Umbrella

Of all the words in the English language, umbrella is perhaps my favorite. Say it now, aloud but quietly, to yourself—it bubbles so cheerfully from your lips, the airy “e” encased in our language’s only liquid consonants, r and l. Add the contented ummm and, as an afterthought, the light a, and the word can only be improved by bumbling, benevolent b.

Since umbrella is my favorite word (although Bangladesh is a close second), I wanted to know where it came from. Words are like people: if you’re interested in them, you want to know everything about them. Where did they come from? Who are their relatives? Their ancestors? In their spare time, where do they go, what do they do, how do they mean? What, in their personal histories, changed them and made them the wonderful things they are now? I asked umbrella all these things, but only received those three delicious syllables in reply. The dictionary was more informative.

Umbrella comes from the Latin umbraticus, “of or pertaining to shade.” With this background, as you can imagine, umbrella has some dark relations: umbraticus begat both umbrage and somber, which sound more like the rain than protection from it. But the younger cousins are jollier: Americans nick-named the canopy contraption bumbershoot, and Brits sometimes call it a brolly or an umbrellery. These are words you can get to know, words you’d want to hang out with when you’re feeling down, embraced in their warm friendship.

The word parasol, and this point, cannot be ignored, although it is related by function instead of by from. A parasol is like the ancient, snobbish maiden-aunt to umbrella, frilly and frail and pretentious. Parasols establish rank and languor, a certain coolness, instead of warmth and comfort and necessity. They are more selective than umbrellas: they block out the sun only (para means shield, sol sun) and are too delicate for wet weather. Parasols separate rather than connect people: on a hot, sunny, parasol sort of day, nobody would cuddle up closely like they would under an umbrella in the rain.

But despite their differences, I cannot deny that parasols and umbrellas are related, and closely. Their resemblance makes me uneasy about my beloved umbrella. I start to rethink my word—or, if not my word, at least the thing it represents. I have said that umbrellas make us friendly: and, in theory, they are. The image of friends or lovers under an umbrella is heartwarming, but in reality it isn’t very warming at all. Walking with two people under an umbrella is more of a struggle than a romantic stroll. Your steps get out of sync, your elbows bump together, and the left side of your face and the right side of your friend’s face get wet, while the right side of your face and the left side of your friend’s face stay dry, as does the space between you. Inevitably, the umbrella toter apologizes and heaves the umbrella back over his own head, leaving the other half of the couple literally out in the cold.

But whenever I’m the one left in the cold, I find it hard to complain. There is something marvelous about being in the rain, hair slicked to face, your crown as wet as your feet.

Me, Melted

This morning, when I woke up, I discovered that I was a liquid. Not water. I was infinitely more complex than water. My arms were still puddles of beige, and my legs were pools of candy-striped pajama-pants. I poured myself out of bed and sloshed across the floor. My roommate waded through me, in all her solidity, tisking at the mess I would make if any of my droplets dyed the carpet.

I gathered myself into a wet mass and seeped into my dresser drawer, and the candy-striped pajama pools turned into a more appropriate denim blue. I decided that today, I didn’t need antiperspirant.

I drained myself out of the dresser and raged headfirst down the hall into the kitchen. I liked being a liquid in the hallway. My pink feet hurried after my droplets of hair, and in the rush, edges of me foamed.

More on rain

I guess I'm kind of into rain lately. I wrote this poem for class.

A heavy sheet suspended overhead
Hangs waiting and collecting, drop by drop,
The moisture that will soon be rain. With dread
We wait—the storm will come, will rage, will stop.

The sticky air is hot and moist and still
While trees shake timidly their lemon leaves
And whisper that they sweat through bark, until
The pregnant raincloud rumbles, groans and heaves

Ferocious gray above is rent in two
It pours its wrath relentlessly to earth
The birds and beasts that crawled or stalked or flew
Now huddle, damp and drying, in their berth

The storm has come, has thundered, and has gone
And now the sun appears, an evening dawn.

Waiting to Rain

Grey underbellies of clouds weaken the sun and trees whisper that the air sweats. If I were an archer I would shoot the heavy clouds with a feathered arrow and watch the water pour from that one gash, like puss from a blister. Or if I were a bird I would dive upward, piercing the grey with my beak and drenching my body, swooping in and out and in again and peppering the clouds with holes that would release rain like a sieve. It is waiting for me to rain.

