conscious dreaming

This morning, I woke up early. I read a bit and then I fell back to sleep. And then this happened:

I watched an episode of I Love Lucy , but it was in color. And Ricky was wearing a pink suit. And he was doing the laundry. And Fred Mertz wasn't Fred Mertz, but George Costanza.

And then I decided to make my bed. But when I pulled back the covers there was a pile of squirming black creatures that sort of looked like earthworms and sort of looked like centipedes. And I tried to vacuum them up, but they moved really fast and crawled under my floor boards and into the walls.

And then I was listening to RadioWest and the lights went out. And none of the lights in the house would turn on, but the radio was still playing. And it was dark outside. And then I realized I had forgotten to lock my door. And suddenly someone was trying to get in, I could hear him breathing outside, and I was trying to hold the door closed.

And then I woke up. And I started thinking about dreams, how convincing they can be, and how waking up after a bad dream is the most exhausing thing in the world. It's a curious thing how convincing they can be when they are so improbable. Why, when I am dreaming, can my rational brain not recognize that:

1. If the lights won't turn on, the radio won't be playing.
2. George Costanza is not Fred Mertz
3. Ricky Ricardo does not wear pink suits
4. Ricky Ricardo does not do the laundry
5. I do not make my bed

If I could realize these things, I would not have to wake up exhausted thinking that someone was trying to get into my house or that I Love Lucy had been remastered in color. Someone told me recently how he had taught himself how to dream consciously and how he had knocked out someone in a dream who was trying to harm him. I wish I could learn to do this.

I don't have to know stuff. I've just got to legislate

Today, the news from our favorite state legislature was that a bill for massive new water projects moved successfully out of committee. The proposed water projects will end up costing $1 billion (conveniently, $1 billion is also the amount of the budget surplus). In the report on the bill's progress, various folks questioned the wisdom of moving forward on such expensive (and environmentally damaging) projects without focusing first on conservation. (Why should we get rid of our lawns if we can build a billion dollar damn?)One legislator (can't remember his name and can't get the story to replay on my computer) said that we should pursue these water projects or "stop drinking water." Jackie Bikupski asked whether the state has ever spent so much on a water project. And Mr. Legislator said, "I don't know. I don't know the history of water in this state." Oh yes, this is what we are blessed with. How can you possibly make a decision about water in the state if you don't know the history of water in the state? Especially when you live in a state that has such a complicated and contested history of water rights and usage.

as if you didn't already know, let me tell you: people are strange

Today, I rode the bus to and from Orem to spend time with my family (who complain that I don't visit them enough). I'm not sure why I rode the bus. Partly because the prescription on my lenses desperately needs to be adjusted and my already bad night vision has become horrific and me on the freeway at night with the very bad vision is not the best idea. Partly because I drive too much and occasionally the guilt gets to me. Anyway, I rode the bus. And riding the bus always provides insight into how odd people can be. Tonight's example: A guy had some sort of pink liquid (it looked like lemonade) in a plastic bottle. He shook the bottle vigorously as one might to mix up the pulp in juice. Then, he looked at the bottom of the bottle. Apparently he wasn't successful in mixing up whatever he intended to, because he started shaking the bottle again. Still no luck. He did this over and over--literally for 1/2 hour. It was baffling.

sometimes it's hard to be a woman

Disclaimer: Before I begin this post, I want to assert that while I have watched a couple of seasons of the Bachelor, I do not watch the show on a regular basis (this is for lynn, who thinks I'm addicted to all of the tv shows. While I don't watch the Bachelor regularly, I do very much like to watch the very end of the first episode because there is always one unstable woman who freaks out about being rejected by this man who she's only spoken to for 10 minutes. This week, there was a doozy. This season's spectacle was horrifyingly delicious in the way that only really bad reality tv can be. Apparently, in her brief conversation with the Bachelor (full of cliched desirability, this one--a doctor, and blond!) the crazy woman declared that she was in her reproductive stage. As you can imagine, this was a bit startling to the handsome doctor (the woman is a doctor, as well). When this woman was rejected, she started yelling at all the rejected bachelorettes: "What's wrong with men?! Why are all men such shitheads!" And then she yelled at the Bachelor: "What's wrong with me? Am I too short? Are my breasts too small? Why are you on this show if you don't want to reproduce?" Then she yelled at a member of the filming crew; "Do you know what's wrong with him? What's his problem? I guess I shouldn't have talked about reproducing." And then she started sobbing about how she tries to help people and how she gets nothing in return. And about how she's tried every kind of dating (online, dating service, and now this!) and nothing has worked. Oh, the poor woman.

