I Take and Take and Never Give Back

Dear Internet,

Yes. I know. You are very cross with me. This relationship has become one-sided. I just take and take from you (in the form of watching music videos and reading articles and laughing at blogs). And I never give back. I'll try to be better. Promise.

In the meantime--a thought. You know how sometimes you listen to a song and you're just hooked by a line or a note? You think, "WOW! This song is so moving." Or you think, "What does THAT mean?" Then you (well, you're the Internet, so I mainly refer to myself) look up the lyrics. That song that was so clever turns out to be kinda dumb. The weird lyric turns out to be kinda poetic.

Internet, I discovered a couple of songs like that this week. They are from "Boxer" by a band called The National.

1."Green Gloves"
I love the bass line in this song.

2.Then there was "Slow Show"
I hear this bit, and it made me laugh: "wanna hurry home to you put on a slow, dumb show for you and crack you up"
And then I read the rest of they lyrics, and they weren't as sweet of an image. Oh well.

3."Racing Like a Pro"
I thought the lyric was, "you're racing like a pronoun." Huh? Turns out the lyric is, "you're racing like a pro now." Internet, you'd make the same mistake, too, right?

So forgive me for being a selfish friend, Internet. I'll write you soon. Hopefully tomorrow as the boss is away!

My love forever,
Elisabeth but never Liz

iPhoto Roundup

Two of my former co-workers got married a few weeks ago. The centerpieces were very nice, and mac n' cheese was on the menu. Delightful.


Me, waiting on a friend in the bathroom of the venue for the aforementioned wedding. It was a very "LA" place. The venue was called The Smog Shoppe because, well, it used to be a smog shop.


Now before you get all concerned and call me a klepto, know that the bride OK'd taking centerpieces home.


A different couple and a different wedding with one thing in common--delish food.


My dad thinks today should be a state holiday for California. The Dodgers play at home for the first time this season. Official start of long afternoons and crowded beaches.

Significance

Last month I took a trip to Scotland to visit my dear friend, Katherine. One sunny afternoon, Katherine and I visited a used-book shop near her flat in St. Andrews. Here I found a beautiful leather-bound volume of John Keats' poetry.

One of the poems, "Walking in Scotland," caught my eye as I flipped the old letter-pressed pages during my first night as owner of this book. Keats captures an aspect of Scotland--and Ireland and England and Wales, for that matter--that is hard for a visitor to articulate. Well, it's hard for this visitor to articulate.

"There is a charm in footing slow across a silent plain,
Where patriot battle had been fought, where glory had the gain..."

The poem, to me at least, articulates the feeling of significance that seems to quietly rise up from the shores of these tiny bits of land that once seemed to conquer every corner of the world. Each castle and stone bridge has a long memory of battles fought and love won and adventures sought.

Lately I've been feeling quite the opposite--very insignificant. I feel as though I will always live hand-to-mouth each month. I am discouraged in the departments of love and looks. I am tired and bored. I feel invisible.

But I know I am not alone in these fits of melancholy.

Today I spoke with three friends. One was fearful about an upcoming change in jobs, another was full of regret for her decision to enroll at a particular school, and the third was discouraged about learning that a guy she hoped would be was actually not to be. In all of these conversations, I wanted to say, "Woe is I! Listen to my pathetic lot! I'm eternally dateless! I'm earning less than all of my friends! I drive a Civic that is covered in dust and dents! I'm so selfish lately I can hardly stand to be around myself!" But I didn't.

Instead I listened in amazement at the words of encouragement that came from my mouth. In this dark place I seem to have taken up residence, I somehow saw light. As with many people, I presume, depression a loyal friend to me. But I am glad to know that this friend, very much unwanted, is not making the decisions around here like it once was.

All of which reminded me of something Katherine said over a pint back in Scotland, the gist of which was: "It's not what we dream that matters. It's what we do when we wake up." Very wise words.

And now for a few photos:

Short Story: The Spoon

Dear Internet -

Yes, I know. I owe you pictures from my trip to Scotland and Ireland last month as well as stories of the grand and not-so-grand adventures that have kept me too busy to write to you. For now, a peace offering in the form of a tiny story I wrote for a writing class last year.

***

The spoon belonged to a set of flatware called “True Rose”. Purchased from a JC Penny’s wedding registry, the spoon was tucked inside a velvet pouch before embarking on a life of transit between drawers, bowls and dishwashers. The stem was graceful and strong; embossed scrolls defined its edges. At the tip, a tiny rose.

To bend the handle, a bit of force had to be applied, for the spoon’s stem never intended to be shaped like a tear. Once the stem bowed and weakened at the center, the spoon could wrap itself around a finger. The spoon became more than a vessel for Cheerios and Fruit Loops.

The spoon was passed—from a girl with brown hair dyed shades of gold and honey to a boy called Tom. The shallow palm of the spoon held one tiny rock. A flame danced along the smooth curve of the spoon, and the rock began to bubble and hiss.
First came the smell of marshmallows roasting. Then, like a marshmallow left to rest over a campfire for too long, the caramel aroma burned. By the time the spoon held only liquid, the room filled with the acrid smells of ammonia and sulfur.

Oh sweet alchemy! Several drops of poison transformed despairs into moments of escape. In the darkest of night, time lost all power. A deep, soul-full horn signaled that somewhere, away from here, a train snaked through the thick Pentecostal pines toward the banks of a river.

