Day 2 - 10/27/12

Yunnie, April, Katie, Melanie

the view

scooters

a short break

roommates

A crisp Fall day.  

We, as four roommates, drove up Provo Canyon. 

Then we scootered or long-boarded down the bike path.

It was a beautiful day and we had so much fun.

Many bikers passed us on our journey.  As did a few rollerbladers. Eventually a gang of long-boarders caught up to us.

"Yeah! Go scooters! Keep up the good work!" They sped past Katie and I as they shouted these sentiments.  I just smiled to myself.  We must seem silly on these scooters while they roar past us with the much faster longboards beneath their feet.  

But my journey was enjoyable.  And I had a brake.  

I watched them course down the steepening hill and wondered how they would slow down or stop; I wondered if they would want to.  Would they keep going, flying over cracks and holes in the pavement, accelerating to great speeds as they wove in and out of the traffic lanes?  Do they fear what will come at the end of the path?  No.  I don't think they do.  They look happy, not reckless.  They look excited, not arrogant.  They are enjoying the day, just as I am.  They feel the sharp wind whipping their faces and laugh with exhilaration.  They do not fear.  They just are.  They are simply living.

My creaky scooter beneath me, I shoved off the asphalt with my left foot, faster and faster until I was gliding swiftly down the path.  I crouched slightly, which accelerated my speed.  The cold made my nose numb and my cheeks burn.  I smiled.  

This is what it is to live, to find the sunshine on a cloudy day.

<3 Mel

Day 1 - 10/26/12

A quick peek into my life as a Junior at BYU. . .

Yunnie and Katie and I were getting ready for a Halloween party.  

Yunnie was doing Katie's hair to look like it was from the 1940s.  

The Avengers played in the background while we were putting outfits and hairdos together.  

This is us.

From the outside, this is how we might be seen:  Three girls (sometimes accompanied by the fourth roommate, April) who don sweatpants and curl up on the couch to watch action movies or chick flicks or dramatic tragedies, and swoon over the many attractive men of Hollywood—the ones we all say we wish we could have, but do not actually desire.  Would someone watching us understand the sarcastic comments tossed about through the air?  Would they laugh with us as we quote any film or video clip that happens to come to our minds?  Would someone feel comfortable in our presence, or left out of a particularly entertaining joke?

Within our group, the three of us, there is an understanding that we can say whatever comes to the forefront of our overcrowded minds and the others will play along.  If I said "Dost thy mother know thou wearest her drapes?" then Katie would respond with "Phil? His first name is Agent." And we would laugh.  Hysterically. And we would continue to quote The Avengers until we moved on in conversation or couldn't think of more one-liners.  Or until a line reminded us of a quote from another movie or TV show.

And so it goes.

This is college, year 3, with my best friends.        

<3 Mel

Humor in Hindsight

I was told once that the most traumatic and terrible events in our lives are often, in hindsight, the most hilarious. . .

I was young.  I was in eighth grade, a shy little 12 year old, and I took Dance P.E.  You may be thinking to yourself, I bet she just took Dance P.E. to get out of regular P.E.  And you would be absolutely 100% correct.  Yay for you!  Regular P.E. involved running and dodgeball and boys.  Ick, to all of the above.  So I took Dance P.E. and so did all my best girl friends.  It was awesome.

We were split into groups of eight or so girls and had to make up a dance, which we would perform at the end of the semester in front of the whole school (actually just the other P.E. classes during that period. . . but it felt like the whole school) during a very special Dance Performance Assembly.

So naturally I gathered with my friends and we devised the coolest, most wonderful hiphop/jazz/freestyle dance known to man.  And we practiced like crazy.  We held practices at our homes, outside of school.  We were dedicated.  We would look sooo good in front of those other P.E. classes.

When the day of performance came, we brought our matching outfits to school and changed in the locker rooms.  We emerged with stunning swag and confidence.  Oh yeah.  We were awesome.

We waited backstage behind the enormous curtain until it was our turn.  With the curtain closed in front of us, we took our places and struck poses, trying not to giggle.

The curtain opened and the music started simultaneously.  And we danced our hearts out! Our formations were spectacular, our choreography phenomenal.  We were stars.

Then came the cannon section.  We were supposed to do a particular move, starting with those on the left and finishing with those on the right. The first girl on the left, who was meant to start the cannon sequence, suddenly froze.  Her eyes grew wider and wider and her mouth hung open.

And she took off.  Took off! She ran off stage!  Apparently she couldn't remember the choreography.