Woman over a certain age have this reputation--that they only care about making babies, that they are only looking for men to be partners in reproduction. This woman was the stereotype taken to the extreme. Watching her, I thought how crazy she is, how she might want to relax--just a little.

Then, I read a blog posting by a food blogger who is also a gynecologist. She was taking a break from food blogging to write about her practice and women's reproductive health (a strange departure, and she actually took the post down later in the week); anyway, in the post, she had a chart that showed how women's reproductive ability plummets dramatically at a certain age. There is, in fact, a "reproductive stage" for women and if you miss it, you miss it. Men, on the other hand, don't face such limitations.

I've always been rather ambivalent about having kids, so it's hard for me to understand the urgency that some women feel. It's hard for me to understand how a woman can declare without any introduction that she is ready to reproduce and then curse her fate when a man doesn't immediately respond. But maybe I don't understand because I haven't yet reached the edge of that plummet into infertility.

This biological reality puts women in a tough position, I think. You're not supposed to care, you're not supposed to advertise your desire for children, you're not supposed to pursue relationships primarily to reproduce. And yet one's body can assert some pretty persuasive imperatives. And we are, after all, just animals.

euphemisms for death

This morning, the local news guy on KUER mentioned Ariel Sharon's stroke and his critical condition. He mentioned that the Israeli government was making various plans to respond to the crisis in that "Sharon won't be returning to politics." What a strange euphemism for what's actually going on--a critical illness, a hovering death. And my sister the other day referred to a really tragic death that dramatically affected her family as an "unforseen circumstance." I hate these euphemisms for death. I know why we do it--to protect ourselves from the realities of death, to not temp the fates, etc. But I think we should talk about death, look at the thing, call it by name. I'm curious--what euphemisms for death have you heard/ used?

On the topic of death, I have to say how dismayed I am to find out that Six Feet Under has five seasons, not four. I only recently started watching the show and I have a serious addiction. I won't tell you how quickly and dedicatedly I've watched each season--far too embarrassing. I recently finished season three and I felt a sense of relief that at least I only have one more season. And then the addiction can wrap up and I can move on. But no, there are five. Which means that once I finish season four, I have to wait anxiously for season five, which isn't yet on DVD, all caught up in wondering what happens to this fictional family in their fictional funeral parlor.

christmas tree deaths

I was out running today and the air smelled strongly of pine. At first, I thought it was just because of the recent warm weather waking up the sap or something. But then I realized it was abandoned Christmas trees, tossed out into the gutter. It seemed like every other house on my route had a tree outside. It's such a strange ritual, this chopping down of trees for a temporary decorative purpose. And I can't say that I don't understand the appeal. Growing up, I was mildly outraged when my parents stopped buying a natural tree and opted for the synthetic and reusable. The first year I lived in Illinois, I made my then-boyfriend help me tote a tree home and help me string cranberries and make ornaments out of cinnamon and applesauce. Something about the smell of pine in my living room made me feel less homesick, calmer. The abandoned trees reminded me of Hans Christian Anderson's sentimental tale of the little fir tree that desperately wants to leave the forest to become the mast on a sailing ship or, better yet, a Christmas tree. But it all turns out very sad, the once happy tree abandoned in an attic and then burned up in a big fire--all the while regretting how he didn't appreciate his life in the woods. The story is maudlin and asserts an obvious moral, but it always kills me. Maybe it's because when I was in kindergarten, they showed us a film version of the story. And I can still see the image of the fir tree being thrown haphazardly on the ground, the flames wrapping around its branches.

