New Years Readolution

I recently watched an old family video of myself in purple leggings and a soccer-ball t-shirt struggling over the childhood classic, Hop on Pop that my mom held up for me to read. I watched as my three-year-old self furrowed her little eyebrows and combined all the literary powers in her brain to move from P to U then back to P again, trying to squish the sounds together to sound like a word. I laughed and bounced a little on the couch when I understood the sounds to be the word "pup", and then moved along in the story to discover what word the next letters could turn out to be.

By the time my years had doubled I was reading about Harry's adventures in Hogwarts, so if it hadn't been for this video evidence, I would find it hard to imagine myself not being able to read.

But then there I was a college freshman, with my three ring creative writing binder, mechanical pencil at the ready, listening to my English teacher recite a little piece of advice. "Listen to your ear, listen to your ear. But only if you are a reader." (I think it was supposed to rhyme. Cute.) I scribbled the phrase into my notebook, nodding in agreement. Oh yeah. I'm a reader, I thought. I can trust my literary ear. Definitely. I love reading.

And then something really scared me. I couldn't remember the last book I had even read.

I guess that wasn't necessarily true. The last book I'd read was Hamlet the last month of my High school career. Before that was Poisonwood Bible, then Great Expectations, Heart of Darkness, and The Road. Then there was Twelfth Night, Huckleberry Finn, Frederick Douglass, and wait a minute these are all school assignments.

So I really had to think. What was the last book I had read for pleasure? At first I really scared myself and thought it was the Children of the Promise series back in eighth grade, but then I remembered reading Criss Cross by Lynne Rae Perkins the summer between tenth and eleventh grade. (A real work of art by the way. I highly recommend it.) And I think that's the one. The last book that I had, of my own free will, been through from start to finish.

So I got myself a library card and went to the library.

And it was beautiful.

The rough and dusty smell of book pages, the rows of alphabetized shelves, and the ominous air of quiet wisdom. Even the Library Catalog that can find every audio book in the place before even considering you might possibly be searching for the actual book.

So here's my New Years resolution: READ, READ, READ. I can't believe I ever stopped. There are so many words out there! So many works and authors and subjects, and I've already gotten three years behind! Hello Emilyn, wake up and smell the pages! And get back to work. Stretch your literary muscles a little, and start calling yourself a reader again. Good grief.

My Ear Buddies

The only thing worse than coming home from a long day of classes and homeworking at the library is coming home from a long day of classes and homeworking at the library and still not being done with homework. And the only thing worse than that is coming home from a long day of classes and homeworking at the library, still not being done with homework, and finding that your left headphone ear-bud isn't producing sound.

Well actually, the headphones I own don't have a right or left ear bud; there's just this ear bud and that ear bud. Regardless, the one I had randomly selected to service my right ear at that particular moment was perfectly functional, and the other was not.

I was devastated.

In horror I popped the ear buds out and tried everything I could think of to restore the buds to their former functionality. I untwisted the cord, massaged the buds, cleaned off the earwax (we've all got it people, calm down), pushed them in and out of both ears over and over, nothing.

I finally gave up, slipped both buds back into my ears to give the illusion of normality, and continued again with my homeworking, trying to ignore my misfortune.

Halfway through my Leadership assignment, I'm pretty sure I started hearing the music out of both ears, but I was too scared to test it out because if I was wrong and my earphones were still broken then I'd just be depressed all over again. I listened for a good thirty seconds trying to figure out if I'm actually hearing what I think I'm hearing, and finally decided to just ignore it. I mean if you think about it, since I couldn't tell whether or not they were working correctly, they might as well have been working for all I cared.

But that made me think. I wanted more than anything to know whether I was right or not; whether I was really hearing music or not. Why? Why are people so stubborn that they just have to prove themselves right? Why can't we just be content with being okay?

In the end, both headphones turned out to be working just fine. In fact, Elton John's "Rocket Man" is currently protruding from both buds in pristine condition. But it definitely made for an interesting personal psychoanalysis. Who would have thought? In honor of this occasion, I will write a poem.



Ear Buddies

You are limp and always slightly twisted,
and smile-like, you reach from ear to ear
embracing my face with your long skinny arms.

You fill my head with your whispers
using all of your many voices,
and even keep your words company
with harmonies and instruments.

No matter the noises, we've always been friends.
Even when you sometimes yell at me
every time I leave the volume up too high;
I guess part of the blame is mine.

Through the Beatles and Eagles,
Elton John, Regina Spektor, and Billy Joel,
Death Cab for Cutie and Imagine Dragons,
you have always been my buddies.

My dearest headphones,
may you always fill the holes in my heart.
Or my ears, as the case may be.



Whew. I think that may have just brought a tear. Hoo. I think I need a moment. Do you mind? Here, uh, please enjoy this picture while I...compose myself.  