Huckleberry Dairy

This weekend, I went to my bishop's ranch. It was awesome! We separated the calves from the cows, and then everyone tried to help the Bishop and his other cowboy friends round up and lasso the calves. The bishop's 10 year old grandson called us "city slickers" and mocked us a lot. I never did rope a cow, but I learned the theory behind a lasso, at least.

But we had to brand all the cows, so what we would do is someone would rope their feet and then drag them along until they fell, or mostly fell, and then two or three of us would jump on the cow and roll it over so its its right side was up. The smaller cows needed two people to hold them. One person (me, sometimes) would kneel on the neck and hold the right front leg up close to the body, like a praying mantis leg. The other person (me, sometimes) would sit at the tail end and hold the left hind leg on the ground with their right foot, and grab the right hind leg and hold on for dear life. Then, someone (me, sometimes) would come with the vaccinations and shoot those in the neck. If the calf was a bull, the bishop's daughter came up and neutered it. She would grab the scrotum and cut off the bottom two or three inches of it, and then these whitish, maggoty, slimy testicles would fall out with a lot of blood and fat. They were about three inches long, in thin membrane-like sacks. Then, she would pull each testicle out of the scrotum until it separated from the muscle, and she'd cut the nut (they totally called it that, it was hilarious) away from the fat that was holding it on. Sometimes the whole testicle would just come out when she pulled. And then someone (me, sometimes) would run up and spray iodine onto the bloody remainder of private parts that the poor disgraced bull-turned-steer could call his own. After that, someone (this was never me, I couldn't bear to do it) would come with the branding iron, which was electric, and hold it on the cow's side. All this yellowish smoke would come out, and the poor cow would bellow, and they had to hold it on there until the mark left was pink and raw--otherwise, the brand wouldn't stay longer than a year.

I was surprised, because the bulls seemed to hate the branding a lot more than the castrating. I mean, I know that searing metal held to your skin, turning you from raw to well-done steak wouldn't be pleasant, but it seems like having your balls forcibly removed would be just as bad. And more humiliating.

During the branding, a calf got loose, and a few people from my ward and I chased it all around two pastures before getting it through a gate, and then it escaped again. It was really hard to guide it because it would run away from you, but its direction was unpredictable. If you ever need to drive a calf somewhere, run even with its shoulder, and not right behind it. I was exhausted.

After we branded all the calves--there were about 45--we ate lunch. It was so good, with pasta salads and fresh pork and beef and watermelon. The farm is a dairy farm, and so we had raw milk, which is maybe heaven. And there was homemade strawberry and peach ice cream made with their milk. Also, they grilled the cow testicles. When the actual testicle pops out of the membrane, it's finished cooking, and it's called a rocky mountain oyster. You're just supposed to eat the testicle, not the membrane. I totally ate one. It wasn't bad, either.

Musical Number Bandit

Today I was supposed to play the piano for this leadership meeting for our stake. I rode with Bekah and Kyrie and Hillary and Jalena, and we went to sit down before everything started. I wasn't sure how it was all going to play out, so I went up to the people on the stage and said, "Hi, I'm Rachel, and I'm supposed to play the musical number for tonight." And he said, "Oh! Really? Ok. What's your name again?" And it sounded like they didn't really need me to play, so I said, "Well, I don't have to play, if you weren't planning on it." But I was pretty annoyed, because that's the only reason I even went there, you know? But he said, "No, no, we love music! I'll have you play after we introduce the speaker."

So that all went down, and then I went and played, but it was a really awkward time for a "special musical number," right between when they introduce the speaker and when he's supposed to talk. I felt pretty foolish the whole time, like I'd forced myself on them, even though I'd been asked to play several weeks ago.

The song went fine, and when I went to sit down again I said to Kyrie and Bekah, "They were so weird about me playing! Like they didn't even expect me at all!" And then Kyrie said, "Guys, they just announced the stake president, but they didn't say President Ford!" And we asked the boy next to us, and he said that that wasn't the leadership meeting! And our meeting was next door in the other church!