why I can't finish a book

I've had the same list of books on my blog for months. You might think that I've just been too busy to update the list, but no. I'm still reading all of those books. Except for the Kimmelman one. That I finished. In addition to the books still on the list, I have also started reading the following:

Jane Smiley's 13 Ways of Looking at the Novel
The Best American Essays 2005
The Best American Travel Writing 2005
The Best Food Writing 2005
Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking (although that was only a brief encounter before giving the book to a friend as a Christmas gift, so it probably doesn't count)

And I did begin and actually finish two books:
Nicole Krauss' A History of Love
The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, which I read because of recent hype and because I absolutely hated the book when I was a kid, even though I couldn't remember why. I wanted to see if I'd still hate it, which I did--but not as much as I remember. Now it seems trite and heavy-handed but I'm not sure that was my reasoning as an 8-yr-old.

I seem to have a problem lately. I buy books and I start reading them, but I never seem to finish them before I get distracted by another. The stack by the side of my bed is perpetually growing. I'm not sure what accounts for this. I could say that I'm busy, but in all the time I've spent reading each of the books, I probably could have finished at least one of them. You could say that I'm just disinterested in the books I'm choosing to read, but I do like them all--perhaps too much. Maybe I'm just indecisive, unable to commit to any one narrative or collection of ideas. I keep telling myself that I can't buy a new book until I've read five that I already have, but it never works, so the stack keeps growing. And then there are the books I check out from the library. Ugh.

my mother, the feminist

My parents stopped by to visit me on Saturday on their way to the airport to visit my brother and the new grandbaby. Even though my parents sometimes complain about how little they see me, they never stop by my house unless they are on their way somewhere else. But that works out ok for me. They brought me dinner (because they felt bad that I'd lost my voice again), and my dad drank all of my juice--which as supposed to be helping my voice. But I suppose it's ok since I probably drank all of their juice at some point in my life.

At one point in the evening, I was chatting with my mom about her book group, trying to give her some suggestions for her upcoming choice. Currently, they are reading The Good Earth, and I asked her how that was going. "I almost threw it away after the first chapter, it made me so mad," she declared. And she sounded genuinely angry. Her anger came from the way women were addressed and perceived, how the protagonist (or the protagonist's father? I can't remember) wanted a wife so that he wouldn't have to do housework anymore, that he would have someone to work for him. Growing up, my parents always seemed a bit dismayed at my feminist views on the world. I always knew the views came from my mother, but she would never admit it. So I am delighted that it's finally out, that's she declared her outrage publicly. There's no hiding it now, no pretending that I'm some weirdo with no apparent connection to their worldview.

the cut-up

Thanks for participating, folks. Here is the result (in the order they arrived, no alterations):


Instead, I sat in the car and read a map and spelled out entire sentences with my tongue on the roof of my mouth, where nobody could read them. Your minds and memories'll be totally absorbed. He grasped my hand weakly, and as I thanked him for the interview he blurted out "love you!"’ DON'T WASH OFTEN ALWAYS WASH INSIDE OUT NEVER WASH IN HOT WATER "How often do the robots stop by to visit and reconnoiter and update?" she wanted to ease the boredom a little But in lambasting the evil hegemony of the discursive practices of the powerful, I am, at times, keenly aware of my own power in this constructed space of the classroom. He tried to lay hands on my broken bone, whispering, “Jesus. Jesus heal this man.”


The players/sources:
line one: lisa b., from Badlands
line two: lisa b., from Invasion of the Body Snatchers
line three: clint
line four: sleepy-e, from GAP
line five: sleepy-e
line six: dr. write
line seven: ron
line eight: middlebrow


If you want to play again, additional entries are being accepted.