Aren't they beautiful? Sigh. Truly. Now don't you ever scare me like that again, you two. Ya hear? 

Free T-shirt: Long Story Made Long

I work as a Ticket Agent for the SUU Ticketing Offices. Yes that's right, I am an Agent. Agent E. Or Agent Em; I can't decide which sounds better. I guess Em would get confused with M, but that's sort of the cleverness I'm going for. Then again, in the heat of the battle, I guess Agent E is the more logical option.

Anyway, as most employees in the minimum-wage work-force, (Actually I get paid $8 an hour, so take that you peons!) I deal with many different kinds of people. There are the kind and considerate people, the angry and opinionated people, and (my personal favorite) the absolutely clueless people. And then I guess there are the ambient just-people people who cause no problems and leave no impressions. ...And now I think about it, you can't forget the weird, what-just-happened people, and then there are always those trying-to-be-funny people. Mostly teenagers. 

So, put them all together, and what do you get? A people pie! ...chart. 

So this blog post wasn't really going in the direction I wanted it to. I haven't even foreshadowed the title yet.

Do not despair my friends. That time will come. Follow me through a few more paragraphs of build-up; we shall eventually reach the climax. 

Ahem.

During my times working in the ticket office here at SUU, I have encountered all pieces of The People Pie. Some of my favorites were:

The lady who had just been sent from the ticket office on the other side of the stadium and was "looking for a man by the name of Will Call"

The man who paid for a ticket requesting "one for the groom's side" 

The guy who asked, "Do you have change for a ten?"

The child who, after hearing his dad tell us "He's three" said, "And my dad's thirty five."

And my new favorite, the T-shirt man. 

(DUN du-NUH!)

A couple work days ago at an unimportant time, my two colleagues and I were helping out regular customer with an irregular problem and a disproportionate bad mood. One of those angry and opinionated kind. I don't know what exactly he wanted to do, or what tickets he had claimed he bought for whom at what time with what account, but Mckay was doing all he could to help the gentleman, and the gentleman was giving him nothing but rude remarks. After trying to get what he wanted from both mine and Alyssa's window, to no avail since Mckay was the only one who could help solve his problem, he and his equally angry friend finally marched off. Mckay continued searching the ticketing system to try and solve the problem, and by the time our manager Shon showed up, he had successfully found the man his tickets, and gotten him into the basketball game. We all sighed in relief and shook our heads, putting on our best smiles for the remaining customers. 

Days later, today comes, and I go once again into work. I apologize for being late (stupid hour and a half math test) and Shon hands me a card. Like, a letter card. It was an apology letter from that guy for being rude and impatient. Along with the card, this man had provided a T-shirt for each of the Agents who had been working that night. 

The T-shirt reads, "Have a great experience at SUU". 

This is the part of the story where I would analyse this experience and share my thoughts about this event. But I'm pretty worn out from all the back story and build-up (which was actually just unnecessary introduction down the tangent path away from en media res) so I'm just going to leave it at this. 

So long friends! And remember, don't do drugs! 

O Newsie! My Newsie!

So first off, I lied.

I told you that my history teacher looked and acted exactly like John Goodman when I totally meant to say John CANDY, the coach from Cool Runnings, which just happens to be one of the best movies of all time.

Now that that's cleared up, here is a paint depiction of what happened in history class this morning when discussing labor unions.

 It was like Newsies and Dead Poets Society all in one. The Dead Newsies Society.

Hmm. Maybe that's not the message I want to send.

Anyway the moral of the story is that Emilyn rediscovered paint, and SUU Professors really know how to get students to come to morning classes.

Fully *Cough Cough* Colleged

I thought I was done with all my "college firsts".

I had had my fill of thrilling grocery store trips, study time in the library, a non-existent curfew, and using my very own, personal dishes at mealtime. Not to mention my first college tests, quizzes, papers, homework, and the procrastination of all of the above. I had even experienced the feeling of walking back into my apartment with my duffel bag and pillow after visiting the family back at home.

What I hadn't experienced, was the college sick.

At home, the mother rushes in with tissues and Advil in one hand and a cup of orange juice in the other while cooing soothing words like "Aww baby" and "Shh, lay down".

At college your roommates offer you vitamins and mentally rate you on a level from one to contagious, while standing at the corresponding distance. (see chart, and click for better view)

I have to say though, the first part of my day was as productive as any other. Yep, those first sixty seconds of awake time before sliding back under the quilt, I was like, gonna go to class, put in some library study hours, work on my personal essay, I was all up in that.

What can I say? Eight o'clock just wasn't doing it for me.

Who am I kidding. Eight never does it for me. 

Anyway, I failed to get up for History, which slept me halfway through math, and by the time I'd made it out of bed and into the bathroom, I found myself barely carrying out a raspy doe-re-mi, so there was no way in Cedar I was first soprano-ing it up in Choir. 