So we sprinted accross the parking lot, about ten after seven, and right when I ran in to the building I heard the speaker say, "Well, I guess my talk will have to be about 3 minutes longer than I thought," and I knew he meant because I wasn't there, and then I saw Brian Hedengrin in the audience motioning for me to go up to the stage, and I turned and ran-walked up the aisle and everyone was waving at the speaker, telling him I was there, and I gasped, "We went to the wrong chapel, but I'm the musical number if you still need me!" And I felt totally, motally stupid and they said, well, come up, we've already complimented and thanked you! so I ran up on the stand and they helped me put the cover of the piano up (the piano was IDENTICAL to the piano I had played on only moments before) and he said, do you need a minute to compose yourself? And I said no, I don't need to breathe while I play, and the old ladies on the stand laughed and then I sat down and played--pretty well, too, all things considered--and marched back off the stage.

Whew.

It was maybe the most embarrassing thing ever.

Also, the people in the first meeting--which was actually a fireside--will probably never know! Bekah has christened us the "musical number bandits," and we just rush in to random meetings and insist on playing Allegrettos for whoever will listen.

Rag-Bag

In my closet at home is a Rag-Bag. It's just a garbage bag stuffed on a shelf, sagging against boxes and crates. But sometimes I'll take it down and open it, and fabric spills out onto the carpet, bright cottons and frayed satins and faux furs and thin polyesters, brawn paisleys, red polka-dots, hideous tutt-fruity hearts, lavender, yellow, turquoise, tangerine. I'll survey the spill delightedly, reveling in the worthless mass of color and texture unfurled around me. Perhaps I'll find a piece big enough to make something semi-useful, a scrunchy or a satchel from left-over curtain fabric, or perhaps I'll mix clashing patterns together for a pair of patchwork pajama pants. Or perhaps I'll make nothing at all, realizing again that the waves of material delight me only in their potential to become something else.

Channeling the Muse

Today I had a conference with Emily (my creative writing teacher) about how the class is going and what the portfolio/final will be like and stuff. She said I should keep writing. I adore writing. I love my writing class. But I worry that when I'm not being compelled to write, I'll just stop. I keep trying to coerce myself into writing by buying little journals and keeping blogs and stuff, but usually I fail. "I just don't feel like I could be a writer because I'm not, you know, compelled to write constantly," I said. "I don't channel The Muse." And she said, "Start scheduling The Muse." She said that she doesn't write compulsively either, which is what I've always believed writers must do. But I'm hoping that even with stacks of blank journals and a brain full of unwritten ideas, I could maybe, just maybe still consider myself a writer.

Sobre la Iglesia en Corrales

Red and blue
Blue and red
Rock and sky
Dry.
Sweat and burn
Raw and crisp
Skin.
Out.

Brick and clay
Clay and brick
Roof and wall
Cool.
Shade and stone
Pew and cross
Door.
In.

Coming Out

Today Lina told me a story. It went like this:

"When I came out to my parents as a writer, my father said, 'At least you're not a poet.'"

It was actually longer than this, but I think this says it all.

The Bobby Pin Caper

I'm trying to write an essay for my creative writing class, and mostly I've been putting it off. It's about bobby pins and photography and art, I guess, or it's trying to be. But I went out tonight and when I came back, Meghan and Amanda had added to my essay. I like their section better than mine, but as I can't turn it in without feeling guilty, I want to post it here. And so, without further ado, I present: The Bobby Pin Caper by Meghan Gurecki and Amanda Knight

My camera was film, not digital, so I never even thought how scared I would be when I stepped into the dark room. I think there was a murderer in there. I said, "Don't murder me!" He said, "But I've been planning this for days," as he pulled out his weapon of choice--a bobby pin. I said, "Are you going to kill me with that bobby pin?" He said, "How did you know I had a bobby pin? This room is too dark to see anything." I said, "If I do not know you have a bobby pin because I cannot see it, then I do not know you are here because I cannot see you." "You're absolutely right," he said.
That was the last I heard of the murderer with the bobby pin. The next time I went into the dark room there was a picture developing. It was a picture of a bobby pin.

