Flaws.

I keep on trying to write, but nothing comes out.
This is the only thing on my mind.

As I listen, I mourn the fact that I do not produce such beauty; and, yet, I can't help but feel that stirring that causes me to suspect that somewhere in me--in the most personal part of my being-- is where these musicians found this song in the first place, as though it somehow belongs to me, and is mine to post here.

I know it sounds crazy, but this song moves me beyond all reason. So I leave reason behind, yet again. The scholar within me will have something to say later, hopefully sometime soon. For now, bear with the mystic in me.

Taking the second plan,
Begging to understand,
Life of a selfless man.
‘Cos out of all the flaws I’ve stumbled upon;
It’s the hardest one to focus on
It’s the hardest one to focus on.
Why are you calling up?
Isn’t one enough?
Giving up all she’s got.
Out of all the flaws I’ve stumbled upon.
It’s the hardest one to focus on.
It’s the hardest one to focus on.

Father Time

"And it came to me then that every plan is a tiny prayer to Father Time."
- "What Sarah Said" Death Cab for Cutie Plans

I'm feeling a little angst-y tonight-- a bit restless. I (deep breath) am leaving Eagle Mountain this week--in a few days. Trouble is (hoping to save face) when asked to produce a reason for doing so by a friend at church today, I could only shrug, look her in the eye and (forgive me) state simply, "because I'm 21 years old."
So I will go back to Provo. Nine months ago I left Provo, for seemingly no reason, now I return with seemingly no reason... Plans.
Sometimes, life produces a day that demands an inventory. That was yesterday for me. June 18, 2011. It marked two years since the day that I flew back to the US after my Study Abroad in Spain. I was a different person that day than I am now, which is so obvious a statement I am blushing for the stupidity of having typed the words, and the further-felt stupidity and embarrassment for not changing them now.
I remember it well, returning back to Eagle Mountain for a quick two-month visit. I remember many things, but much of it is a blur. Just water under the bridge. A whole string of events that, "Are what they are, do not blame [insert here anything we try to blame the past on]".
You know, there is no point in trying to change things. It's the "if we had cake we could have cake and ice cream... if we had ice cream" way of thinking. Sometimes something just isn't meant to be. When something has found turned up with enough missing parts that a favorable resolution is not even in the cards, wishing never does anything but make one sound desperately ridiculous.
Speaking of "meant to be" things... I was laughing today at a fortune from a restaurant that I have stuck in the corner of a big picture frame in my room. The fortune reads as follows:
"Like the river flow into the sea. Something are just meant to be."
Clearly good Asian to English translations are not one of those things that are meant to be. In defense of the Asians... these translations do lead to some truly good laughs over here in the Western Hemisphere.
I'm being sassy tonight. There is nothing flip about wanting so badly to change something you would give everything you were to change it.... if you had anything left to give. I sound like I have it all together, like I have it all figured out. Really I am writing for myself. Really, this is all deeply, personally, horrifically resonant. Really, I just keep mentally looping another line from the above-mentioned song:

"It stung like a violent wind that our memories depend on a faulty camera in our minds."

For the record, the lucky numbers on that fortune are 10, 13, 19, 23, 28 and 56.
So there you have it. Something are just meant to be. And Something are not. And off to bed with me--faulty memories, angst-y Plans, and all.

Soundtrack of the evening:
"What Sarah Said" -Death Cab
"Such Great Heights--Cover" -Iron and Wine
"Different Names for the Same Thing" -Death Cab
"Rebellion (Lies)"- Arcade Fire

Haunted

I think one of the couches in my parent's front room is haunted.
I do not know what they want, or why they will not go away.
I just know they're in trouble.
This girl keeps crying. I wish she'd stop. I don't want to listen to it anymore.
Though there is something artistic about being haunted.

Behold: an exercise in abstract poetry:

If
My inexperience should speak
And, nothing doubting,
Long-- openly vowing--effortlessly
You'd open up.
Justifiably, our shibboleth: hurrying up and
Dying, asserts value is depleted,
Near exhausted. Lo! somethingness offends nothingness.

I don't know why people are so offended by the abstract. There is so much meaning to be pulled out of the abstract when one is willing to put in the time. From whence cometh this offense anyway? As if everything did not start at as abstract as can be. Those First Letters that we learned as children. Did they mean anything to us then? Just symbols on a page. It was not until we applied ourselves that we unlocked the secret, and we were immensely gratified. We have just forgotten how to look at the basics, take it one letter at a time.
But then, who has time?
Besides myself.

I assure you, if they do not stop their haunting, they are going to make me lose my mind.

True Wisdom

"To see in all directions at the same time is the privilege of God. It is our privilege to ask what he sees."
-JDN