lady lofts, my girls

Let's be frank here. I'm not one of those people that really feels kindly and cares about others. my bad, i'm working on it, really. i could quite frankly care less about what people do with themselves, it's not like i don't like them or wish them the worst, i just don't think about them. the only people in the world that i care about and you know, L-O-V-E, are my pops, moms, broder, toni, vicky, randy and brandi and soon david AND my mission peeps ( and Keish, and britt, AL, sheri, aunt and uncle and a few others, but not many more). Nothing gets me more riled up than when someone attacks them. Call it territorial, passionate, retarded, loyal, whatever you want... it is what it is. I'm randomning for a reason. Tonight i chilled with some of 'my girls', the 44 to whom i am RA responsible. We were driving back from Roanoke and listening to mostly shakira's waka waka song, when it suddenly dawned on me. I stinkin care about these girls like a lot. Put them on the list, 1.fam, 2.mish fam, and now, my girls, 3. It's the weirdest thing, i really don't get it. As soon as you "serve" someone the love and loyalty that you have for them just shoots through the roof. It is in moments like these that I feel like I could maybe just a tad, a very weebit, possible, just perhaps be able to understand and almost describe the phenomenon of christ-like love. You want only the best for those people and are willing to forgive shortcomings but yet you hold them up to a higher standard, you LOVE them. and so that's all i wanted to throw out there, feel free to catch this other bit of jabber.

On Your Porch

blah, blah

What happens when you attempt writing and keeping a record of things and then you don't for a while? A lot, but mostly its confusion on my part, since there is a ton to say that hasn't been said and it all just boils together and keeps getting fuller and fuller. it's kind of like a jewelry box. The first one my parents gave me was when i was like 10, it was small and heart shaped with seashells glued onto the outside. I think they picked it up in mexico or jamaica. Anywho, i started filling it with a ton of knickknacks until the day that i went to cram yet another pair of who knows what and found that it didn't fit. the earrings, necklaces and bracelets had all jungled up into a great big yarn looking ball. to be honest i don't think that i ever untangled it, i just started putting my "treasures" in something else and left that alone in the back of the cupboard. Writing for me is like pulling that jewelry box out from its forgotten oasis, opening it and trying to untangle the web of randomness with no clue as to where to start and make sense of it all.

hmm as i'm writing, or in this case vomiting words, i'm starting to feel a lot better. I've noticed that lately. I walk around a lot having conversations with myself about nothing really and never really consciously recognizing that im talking to myself until recently. now ill be sitting there in the middle of one when suddenly, I think, " ooo, that would be a really good thing to write about..." the sucky part continues, however, when later that night, mostly week, I sit down and go to write and find myself drawing blank after blank having completely forgotten my 'brilliant' ideas.[ side comment, so I'm sitting on the porch of my school at the moment typing this up, not by preference but from obligation, I'm an RA here, they needed people to man the check-in desk and I'm the only one without a life. So anyway, this little old couple drove up to Main got out started taking pictures- with me in them mind you- and as it turns out when they finally made it up to me, the little old lady is a former alumni from 1957! pretty cool ey!]

my self consciousness in writing is only heightened by my university experience. I finally made it back to school this last May after a two year absence- given i was working for the Lord, but still-. In what i thought to be a smart move I traded my Middle Eastern politics class, because it required me to read an average of 80 size 5 font pages every night during the month long course [ another side note, I'm going to Montreal in about 2 days and just got a text from Phil informing me that we're going to the movies on tuesday! oh, i can't wait, I'm going to try to post my to-do wish list for montreal before i actually head out.] for an ARH course titled Saints Signs and Symbols with promises of an easy A and interesting never going to use random info about paintings. I totally sound like a slacker but on my defense, it was my first 'semester' back at school and i was also registered for Interm. Logic with Jones which had been making me sweat since i had gotten in the car in provo with s.coffin to drive across the country. I needed to finish the term strong in order to pump myself up for the rest of the school year. Anywho, so as is with most stories that are told, I came in to a rude awakening when on my syllabus I saw a paper assignment due the last week of the term. The course professor also turned out to be the Dr. Madison Sowell- only the foremost expert on dante and random stuff-. As the events continued their progression, my paper was graded as being of mediocre calibre with a really nice 80%, it was more of a 79, but he gave me the extra 1 point for effort. Needless to say, I didn't get an A in the class, or maybe i did, it was an A disguised as a B+, again the + for effort. This whole random story for my point, on the back of my sheet, his comment was, " blah,blah... a manual in style and writing". with a " read it. Kind regards, M. Sowell".

Yup, I'm a loser.

and because of that, I posted one of my favorite songs underneath this post. ( again a fallacy of sorts because there is no real valid connection for the post story and the song, seeing as how the song is more related to my feelings about AZ).

open eyes, testimony

There is one thing above many that I will forever thank the Lord for giving me and that is the experience of having served as a missionary of his church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. The time of my life that was spent wearing a badge as a rep. of our Saviour is special for many reasons. I suppose that the biggest one however is the change that i saw take place in my view of the world. THe only way to describe the change I experienced is to somehow relate it to driving down a dark road late at night. I've driven through places during the late of night that don't really seem like much until on the journey back in the light of day, they are the most beautiful places I've ever seen- kind of like my drives from provo to phoenix. That's what my mission was like for me, seeing things as they really are as the Lord really sees them. I am soo grateful for that. I am grateful to know the purpose of life. I know that there was a man called of God and that he made it possible for me to have an opportunity of coming, really coming to know God, his name was Joseph Smith. I am grateful to know this. To have taken a drive where the sun would rise allowing me to see things as they really are.