Rotelle with Baby Octopus Sauce

Prep: 20 minutes Cook: 10 minutes
1 green onion
1 1/2 tomatoes
vegetable oil
11 baby octopi, defrosted, de-ink-sacked, and de-brained
oregano
salt & pepper
Parmesan

1. Dice green onion and tomatoes; set aside.
2. Separate baby octopi from purple mass of tentacles. (For defrosting instructions, see "Defrosting Octopus" below.) To do this, grasp each head and gently pull, shaking out bodies until tentacles hang limply below. Untwine straying legs from hands. Lay octopi out on cutting board; exclaim loudly over bizarre appearance, preferably with a roommate. Observe empty eye sockets. Octopi should resemble a cross between Ursula and Marge Simpson.
3. With dull knife, attempt to separate octopus heads from bodies. If correctly done, the texture and squelching noises should make you squirm in disgust. After setting heads aside, lay out the bodies so that they resemble small, indigo-spotted suns. Separate each tentacle; ignore the webbing between each leg, as this will add flavor. Suction cups should occasionally stick to knife. Place separated tentacles with heads.
4. In skillet, heat oil over medium heat. Add onion, tomatoes and octopus. Octopus tentacles should wriggle as if alive, comparable to lizard tails that have been pulled off. Octopus heads should contract, turning themselves inside out. Onions and tomatoes should sizzle quietly like normal food.
5. Cook until mauve-colored sauce forms and bubbles. By this time, tentacles should have flexed and curled into delicate spirals, studded with shrunken suction cups. Undersides should be rosy-taupe, while tops should be indigo. Octopus heads will be pink and gummy, resembling tiny brains; these should be eaten only on a dare.
6. Dig through mostly empty cupboards until interesting spices are found (I discovered one called "oregano"); sprinkle on mixture. Serve octopus over Rotelle pasta with salt, pepper, and Parmesan to taste.
Makes 2 servings

At midnight

The lamp is shaped like a vase, and much contested for its form-over-function nature. It's giving off a greenish glow that could be eerie, but here is homey. It's on the little fold-up table from a garage sale that Meghan and I found. Next to it is a stack of books, mostly mine, which, from the top down, are: Phonothek Intensiv, The Vintage Book of Contemporary American Poetry, an MLA handbook, French Women Don't Get Fat, Dave Barry's Bad Habits, The Art of Civilized Conversation, and Pippi Langstrumpf. The stack is atop my khaki purse and between Amanda's laptop and my BYUSA folder. The table is in front of our curtainless window; the lamp lights up some of the closed blinds and part of a headband on the sill. The light is creeping over the arm of the loveseat and giving the walls and ceiling a hint of lime, and everyone is asleep but me.

Love

Today I got a text message from my roommate which said, "Have you seen Love?" This seems kind of cryptic, but Courtney Love is the name of our goldfish. There was really only one place she could have gone, which was into a little decorative conch shell in her bowl. When I held up the shell to the light, there was an orange glow in the shape of a tail...
Lisa and I thought about throwing the whole thing away, but it seemed wrong. Love was surely dead, but she deserved the dignity of a burial outside of her death trap. But what if the shell splintered and got stuck in that fishy little body? I couldn't handle that.
After squirming around for a while and making grossed-out faces with Lisa, I chiseled a hole in the shell, carefully, and jiggled it around. Secretly I hoped Love was still alive, but she just fell out with dead, googly eyes. She was twisted into the conch's spiral shape; her body floated parallel with the water's surface, and her tail pointed directly toward the ground.
It was so bizarre and sad and hilarious and gross! My Love is dead.

January

It's 2009! One of my resolutions is to give up tetris. I plan to use that time for this blog. You lucky readers you.
I've tried to write this next part several times now, and everything I write is incredibly dull. I'm back in my apartment and nobody else is home yet; I'm expecting Lisa and Amanda any minute. Guess what? Our fish, which we left here alone for at least two weeks, is still alive! What a good start to a new year. Also, I can't decide which of my classes to keep. Creative Writing is required, so I'll have to take it eventually, but I'm afraid I'll be awful at it. I mean, just read my blog! The other option is public speaking, which I think would be fun, but I don't need those credits for anything. Decisions, decisions...