why didn't they consult me

This morning I was walking up my street to the Smith's, trying to like winter. It's that point in the year where I have to accept things as they are and realize that no matter how much I hate winter, it's around for at least three more months. Every year when the first heavy snow falls, I have to try to make myself happy--or at least marginally content. But as I was walking, it was clear that the people who live on my street were not trying to help my mood. First, there was the house that just went through a massive remodel. It used to be a simple house with an amazing garden. The house's gardens spilled onto the sidewalk, vines and flowers spreading everywhere. A lush canopy of trees hung overhead. In summer, walking past the house was always the coolest spot--for a few seconds, summer seemed irrelevant. Even in winter, the garden was beautiful, all of the plants transforming themselves, lovely under a dusting of snow. Now the garden is gone. The trees are still there, but there is no undergrowth, no over-abundance of growing things. If it were the same owner in the house, I would be hopeful that the garden would return. But I'm fairly sure it's new people altogether who appreciate a well-trimmed lawn (oh, and they built a fence accessed by a keycode). And then there was the distressed brick house. The brick on the house has always looked uncertain--red brick with old spatterings of pink paint, not quite scrubbed away by sandblasting. But it was wonderful, especially in the summer when the garden was full of poppies. Now, they are painting the house--brown. And not a rich, warm brown. No, it's a pale and mealy brown. Awful, really awful. I want to knock on the door and make sure they realize how awful the paint is, beg them not to continue.

a game of cut-ups: your participation requested

At semester's end, I need a little distraction, a little play. So, I suggest a writing game: cut-ups, where a piece of writing is created from randomly selected sentences and phrases. Your task: email me (mhelquist at gmail.com) a line of text (something you've created or something you've borrowed) and I will assemble the lines in the order they arrive. Once I have a chunk of lines, I will post the results here. You can send more than one line, but please send them in separate emails so as not to disrupt the randomness of the project. If you send lines from published texts, provide some sort of citation so we know the genesis of the final product.

yet again, it depends on what "is" is

So, I'm sitting here listening to Lynne Cheney on the Diane Rehm Show--why, why do I do these things to myself. But she's stating that Pres. Bush and VP Cheney never said there was a connection between Saddam Hussein and 9/11--there is no connection, she says. Any American who thinks that there was a connection is wrong, she says. I could go on with my horrified response to this, but you already know what I'm going to say. Who the hell are these people and who do they think they are kidding?

the week in review

Holiday weekends are a pleasure, the way everything relaxes and slows. Thanksgiving is especially lovely because there isn't much to do but cook and eat and chat (all among my favorite activities). And even though tv and movies cast Thanksgiving as sort of a frightening thing, requiring alcohol to get through all of the family time, I quite like my family (although I will admit I was quite ready to get away from them this morning). I let my 5-yr-old niece be in charge of the family photos and she did a surprisingly good job. I especially like this one of my mom looking a bit witchy (she is a much lovelier woman than this suggests):



She also took some charming pictures of the holiday decor:



I also got in some good desert hiking (only one day instead of two because of the impending snowstorm). The canyons we traversed were challenging (ever so slightly beyond our abilities), so they provided good adventure. My arms are bit achy today because of climbing and chimneying and I think I need to get in better shape. It was good to get away. There's this feeling I get when I arrive at the desert (actually it always arrives when I'm driving through Wellington, when I know the desert is just around the corner), this blissful moment, where I instantly feel completely content and calm. I love that. Here are a few shots of the canyon:






The big disappointment of the week was not getting to meet the Rolling Stones. There's this art gallery by work that was showing some of Ronnie Wood's paintings (which, by the way, were all of the Stones, and the gallery could only play their music during the exhibit--if I were part of a larger-than-life rock band, I think I would want to escape it occasionally). Anyway, Mr. Gallery Owner taunted us with the info. that the Stones themselves would be stopping by on the day of their concert for a private party/ art viewing. The date of the show coincided with my 32nd birthday, so I decided I was destined to meet Mick Jagger. I don't even particularly like the Stones (I mean I like them when I hear them, but I don't own any of their albums), but I know celebrity when I see it, and if Mick Jagger is going to be next door on your birthday, it seems like you should get to meet him (or at least catch a glimpse of him). But no. Even though there were photographers hovering outside the gallery (ok, maybe only one) and the place was busier than usual, the Stones never arrived.

