leverage the breaking of his elbow joint and then used the blade to cut through the flesh. Once the agonizing self-amputation was complete he finished a harrowing descent out of the canyon, repelling 65 feet, and hiking seven miles to a trailhead before rescuers found him.

I couldn’t help but think of this story today as I looked at the little plant that I keep here in my office. I haven’t been very good at routine watering, and now and then, when the thought crosses my mind, I glance over only to see the poor thing droopy, yellowy, and suffering some famine I’d unknowingly imposed. As I was out on vacation a week ago I forgot again to water my plant. Upon my return it was in poor shape. My plant had entered the Blue John Canyon of its short life. Of its four major stems, one had gone completely brown and withered. Severed leaves lay crispy, dry and wilted at the base. The other major stems weren’t looking particularly good either, but still showed signs of life.

I took some drastic measures. Opening my desk drawer I pulled out some scissors and amputated the brown stem at the base. I then soaked the soil in water and positioned the plant so as to get the maximum amount of sunlight possible. Here we are a few days later and it looks healthier than the day Christy bought it—with a noticeable stump cut sheer at the base. I’m sort of proud.

I think I’ll name it Aron.

Alison's Birthday RAM

I remember the deep sea of clothing that covered your bedroom floor. I remember pastel leg warmers, spandex drill team outfits, shiny silver parachute pants, and closets full of aerosol cans. I remember the Best of Bread, Air Supply, and Thriller. I remember the dexterity in your fingers and the weight in the busts of Bach and Mozart. I remember the heavy spirit in those silent moments sitting next to you in front of a newly decorated Christmas tree, and feeling total comfort in the wind outside. I remember green canyon hotdogs, and wondering if I could ever swing like you. I remember you giving the coils of the phone cord a workout while slowly licking a spoonful of peanut butter dry. I remember your mud-caked spud harvest jacket, liver dinners after a lamb butchering, and wide eyed nights in front of the slide projector.

I remember Primary Children’s. I remember concerned grandparents, Mom’s tears, and the salty smell of the lake. I remember you sitting in the hospital bed and dipping your head, cascading your brown hair forward and revealing the balding spots where the hairline should be. I remember taking turns, light-mindedly playing with the medical gadgets that you eventually brought home.

I remember watching the videotaped seminary graduation you had missed. I remember Pine View apartments, and learning the term “RAM” while visiting your computer class. I remember your bouquet, and the whiteness in your dress and in the snow. I remember the crème puffs and the big empty jars. I remember Greg, a soul full of unquenchable playfulness, and a brother in the most real sense of the word. I remember Roxanne, her affinity for peas and crickets, and her warm heating rock.

I remember the spirit of adoption, heaven sent and filling our world like God’s own breath. I remember your little girl with the widest eyes in the entire world. I remember your face—the very countenance of motherhood.

I remember letter after letter after precious letter. I remember photos, packages, and testimonies. I remember your love of the temple, the smile to end all smiles, and plenty of warm hugs. I remember saying to myself, “this is a sister” and knowing that no one else knew just what I meant.

Alison, this is my random access memory.

Lets not move our arms
Lets not move our legs
Lets not move our ears
Lets not move our noses
Lets not move our bones

Putting the Hallow back in Halloween

Back in MY day, we really knew what Halloween was about. Pagan Celtic rituals that celebrated harvest, prophecy, and protection from the coming winter? NO WAY! It was all about dressing up in such a sweet costume that people couldn’t help but give you lots of candy. Deep down inside I knew that if they thought my He-Man get up was better than my brother’s Darth Vadar outfit, that I would come home with more candy than him…and let’s not kid ourselves—its all about the amount of candy, right?

At nights end we would all gather in the living room, dump out our sacks full of goodies and count our loot: 8 mini candy bars, 15 Jolly Ranchers, 10 dum-dums (stupid crap suckers), 4 blow pops (now that’s a sucker!), 25 candy corns, one set of chocolate coins, 12 caramels, and 1 popcorn ball (thanks grandma, I won’t be eating that one). We would barter with each other, trading this for that, getting just the right mix for school the next day—where we would flaunt our candy and each try and make ourselves the envy of our classmates.

But the youngsters these days just expect hand outs. It’s no longer “trick-or-treat.” Things have degenerated into something requiring much less effort.

Knock. Knock. Door opens.

“Treat!”

“Excuse Me?”

“TREAT!”

“Um. Okay. And what might you be?”

Worried look, pauses. “I’m a gangsta.”

“A gangster? Are you serious? What happened to Big Bird? Thundercats? Obi-Wan Kenobi for heaven sakes?”

“Look, I’m a gangsta, just fill the bag.”

“Tell the truth! You just came home from school, grabbed your pillowcase, and started knocking doors, didn’t you?”

