Week Recap: My life according to my phone

Maybe this will become a thing... Maybe it won't... I'm still getting used to this blogging on the phone thing!

Some fave things in my old room

From my dad

We did The Marshmallow Challenge for work training!

Roommates on the roof

Free stuff from the home teachers 

Classy framed photos in our place.

Trying to get my financial rear in gear. Beans and rice, people. Beans and rice.

And that's it! I need to take more pictures during the week. My life is MUCH more interesting than this haha

Music for Your Midweek: Arctic Monkeys

Um.

HELLO.

This is too much. 

Also, 

19 year old me is very confused. 

These guys are going for a Rock-a-Billy look all of a sudden?

Oh well. I guess I can dig it. These tracks are going to be on their new album coming out SEPTEMBER 9TH MARK YOUR CALENDRZZZ

Something for Sunday: Faith and Doubt

I thought this TED Talk was really beautiful. I went to a fireside a couple months ago where Fiona and Teryl Given spoke. They spoke on similar themes. I'd love to hear what you think:

A Poem for Saturday: A selection from "Companion Grasses" by Brian Teare

Thank you Slate:

                        a silence endless

                                    as the air into which our fathers

                        last looked out, thinking, like Thoreau,

            “Here was no man’s garden

            […]

                                    It was Matter, vast, terrific…

                        the felt presence of a force not bound

            to be kind to man.” It’s how

            our fathers’ rest ends in us :

                        we stand & start toward the angle

                                    the afternoon light leans against

                        the long stone wall

                                    farther up the ridge : it’s there

                        the path ascends to Atlas Peak

            where we’ll bury their vision in air—

August Mix: Surrender

Here we go Here we go Here we go. Here's a mix for your moody muggy months. And a new format for you! Hope you like Spotify. If the song isn't available on Spotify, I've included a link to Youtube. Enjoy.

1. Ignition (1901 Remix) - R. Kelly vs Phoenix)

2. Roadrunner - The Modern Lovers


3. Royals - Lorde


4. Oceans - Crywolf & Ianborg


5. Getting Even - White Lies

6. Slow Hands (Interpol cover) - Zee Avi

7. Dreams of Cannibalism - Typhoon


8. That Awful Sound - Jackson Scott


9. Your Past Life as a Blast - Okkervil River


10. A tout a l'heure - Bibio


11. A New Error - Moderat


12. Try To Explain - The Flaming Lips

13. Tornado (Acoustic - Go Quiet) - Jónsi

14. Wait - Airhead


15. I Didn't See It Coming - Belle & Sebastian


16. Man on Fire (Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros) - Little Daylight


NOTES:
1. Brilliant
2. Good luck finding the Modern Lover's music. They are too good. I have such a crush on Jonathan Richman.
3. Thanks to Katie for this gem.
6. Trying to learn this on on the guitar. It's easy but MY POOR FINGERS I'm a wuss.
8. This guy's coming to Kilby in September. What a charming (just kidding) kid. My high-school heart would have been head-over-heels for this punk.
11. Um, I always forget this, but the most important podcast to listen to is All Songs Considered. I've found a lot of great stuff through that program, and I have no idea why I don't listen to it more often.
12. This song at Twilight killed me.
15. This song at Twilight made me dance.
16. Been listening to a lot of Alexander's stuff lately. He's great great great.

Missed Connections

To make up for my lack of postings, here's a "Missed Connections" craigslist post that went viral. I may have teared up at work. And so it goes.

I saw you on the Manhattan-bound Brooklyn Q train. 

I was wearing a blue-striped t-shirt and a pair of maroon pants. You were wearing a vintage red skirt and a smart white blouse. We both wore glasses. I guess we still do.

You got on at DeKalb and sat across from me and we made eye contact, briefly. I fell in love with you a little bit, in that stupid way where you completely make up a fictional version of the person you're looking at and fall in love with that person. But still I think there was something there.

Several times we looked at each other and then looked away. I tried to think of something to say to you — maybe pretend I didn't know where I was going and ask you for directions or say something nice about your boot-shaped earrings, or just say, "Hot day." It all seemed so stupid.

At one point, I caught you staring at me and you immediately averted your eyes. You pulled a book out of your bag and started reading it — a biography of Lyndon Johnson — but I noticed you never once turned a page.