weekend lost to cold

Things I didn't do this weekend because of a nasty cold:

*attend my friend's art opening
*watch the latest movie attempt of Pride and Prejudice
*hear Doug Peacock read from his new memoir
*catch up on housecleaning and laundry


Things I did do:
*slept until noon
*watched 4 episodes of Six Feet Under
*read the latest Atlantic
*planned Thanksgiving pie baking
*used up a box and a half of Kleenex
*cut off part of a fingernail with my new chef's knife

the real measure of a teacher

This week, Slate has been running a series of articles about higher education, all worth checking out. One of today's articles was about RateMyProfessor, the oh so informative site for teacher evaluations. I'm very upset that I'm not listed on the site at all. Am I so banal, so easily dismissed that no one wants to dedicate a few minutes to rating me? The article asserts that the folks who get rated are typically those who are either excessively loved or hated. That would mean that I am right in the middle, which sounds just about right. I am a middle sort of person. I'm a tall girl, but not excessively tall (not tall enough, for instance, to join the Tall Club of Salt Lake). I am a good runner, but not a fast runner (in nearly every race I've run, I rate almost exactly in the middle). So, I am used to being average and unremarkable, but still it's an insult to not be on RateMyProfessor. And where's my chili pepper? (the site's marker of "hotness") Really, who cares about the teaching? When I was at Knox, I was hot. I was hip. Freshman boys tried to pick up on me before they knew who I was. The college's alternative magazine published an interview all about me. They asked me to be their advisor. And now? Not one rating. Where have I gone wrong?

where the hell did I come from?

When I tell people that I grew up in Orem, I often joke that it feels like a confession. I just watched This Divided State, the documentary about the UVSC Michael Moore/ Sean Hannity controversy I'm thinking that I should stop telling people I grew up in Orem altogether. I followed some of the controversy, but I didn't fully realize how vitriolic the discourse became. Watching it all was so embarrassing to me. Nearly everyone portrayed in the film is pathetic in their vigorous anger towards the other side. The only key figure in the film who came across without any cause for reproach was the student govt. VP at UVSC (which is funny because I worked with his mom for a while at UVSC and I had very little respect for her). I would have to say, though, that the filmmaker made far more effort to make the conservatives look like asses than he did the liberals (many of whom, including Moore, were just as assinine as Hannity or any of the grumpy neocons).

I imagine that many liberals (from inside and outside the state) will watch this movie and stare open-jawed at the wacky conservatives--as represented by Kay Anderson, an Orem reactionary who cast everything in terms of good vs. evil. No doubt Anderson and his ilk in the film appear idiotic and at times dangerous as they conflate religious belief with political ideology. And I am often critical of Utah Valley and its excessively conservative bent. There's a reason I left the place and a reason that I don't go back except for family obligations. But to cast the entire county as backwards and narrow-minded is absurd. That's perhaps what made me angriest as I watched the film--watching Anderson assert his position as representative of "the community." I imagine that people watching the film who don't know Utah Valley or readily accept its reputation will believe that Anderson does in fact represent the voice of the community. But I grew up in that community; in fact, I lived all of my formative years there--from 4-24 (except for a brief stint as a Mormon missionary in London). I got my bachelor's degree at BYU. I have been immersed in that conservative haven for most of my life and I'm liberal, a registered Democratic, and no longer Mormon. I came from somewhere, so certainly in that conservative town there is room for dissent and independence. And certainly there is (or should be) room for us to discuss our differences.

The movie illustrated so well our dismissal of civil discourse. How embarrassing that both the Hannity and Moore crowds shouted down anyone who dared to speak from the other side (and how embarrassing that both Hannity and Moore encouraged this behavior). Who have we become (in Orem or in the nation) that we are so unwilling to talk to each other, to listen to the opposite view without feeling threatened? How pathetic our own beliefs and opinions must be if we believe that one person speaking can negate them.

ok--just me ranting.

if only it could all be like Candyland

When my sister M was a kid, she made up this board game called Getting Jabbed. It was sort of like chutes and ladders, in that it had a variety of encounters that led you either up or down the game board. However, you could never really make any progress in this game. The end result of the game was always death. Your first roll of the dice might lead you to a man wielding a knife (a bloody knife, mind you). This, of course, would send you to a lower level of the gameboard where you might fall into a boiling cauldron. This would mean that your game was over. You might also fall down to a blank square, but this would only mean that you were delaying your eventual end. Anytime you made some progress upwards, there would be another menacing figure with a knife or a hatchet or some other sharp object. We were laughing about the game today and I was thinking how my day (and recent days) felt just like this (not necessarily the boiling cauldrons and the knives).