No comment. I begrudgingly surrendered a Kit-Kat and he trotted off to the next door.

So that’s it! Only about half of the Halloweeners that stopped by actually had on costumes. I’ve decided—tricks only for those fools next year. No more gangsta’s, and brats, and “cheerleaders” that really are just wearing the sweat suit they wore to school that day. Halloween will be different at the Blake home. I’m taking it back. I’m taking them all back.

This Divided State

The week "Fahrenheit 9/11" came out Christy and I went to see it. I was excited actually, because I have always been entertained by Moore’s documentaries. “Roger and Me” is funny, and Christy and I still quote parts of it (at one point Moore visits a Flint citizen who has resorted to raising rabbits as an added source of income…there is a sign in front of the house that says: Rabbits—pets or meat. Now that’s tragic comedy). “The Big One” was interesting, and in the end I liked it better than “Roger and Me.” I haven’t seen any episodes of “The Awful Truth”, but I did watch “Bowling for Columbine.” Anyone who knows me is aware that I enjoy competition rifle shooting. I am a believer in a citizen’s right to keep and bear arms, and believe that it is a natural extension of the inalienable rights spoken of in the Constitution. In Bowling for Columbine, were some cheap shots taken? Yes. Was some of it underhanded? Yes. Was there some manipulation? Yes. Were there a few “stretchers”? Yes. Did I laugh? YES. Was I threatened? No. In fact, I appreciated the film just because Moore was asking some very fascinating questions to his audience, questions to which we still need answers. Why the preoccupation with violence in America? Are gun rights the cause of current gun violence, or is the cause something bigger? What needs to change as a culture and a society in order for us to curb crimes committed with guns, and dare I say crime in general? This isn’t to say that I came to the same conclusions that Moore came to, but I realized where he was coming from and appreciated the questions.

He has an agenda. You’re a fool if you disagree. Is it a bad one? That is up to interpretation. Do I believe that he, in his heart of hearts, is trying to make our country better and assist them in seeing things from another perspective so as to generate some thoughtful debate and careful consideration of stance? Yes.

Now, when Christy and I walked out of Fahrenheit 9/11 we both had sick feelings in our stomachs. One could argue that either the subject matter sickened us, or the way it was presented sickened us. I’d say some of both. I didn’t feel it was an objective look at the Bush Administration, and I really didn’t expect it to be going in. On the other hand it pained me to see our Commander-in-Chief fumble around like a goofball and say some ridiculously callous statements. Through further investigation I learned what was in context, what what was taken out of context, what manipulations were occurring where, editing tricks, and all of the post-production emotional play. Parts of the film angered me and parts I felt were downright disrespectful, yet still other portions of the film I found revealing (in particular the segment on military recruitment).

A year ago when Michael Moore came to Orem, Utah to speak at UVSC the community was in upheaval. I had seen the controversial film, but unlike a few people here I didn’t think he was the Anti-Christ come to pervert the ways of our innocent little community. I didn’t go. I have close friends who did, and enjoyed it. There is a documentary feature that came out recently about the whole controversial visit, made by a former BYU student with liberal politics named Steven Greenstreet. The film is called “This Divided State,” and it is an entertaining look at the fiery sentiments that pervaded the community that week. It is pretty even-handed for the most part (it lacks a chunk of the moderate voice, but admittedly you only have an hour and a half—and seriously, what’s more compelling? Yup. Extremes.), and addresses a few of the issues that I raised in this blog. I enjoyed the film very much, and felt it was a slice of real American pie. It addresses those matters that divide us both as country and state, but personalizes things even more by addressing the political gap that causes disunity in the LDS religion. It unveils the dirty mask of intolerance, and ultimately plays out the disintegration of a relationship between two best friends. Though framed by the Michael Moore visit, love him or hate him, there are bigger things at play in this film, and I recommend it to anyone who might be interested.

A Fond Farewell

Two years ago tomorrow Elliott Smith committed suicide. I never knew him as a person, and I have only two connections with him 1) We share the same birthday—Aug. 6th, and more importantly 2) I am in extreme awe of the music he created. I knew a kid at my previous employer, who found out that I liked Elliott’s music. He approached me and said, “I heard you listen to Elliott Smith.” I replied, “Yes, I do. I love his music.” He then exclaimed “I WORSHIP ELLIOTT SMITH!” I kind of laughed and said something to the effect that “worship” is a word I generally save for someone else, but that I could tell he was passionate about Elliott’s music.

For better or worse Elliott’s music is his legacy. His lyrics were characterized by intensive confessionalism and self scrutiny, and it always came from the heart. His music was so uniquely his own that in a couple of bars you immediately know who it’s coming from. He composed some wonderfully complex stuff and recorded it painstakingly. More so than anything I admire his musicality and his approach.