Interestingly, the unintended "running of the stage" move did in fact set off a cannon sequence.  She ran off, and was shortly joined by two other girls.  Then another three simply stood straight and walked off (they didn't need to run, after all).

So there I am, with Karly — the only two girls left.  We're still dancing, somewhat lamely as we use our peripherals to follow the girls as they saunter away.  We're nearing the end of our dance and I don't really know what to do, so I look over to make eye contact with Karly.  She is still dancing, doing the step-kick step-kick with her legs, but with her right arm she is waving frantically toward the curtain-puller person who is hidden in shadow just offstage.  She's mouthing "close it! close it!" but nothing happens.

At this point I was burning red and I couldn't seem to remember where my feet were, so I simply crouched down and hugged my knees. (Not sure why this was my instinctual reaction.) I looked up and saw Karly had given up and was walking off stage.

I panicked.  I was alone on a stage in front of thousands (maybe, like, 60?) of judgmental, snotty middle schoolers, and I panicked.

I was still crouched down, so I jumped into the air and screamed "TA DAA!" and then RAN.  I booked it so fast off that stage that I crashed into all the girls from my group who were watching from the shadowed sidelines.

I didn't chance a look, but I bet the audience looked a lot like this:

. . .minus the fancy getup.

Hindsight, in hindsight, didn't take very long with this experience.  We found it pretty hilarious as soon as we got out the immediate "Why did you run off stage?? Oh my gosh that was so horrible, I'm going to die!" feeling.  Then we all went out to the field and collapsed in the grass, laughing so hard we couldn't talk anymore.  Lying there, in the grass, tears of laughter squeezing out the corners of my eyes, I found a four-leaf clover.

Then we got in trouble for leaving without telling our teacher.

<3 Mel

Inspiration Schminspiration

Cleverness and talent astound me.  Astound me! It isn't fair that people in this world have these abilities and I am utterly incapable.

Heather Dixon is my new envy of the week.  This happens every time we're asked to "be familiar with" a guest speaker's work the night before they come for a visit to our Engl 220 class. It's not right, I tell you.

Inspiration? Is that what these people are supposed to be?  Because they surely are.  In a big way.  But the inspiration and spinning wheels of ideas last only as long as it takes me to write one sentence, or snap one photo, or attempt one illustration.  Then the spark is gone.  These people are too good.  Ugh.

At the same time, though, I feel this need to discover my own passion, my own talent that I can be good at.  Not better than other people (there will always be someone better, I've learned).  But good in my own way, because it comes from me.

And then I lose it again.  What can I think up that hasn't already been put out there?  What can I invent?

This ramble, believe it or not, connects with my personal history project (due in December. . . yikes!) and how I have been struggling to think of something that will not only fulfill the assignment requirements but will  allow me to enjoy myself!  It's tough, I'm telling you.

So as I was nearly screeching with laughter or ooohing and aaahing through every single one of Heather Nixon's blog posts, I started devising ideas.  How 'bout I draw (using stick figures, of course. . . duh) something that happened to me each day! Yup, that idea went away fast.  Even drawing stick figures is daunting to me.  (How in the world do you make them use their hands? They don't have any hands!)

So then I thought: All righty, Melanie.  What are your passions? What do you love?
I came up with 'movies'.  Yup, movies.  And it's true — I love to watch movies so very much.  I love clever, well-written scripts and how they toy with one's emotions.  I love watching stories unfold and distinguishing the particular choices of the writer/director/producer/cinematographer. I also love the history behind the emergence of filmmaking and how movies pertain to their time periods. (Oh lookey here, I'm getting all passionate and worked up!)

Lightbulb (*blink blink*) went off in my head.  What if I write my personal history as a series of movies that I have seen?  I start with the first movie I can remember and put (as best I can) the movies I've seen, in order, as I've grown up.  And of course I will talk about them, how I perceived them at the time, how I perceive them now, what was going on in my life at the time that I watched that movie, etc. etc.

Would that work??

Ahh I'm so excited! I want to get started and see if it will pan out.  What do you think?  Would you read that? (And I'd put in pictures and video clips and such. . . this is so exciting!)

I could call it "Mel's Drive In", after this deliciously awesome place in Hollywood.
Do you get it? Drive-in movies? Mel? That's me. :)

Well.  So it goes.

Have I found the sunshine?

<3 Mel      

Dean

The dark leather absorbs the sun's warmth and turns it into a searing heat that sticks to my skin and burns.  After the first few painful moments, however, my body adjusts to the new temperature and even welcomes the warmth that seeps inside it.