Sooooo sick day. Made myself some nice, white chicken chili (without the milk because one, I am quite knowledged in the fact that dairy is quite counter-productive those suffering from a cold, and two, I'm out) and cuddled up with my leopard print blanket to watch iCarly and Top Gear. 

As sick days go, it wasn't so bad. If nothing else, I've got a whole Tupperware of left-over soup to show for it, and my roommates all actually went to class today. 

Children, Poetry, and a Cup of Tea

I'm not sure why they're here, but I see little elementary kids walking around on campus almost every day.

Last week I saw a whole line of them pass by in the hallway as I waited for my ten o' clock math class. They quietly followed the teacher three times their size and six times their age, some with their eyes glued to the feet in front of them, lining themselves perfectly in step, others with folded arms and big, wondering eyes. One little boy with a blue t-shirt stopped in the line and protested to the children in front of him, "It's not that way!" When he saw them all filing through a door held open by their teacher, he realized his mistake and hurried back to his place in line, slightly embarrassed. The boy behind him followed un-fazed, chewing on his shirt collar.

Ah. Youth.

Actually, I've been thinking a lot about childhood lately. Mostly in light of the personal essay I've been working on for my English class, but also because...actually...I think that's probably it. Hm. Well that explains it then. Creative projects always seem to find their way into one's daily activities.

Speaking of English class, wanna hear some feedback from my English teacher on my final poetry project? (Rhetorical.) Of my piece Sue Elle's Aunt Margaret he said, "Remarkably good final stanza. I read that one and I thought, here is some fine poetry, so I read it out loud to wife. That good stuff because it is vivid and it plays with the contrast that you set up. (sic)" A comment on my least favorite poem Tangled Up; "I do, given the class, appreciate the fact that you immediately set up and engaging situation and draw me as a reader. (sic)". And of the project as a whole he said, "It was nice to read some poems that worked very hard to create vivid images and to allow those images to stand on their own. I hope you continue to write poetry. Your talent shows through in these poems."

Just to change the subject one more time, I have a random story for you.

A few days ago I switched my Google language to English (UK) and I just freaked out for like ten minutes because my spell check just told me I spelled "favorite" and "math" wrong. I also found the red squiggly line under "english" ironic, but after capitalizing the 'E' all was well again.

Moral of the story: trust the slobber-shirt kid, Emilyn's poetry is wife-reading worthy, and any Britain's favourite English word is "Mathematics".



p.s. I can't remember how to change the language back. Blast.

Oh, and feel free to feed the fish on the sidebar. So much entertainment. Cheerio! 

Remember Remember the Fifth of October

Anxious (anxiousness, anxiety)

1) feeling or showing uncomfortable feelings of uncertainty <Emilyn is feeling awfully anxious right now> 

2) marked by or causing agitation or uncomfortable feelings <the worst feeling in the whole world is most definitely the feeling of anxiousness> 

3) an uneasy state of mind usually over the possibility of an anticipated misfortune or trouble <anxiety happens to be the most recurring feeling inside of Emilyn>  

Events, texts, sleep, classes, lunch, the next episode of Korra. Waiting for any one of these things gives me a very high level of anxiousness. I know that life comes with things to wait for, and I can accept that. It's just unfortunate that here in the 21st century, all of our heres and nows make the just-as-necessary theres and laters seem much farther away.  

Currently I'm feeling a little anxious about October 5th on which quite a long list of things will be happening. Firstly, General Conference will be in session. This happens to be an event I quite enjoy, as well as an event I have missed the past four years due to either the Shakespeare Festival Competition itself, or the rehearsal for the competition the Saturday before. Secondly, speaking of the Festival, the Maeser Shakespeare team will be in Cedar City on October 5th performing their monologues and duo scenes. Thirdly, I will be working long hours at the ticket office so I will get neither the experience of watching October's General Conference, nor the scenes performed by the beloved Maeser team. Needless to say, I will not able to go home that weekend to attend my brother's fiancee's bridal shower.

You can tell I'm distressed because I just used the phrase "needless to say". I really do hate that phrase. If it's needless, why did you say it? I guess that's just the world's way of saying yes, I know everyone knows it's not needed out loud, but by gosh darn someone's gotta say it because if we don't state the obvious we might start verbalizing things that actually matter, or worse, lapse into the unknown silence and once we're there, who knows where our thoughts could take us? 

Whew. Take a breather Em. Just drag yourself slowly out of your peanut butter of anxiety and get back to your homework. You've got an entire free weekend ahead of you (if you ignore those emails about the Creative Writing Conference for a little while). It's only Monday. Just get through your long Tuesday, and by the time Wednesday comes around you can start a fresh to-do list with your favorite black-ink pen and then start thinking about the upcoming weeks. 

Oh to be anxiety free. My mini poem of the day. 

Emilyn