The spoon sat on the coffee table, its warmth fogging up the glossy cherry finish. The belly of the spoon was now charred, bearing the color of grief.

No Easy Way Down

Last night I returned from a bachelorette weekend on Mammoth Mountain. The bachelorette party included: snowboarding, skiing, a fierce gondola ride up a mountain, Ovaltine with fancy marshmallows, knitting, crocheting, delish food, a whole bunch of laughs. The bachelorette party did not include: cheap liquor served in a plastic cup molded to look like a you-know-what, walks of shame, poles--other than the ones that accompanied the skis, of course.

Today it is raining buckets in Los Angeles, and I love it. I'm using the day to sit on the couch under one of my beloved Avoca blankets and tap away on the computer keyboard.

Here are photos you may enjoy.

Acting like grown-ups in the village of Mammoth.


This was taken from the enclosed gondola. At one point, music played from speakers either outside or in the gondola (my friends and I couldn't figure out which). It was like the mountain had a soundtrack!


After taking a gondola ride to the top of Mammoth Mountain, I enjoyed watching brave souls board and ski their way back down the mountain. I was in a comfortable little building outfitted with these nifty telescopes. The brave souls were in the elements, outfitted only with nifty jackets lined with zippers and micro-fibers.


The mountain. So you're not supposed to point cameras directly into the sun. But I'm still a novice, so I pretend not to know these things. I still like the effect, and I love the brilliant blue sky against the snow.


Obviously I'm not indulging in extreme winter sports as evidenced by my wellies, which are typically worn on a farm or while working in a rain-soaked garden. Nonetheless, they looked super cute on the top of this mountain where only "experts" dare tread. I especially liked the handwritten note on this sign that said, "No Easy Way Down." They must not have heard about the gondola rides.

The S Matters

It's funny how some people automatically assign nicknames to the people they meet. As in, during the first introduction. For me this usually looks like this:

Me: "Hello, it's nice to meet you. I'm Elisabeth."
Them: "Hi, Liz. It's nice to meet you, too."

What tha? Liz? First--the obvious fact that I have an S in my name and not a Z, but no one ever seems to notice that, so we will just move on from that point. Second--who told you that Liz was OK? What if I prefer Beth or Libby or Betty? We just met. Nicknames are terms of endearment and seeing that I just said we've just met, how are you that close to me to assign me a nickname?

And why do I care so much?

Well, I'm not the only one who cares about the spelling of my name or what I am called (nothing profane, please. my mom's reading this). I have several friends with names that are beautifully spelled-out in a way that isn't likely to be found on a plastic keychain at the mall. They, too, have issues with the whole I've-known-you-since-middle-school-so-why-are-you-still-spelling-my-name-wrong thing. They also struggle with the whole I-have-to-spell-out-my-name-every-time-someone-else-writes-out-a-name-tag-on-my-behalf thing.

Why does it matter? Because your name is unlike any characteristic you have. Your name is your identity in a crowd of complete strangers. Your name is like music on a radio station only your ear can tune into. Your name is the very essence of you.

Indulge me in a brief bunny trail, and I'll bring things back to this point. This morning I spoke in front of my church about the community group I am in. The thought of public speaking with a microphone makes my knees tingle even now as I think on the very act. I am not a professional speaker; I am not an actress (though everyone else in this town sure seems to be one); I did not ask to speak in front of two seas of blank faces staring right back at me (and occasionally yawning). But the topic was important to me, so I did it.

My community group was sort of an accident. I'm really not sure why I signed up to be in one. I guess I signed up because I was looking to make more friends at my church, to make more friends who share my faith, and probably to meet a guy who shares my faith. I feel like a complete oddball in this town, and I guess I was looking for a place where I wouldn't feel quite so odd. Whatever the combination of reasons, I am very happy I signed up. The friends I have made in this group have been such a treat. We haven't really met as a group for that long, but we have bonded in a sweet way rather quickly. It's like having a second-cousin in town. They aren't quite at the sibling ranking, but there is a comfortable level of familiarity that prevents me from feeling completely alone out here in this scattered city.

It's a lot of work to create and maintain community. It's a lot of work to show that you care for other people and to be their community. This is something that I am trying to be better at. Mind you, this goal isn't related to a New Year's resolution because I'm not doing those this year. It's more of a life goal, a trait I want to develop and groom for the rest of my life. I forget birthdays, I forget to email, I am selfish and talk about myself first when I meet a friend for coffee. But I try very hard to not misspell a name of a dear friend or in a professional setting. It happens, no doubt, and when it does I sternly remind myself of the correct spelling and vow to try harder next time. When it happens to me I feel an immediate unfamiliarity, as though I am in a relationship where I love him more than he loves me. It's not the end of the world though, so I just get over it.

Back to this morning. A good friend of mine sat next to me before I was to give my little talk the first go-round. She opened her bulletin as I fumbled for gum or a mint or whatever it was I fumbling for. She nudged my arm, pointing the bulletin. And there it was: Elizabeth

I thought: "Well, if I royally mess up I can just blame it on that girl, 'Liz.'"

Tales From the World Wide Web

Dear Internet,
I've neglected you for far too long. I am very sorry. A new post to come shortly. Until, please enjoy these things that have made me laugh or just plain ol' happy.

From the blog My Parents Were Awesome


The amazing book and blog 1,001 Rules For My Unborn Son


The New Moon Sountrack


Particularly these songs:

New Moon [The Meadow] - Alexan...

Possibility - Lykke Li

No Sound But The Wind - Editor...