Woo-she-ah moo-vees

I am not one who likes movies to end badly. Movies are a much needed break from reality and should end happily. Good should always conquer evil, the hero always gets his damsel, all is well. Bearing this in mind, it makes no sense for me to like these stylized martial arts movies, wuxia I think they're called. I've only seen two, Hero and House of Flying Daggers, but I really want to see more. There is far too much angst, too much sadness, but the colors! The grace in every movement! The way every look, every movement, every word is filled with meaning! The way it twists and keeps you creeping to the edge of your seat! Most movies tend to be so cliche I can guess what is going to happen, when, why...and these movies are too, but they keep you so dazzled in the beauty of the art, it's like seeing the story for the first time.
Poo on American martial arts films....

Pictures I Like

Look close at the above picture...

Strange Thoughts

You know that band Incubus? Ever wonder what it means? According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary it means an evil spirit that lies on persons in their sleep; especially : one that has sexual intercourse with women while they are sleeping or one that oppresses or burdens like a nightmare.
Makes you wonder doesn't it...
You know how back in the day the wagon the police used to carry prisoners was called a paddy wagon? Well, a paddy is a derogatory term for the Irish. Is this a stereotypical reflection on the Irish being drunken prisoners or because in the 19th century they were the only ones who would take the job of police officer?
You know how rednecks/hillbillies are always portrayed as having tons of junk in the yard? But have you ever wondered why? Well, for decades, people in the rural south had absolutely nothing and little money for the things they did need, so everything they had, they kept, just in case. They kept old cars in case they needed a spare part for the working car, they kept old cans in case they needed tin or a container. The habit of keeping things was passed on to each generation and became a piece of American stereotype.
Did you know that the Bikini Island (where they tested nuclear weapons) is actually pronounced bic-in-ee? And that the island of Kiribati is pronounced keer-e-bahs?
And did you know that the traditional tataus of the Maori in New Zealand (or Aotearoa, Land of the Long White Cloud) were literally carved into the skin, rather than merely being ink tapped into the skin, like other islands and today's tattoos?

Happiness in a Can

Deliverence Dueling Banjos

The best song ever can be watched on the You Tube video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=esl2NNOtHQE

Jackson Hole Trip

Ashley, Zack, Kendra, Shay, Me

A favorite poem

Norman Morrison
By Adrian Mitchell
On November 2nd 1965
in the multi-coloured multi-minded
United beautiful States of terrible America
Norman Morrison set himself on fire
outside the Pentagon.
He was thirty-one, he was a Quaker,
and his wife (seen weeping in the newsreels)
and his three children
survive him as best they can.
He did it in Washington where everyone could see
because
people were being set on fire
in the dark corners of Vietnam where nobody could see.
Their names, ages, beliefs and loves
are not recorded.
This is what Norman Morrison did.
He poured petrol over himself.
He burned. He suffered.
He died.
That is what he did
in the white heart of Washington
where everyone could see.
He simply burned away his clothes,
his passport, his pink-tinted skin,
put on a new skin of flame
and became
Vietnamese.

Have you ever pooped a balloon?-Dwight Shrute

I went to Payless today hoping to get some pink ballet-like slippers, but they didn't have any that fit my fat feet. Discrimination I say. So to salve my wounded pride, I bought myself a dress and a couple of sparkly brooches that match nothing, but purchased because they're shiny. I've spent the day watching movies and pecking at my report that's due fairly soon. I have a huge math test I have to take tomorrow and have I studied? Of course not. Do I feel guilty or panicked? Of course not.
For those of you who don't know (ahem, Angie) Arthur Miller wrote the plays Death of a Salesman, All my sons, the Crucible. Brilliant man.
This weekend my family is going to Jackson to dink around. Shay has invited a girl he's twitterpated with as well as her cousin, who I think Kendra is eyeing. And then there will be my mom and I, in the midst of all these hormones. Heaven help me...

Pieces of Pieces

I found this in a journal of mine: (and yes, I wrote it, go figure)

A piece of a day becomes
A piece of a year
And far is only
Pieces of near
A piece of a look
Is a piece of a life
And a piece of a lie
Is a piece of a strife
Pieces of dreams become
Pieces of real
Just as pieces of love
Are the pieces that heal
Pieces of blood become
Pieces of man
Just as pieces of can't
Become pieces of can
But the most important piece
That I can see
Is that pieces of you
Become pieces of me

sand and shadows, water and wonders

I'm going through baby withdrawls. Poor me. So yesterday at chruch the ward clerk grabs me after sacrament and asks if I can meet with the bishop. I'm thinking, crap, I don't want a calling and crap, he's probably wondering why I've missed so much church. But it turns out he just wanted to see how I was because he hadn't seen me in a while. Also, he's a family counselor and he knows my parents are divorced, so he tends to check up on that every semester. But I dont' mind. I love our bishopric.
After church I ate Girl Scout cookies and read Arthur Miller's autobiography. Incredible writer! I've never been a great fan of his plays. Although they are incredibly well written and intellectually stimulating, they're a bit too depressing for me. However, his autobio gives me a whole new perspective so I want to read through his plays again. And in his autobio he offers thoughts on so many things that are so beautifully written and so thought provoking...but I digress. In short, it's a great book, even if it is 500 pages.
Today's music: Bob Dylan

ah penny, brown penny

Well the past few days have been filled with a whole lot of horrible. Until Saturday afternoon. I drove to Pocatello and spend hours playing with Kim's baby Reese. I couldn't get over the chubby cheeks and the weird way her hair was growing. And the way she just curled up after eating with her head on my shoulder...I am so in love with that baby! It was nice to get out of poopy Rexburg, although Pocatello was horribly cold and windy and there were so much traffic I couldn't believe it. I took the wrong exit and followed traffic until I wound up in the Lowe's parking lot. Traffic is evil. When I got home, my jacket smelled like baby barf and I loved it. On the drive home, however, my mom called and told my Sidnee has a fractured vertebre in her back. Apparently it's been there since her accident and the freaking doctors never caught it! So she's been walking around, riding horses, playing sports with a broken back! I was so mad. When a young girl is thrown out of a truck down a mountain, lands among logs and rocks, suffers from a bruised lung and concussion...and they check for broken ribs but not a broken back? IDIOTS! (deep breath) Anyways, I have a huge test this week in Math, among other things, and I'm not looking forward to it.
Today's music obsession: Beirut