The paint is not a garish or particularly striking color.  It does not exude confidence and power as would vibrant red or sleek black.  It is a fairly neutral light blue, not quite baby blue but more of a cresting wave blue, with that slight sheen of green.  It exactly matches me —not wanting to stand out but desiring a quiet uniqueness.

The new, smooth black leather replaced a synthetic aquamarine interior that was stained by tobacco smoke and years of dirt tracked in by many pairs of feet and grubby hands.  I spent an afternoon with The Beatles, scrubbing the sides and ceiling free of stains and grime, spraying Febreeze generously as I sang Hey Jude with Paul.  It was satisfying work, with a visible reward.  And then all the freshly scrubbed aquamarine was torn out.  But it smelled nice.

My favorite feature, next to the power of a V8 beneath my accelerator, is the slide of the thin, leather-wrapped wheel across my palms.  The wheel is enormous, nearly touching my knees as I sit comfortably in my seat—the driver's seat.  I steer with my left hand, while my right rests in my lap.  This is my place, my personal mobile haven.  My car takes me where I want to go, away from stress for a moment, away from a troubled mind.

This is my 1966 Ford Mustang.  His name is Dean.

<3 Mel

Pieces

My summer was spent with children of all ages and hundreds of photographs.

During the day, I would babysit for whatever family needed me (I was the ward babysitter) and/or I would nanny for baby Penny.  Penny is the sweetest, most beautiful baby.  I loved every minute I spent with her.

Penny <3

I would come home from "work" and go straight to the Play Room upstairs, where my project was under way.

I collected all the photographs my family had from 1999 (the year we moved into our home) to the present.  I took them out of bags, boxes, and an enormous cedar chest in the corner of my mom's bedroom.  I spread them out on the carpeted floor and began making piles chronologically.

It was often difficult to discern the month and year of the picture, so I had to become a detective.  I would scrutinize the length of hair, the height, the number of missing teeth in order to place them in the proper order.  When I finished a year I would go buy a photo album, create a label, and put the album together.  Some years required two albums to fit the great number of pictures.

It was a very lengthy, very time-consuming task. And I loved it.  Truly.

I love projects like these.  I loved putting things together and creating a valuable, treasured product.  I love organizing what was chaos for so long.  I love reliving my history and that of my family.  I love watching progression in the still moments captured by film.

What I loved the most was that I could look at those pictures and remember not just striking that pose, but also what was happening at the time, out of reach of the camera's lens.  I remember why we took that photo, why we were wearing those outfits, where we were and why it was worthy of remembering.

This is what I love.  Pieces of history, captured forever, organizing them so they can be more easily enjoyed.

I only wish I had waited to complete this project this semester, so it would count for my Personal History project. :)

<3 Mel

"Non"fiction

Io stavo scrivendo in italiano per tutto il giorno ed ora non riesco a smettere.  Ma è un po divertente, no?

Anyway.  I thought it was fascinating to read in Tell it Slant about how memoir is so similar to photography.  A photographer frames a particular shot to purposefully tell a story.  Leaving out other aspects of the scene or widening the frame to allow more detail to be captured are all part of telling stories and giving the audience a particular piece of life's art.

I love photography.  I took two photography classes in high school and as soon as I graduated I used my saved up money (and a birthday gift) to purchase my own Nikon D3000.

It is beautiful.  It is my baby.  I am in love with it.  Sadly, this past year I have not used it as often as I would like.  You know, school and work and stuff.  They get in the way of hobbies.

To say I was inspired by the visit from Jed Wells today would be an understatement of the greatest fashion.  I want to take pictures all day every day for ever and ever now.  I want pictures to tell my life story, to tell my future story, the future story of my future family.  I want photographs to be a large part of my life.  I want them to display my personal history, as it continues day to day.

Back to memoir.  Another aspect of chapter 12 of TIS that was profound to me was the explanation of how to handle "partial truths" or the like.  For me this has been difficult to understand as I've been writing essays for this class.  In creative nonfiction, how much creativity can play a part?

I love using creativity, and I love doing my best to fill in what cannot be remembered word for word.  But I've always felt this is wrong in some way.  But in the end I believe that memory itself is creative nonfiction.  Memory is altered immediately by outside influences, and even inward feelings or thoughts.  Memory is so malleable that every story must have some fiction.  Imagination's potency has a power over reality.

This is why I love to write! There is no right answer.

Find the sunshine.  It's out there.

<3 Mel