By the way, M, despite her childhood morbidness grew up to be an extremely well-adjusted adult.

go see this movie!

Last night I finally saw New York Doll, the documentary about Arthur "Killer" Kane that I've been waiting to see since January, when I couldn't get tickets to any of the Sundance screenings. It's possible that a movie you've been waiting 10 months to see might ultimately prove disappointing, but this one did not. It was glorious.

The story itself is unbelievably charming and ironic (in the film Clem Burke from Blondie says how improbable it was for a New York Doll to become Mormon, like Donny Osmond becoming a New York Doll). I love the paradox of it and what a perfect narrative it creates--absolute symmetry. And there are more improbabilities, a story so perfectly constructed that you can't believe it's true. And Greg Whiteley does an amazing job highlighting the contrasts of Kane's life. Whiteley allows Kane to be both ridiculous and admirable. A fantastic moment is when Whiteley contrasts Kane describing his conversion as "an LSD trip from the Lord" and the Mormon bishop describing conversion as a warm feeling in your heart. Just look at the website, the contrasting images of the glam rocker and the nondescript white-shirted, middle-aged fellow--that says it all.

You need to see this movie. It's currently showing in NY, LA, and Salt Lake and will open elsewhere next week. I may be biased because I love the Dolls and I grew up Mormon, but even if you know nothing about the band (which the folks I saw the movie with didn't) you will still love it (which they did).

peter brady is stealing my memory!

During my Minneapolis crap-tv fest, I watched one episode of "My Fair Brady," The VH-1 horror that follows Chistopher Knight (aka Peter Brady) and his girlfriend (the first-ever "America's Next Top Model") as they try to (I guess) figure out whether they really want to be committed to each other. In the episode that I saw they were on a trip to Puerto Rico and they went to this restaurant in downtown San Juan where all the food on the menu are aphrodisiacs. The owner of the restaurant sits down to chat with them and puts poor Peter on the spot by asking them why they aren't married (and causing Peter, I'm sure, to wonder why they didn't just go out for "pork chopsh and and apple sausch"). After the chat, Ms. Peter goes on about how much she loved the owner of the restaurant, how comfortable he made her feel, how connected he seemed to life and love.

And as the whole scene is unfolding, I realize I've been to that restaurant. Slowly, I began to recognize the details of the courtyard and the inflections of the owner's voice. I didn't eat at the restaurant (way out of my budget), but I spent part of an afternoon in that courtyard, talking with the owner. We (me and various students from Knox, my former place of employment) were loitering outside of the restaurant (looking at a church I think), and the owner came out to chat with us. He told us the origins of San Juan's blue cobblestone streets and he invited us in to see his restaurant. The place was lovely, especially the courtyard. He talked to us about life and love and the importance of food and why he loved owning this restaurant. The afternoon seemed lovely and lucky and perfectly singular. And now Peter Brady and his silly paramour have stolen my lovely memory!

other peoples' habits

This morning, I was pulling an overfull bag of garbage from my garbage can and I noticed two spare bags at the bottom of the can. The last garbage had been changed out by a party guest (what lovely guests--taking out the garbage). I used to take this extra bag approach when I was a lowly Taco Bell employee, but I never do it at home. The person even tucked the extra top part of the bag tidily into the garbage can--unlike me who justs lets the extra plastic hang loosely from the rim. It was a funny moment, this, encountering someone else's habits at my house. It made me feel a bit guilty for not being a more efficient, tidier housekeeper.