Elliott had his fair share of problems and disappointments, maybe more, maybe less than the average person. He struggled with anxiety, depression, fame, self-loathing, and drug addiction. He ended his life by stabbing himself in the chest, of all ways, a final symbolic gesture perhaps in stopping his aching heart. It would be really easy to sit back and judge him for the life he led. In Sunday School, growing up, I was taught that because it was unsanctimonious to take the life God gave you, if you committed suicide you would go to hell. Heaven was impossible for the suicidal. But I want to clarify this for anyone out there who may have been taught the same thing.

Be careful about assigning judgment where judgment is the Lord’s only. I do believe in the sanctity of life. I do believe that suicide is a sin, but I want to qualify it with some words of hope. Maybe you know someone personally who has committed suicide and you struggle to know what to make of it. The following are quotations from apostles and prophets of Jesus Christ:

Joseph Smith said, “While one portion of the human race is judging and condemning the other without mercy, the Great Parent of the universe looks upon the whole of the human family with a fatherly care and paternal regard. … He is a wise Lawgiver, and will judge all men, not according to the narrow, contracted notions of men, but, ‘according to the deeds done in the body whether they be good or evil,’ or whether these deeds were done in England, America, Spain, Turkey, or India. … We need not doubt the wisdom and intelligence of the Great Jehovah; He will award judgment or mercy to all nations according to their several deserts, their means of obtaining intelligence, the laws by which they are governed, the facilities afforded them of obtaining correct information, and His inscrutable designs in relation to the human family; and when the designs of God shall be made manifest, and the curtain of futurity be withdrawn, we shall all of us eventually have to confess that the Judge of all the earth has done right.”

Bruce R. McConkie said, “Persons subject to great stresses may lose control of themselves and become mentally clouded to the point that they are no longer accountable for their acts. Such are not to be condemned for taking their own lives. It should also be remembered that judgment is the Lord’s; he knows the thoughts, intents, and abilities of men; and he in his infinite wisdom will make all things right in due course.”

M Russell Ballard said, “I feel that judgment for sin is not always as cut-and-dried as some of us seem to think. The Lord said, “Thou shalt not kill.” Does that mean that every person who kills will be condemned, no matter the circumstances? I feel the Lord recognized differences in intent and circumstances: Was the person who took his life mentally ill? Was he or she so deeply depressed as to be unbalanced or otherwise emotionally disturbed? Was the suicide a tragic, pitiful call for help that went unheeded too long or progressed faster than the victim intended? Did he or she somehow not understand the seriousness of the act? Was he or she suffering from a chemical imbalance in their system that led to despair and a loss of self-control? Obviously, we do not know the full circumstances surrounding every suicide. Only the Lord knows all the details, and he it is who will judge our actions here on earth. When he does judge us, I feel he will take all things into consideration: our genetic and chemical makeup, our mental state, our intellectual capacity, the teachings we have received, the traditions of our fathers, our health, and so forth.”

Alma, the new world prophet said, “The plan of restoration is requisite with the justice of God; for it is requisite that all things should be restored to their proper order. Behold, it is requisite and just, according to the power and resurrection of Christ, that the soul of man should be restored to its body, and that every part of the body should be restored to itself. And it is requisite with the justice of God that men should be judged according to their works; and if their works were good in this life, and the desires of their hearts were good, that they should also, at the last day, be restored unto that which is good.”

I don’t pretend to know the mind of God, or the mind of the people who surround me. I hope that Elliott was living life as good and true as he knew how, and that is up to a loving Father in Heaven to decide, not you and not me. We all operate under a different light and knowledge. But we can all certainly be a little (dare I say a lot?) less judgmental. We can all be more sympathetic. We can all be more forgiving. We can all be more Christ-like.

“What I used to be will pass away, and then you’ll see
That all I want now, is happiness for you and me.”
Elliot Smith Aug. 6, 1969 - Oct. 21, 2003

MFEO

That means "made for each other" in bubble-gum talk.

Christy and I are MFEO. There have many instances over the years where one of both of us are doing something completely strange and we glance at each other, shake our heads, and then eye the other with that you're-lucky-we're-MFEO look. Like when I walk into a room softly, so as not to be noticed, and Christy is doing some inventive, freestyle, goofy dance.

Well in light of my last post, Christy was putting out some Halloween decorations yesterday. I was on the couch eating dinner, when I heard her say, "That's weird."

"What?" I asked.

"Oh, this peice of chocolate I found on the couch. It tasted really old."

"What chocolate on the couch?"

She showed me where she found it, feet away from our decorative flip-top pumpkin that we use to hold Halloween candy for trick or treaters. She opened the lid, and sure enough, there were small peices of broken chocolate inside.

"Some must have fallen out."

"You just ate year old Halloween candy."

"We're MFEO."