My stop was Union Square, but at Union Square I decided to stay on, rationalizing that I could just as easily transfer to the 7 at 42nd Street, but then I didn't get off at 42nd Street either. You must have missed your stop as well, because when we got all the way to the end of the line at Ditmars, we both just sat there in the car, waiting.

I cocked my head at you inquisitively. You shrugged and held up your book as if that was the reason.

Still I said nothing.

We took the train all the way back down — down through Astoria, across the East River, weaving through midtown, from Times Square to Herald Square to Union Square, under SoHo and Chinatown, up across the bridge back into Brooklyn, past Barclays and Prospect Park, past Flatbush and Midwood and Sheepshead Bay, all the way to Coney Island. And when we got to Coney Island, I knew I had to say something.

Still I said nothing.

And so we went back up.

Up and down the Q line, over and over. We caught the rush hour crowds and then saw them thin out again. We watched the sun set over Manhattan as we crossed the East River. I gave myself deadlines: I'll talk to her before Newkirk; I'll talk to her before Canal. Still I remained silent.

For months we sat on the train saying nothing to each other. We survived on bags of skittles sold to us by kids raising money for their basketball teams. We must have heard a million mariachi bands, had our faces nearly kicked in by a hundred thousand break dancers. I gave money to the beggars until I ran out of singles. When the train went above ground I'd get text messages and voicemails ("Where are you? What happened? Are you okay?") until my phone ran out of battery.

I'll talk to her before daybreak; I'll talk to her before Tuesday. The longer I waited, the harder it got. What could I possibly say to you now, now that we've passed this same station for the hundredth time? Maybe if I could go back to the first time the Q switched over to the local R line for the weekend, I could have said, "Well, this is inconvenient," but I couldn't very well say it now, could I? I would kick myself for days after every time you sneezed — why hadn't I said "Bless You"? That tiny gesture could have been enough to pivot us into a conversation, but here in stupid silence still we sat.

There were nights when we were the only two souls in the car, perhaps even on the whole train, and even then I felt self-conscious about bothering you. She's reading her book, I thought, she doesn't want to talk to me. Still, there were moments when I felt a connection. Someone would shout something crazy about Jesus and we'd immediately look at each other to register our reactions. A couple of teenagers would exit, holding hands, and we'd both think: Young Love.

For sixty years, we sat in that car, just barely pretending not to notice each other. I got to know you so well, if only peripherally. I memorized the folds of your body, the contours of your face, the patterns of your breath. I saw you cry once after you'd glanced at a neighbor's newspaper. I wondered if you were crying about something specific, or just the general passage of time, so unnoticeable until suddenly noticeable. I wanted to comfort you, wrap my arms around you, assure you I knew everything would be fine, but it felt too familiar; I stayed glued to my seat.

One day, in the middle of the afternoon, you stood up as the train pulled into Queensboro Plaza. It was difficult for you, this simple task of standing up, you hadn't done it in sixty years. Holding onto the rails, you managed to get yourself to the door. You hesitated briefly there, perhaps waiting for me to say something, giving me one last chance to stop you, but rather than spit out a lifetime of suppressed almost-conversations I said nothing, and I watched you slip out between the closing sliding doors.

It took me a few more stops before I realized you were really gone. I kept waiting for you to reenter the subway car, sit down next to me, rest your head on my shoulder. Nothing would be said. Nothing would need to be said.

When the train returned to Queensboro Plaza, I craned my neck as we entered the station. Perhaps you were there, on the platform, still waiting. Perhaps I would see you, smiling and bright, your long gray hair waving in the wind from the oncoming train.

But no, you were gone. And I realized most likely I would never see you again. And I thought about how amazing it is that you can know somebody for sixty years and yet still not really know that person at all.

I stayed on the train until it got to Union Square, at which point I got off and transferred to the L.

And here's a newish Kishi Bashi song I heard when he came into town back in February. I've been waiting for it for so long.



So long.

Music for Your Midweek: Owen Pallet

Here's a bunch of videos of Owen Pallett just being insanely talented:

And here is one of Sondre Lerche covering Owen Pallett. 

Because talented people love other talented people. 

P.S. Did you know that Sondre Lerche was featured on byu tv's "The Song that Changed My Life"? Check it out here.