7.29.11

For once you have tasted flight you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will long to return. 
—Leonardo Da Vinci



It went terribly well, that thing I was talking about before. Here's some visual proof:


Before boarding the plane -- Stefany, Jessica, me, Kelsey


Flipping out of the plane. Amazing.


Free falling. Oh my gosh, it was awesome! 


Not actually scary. Exhilarating would be a better term.


13,000 feet above the ground, 110 mph. 


Seriously, everyone should try this. 


After a grassy landing, with Justin the "Tandem Master."

No, I didn't tell my mom before I went. And yes, her reaction, along with my dad and sisters, was priceless. Worth every penny. 

Things to Do Before I Die #1: Done. :o)

7.28.11


I never cease to be amazed by the ridiculousness of my hair. 

That is all.

--eg

P.S. In case I never post again, it's because of what I'm doing tomorrow morning, and it going horribly wrong. But if it goes horribly right, there's one more thing checked off my "Thing to Do Before I Die" list. So excited!

P.P.S. Obviously I annul my previous statement about the hair comment being "all."

7.26.11

© 2011 e.gosney


"I'm in love! I want your permission to marry, Papa!"


"There's a proper manner in which these things are supposed to happen, such as the boy would normally be standing next to you, in a moment such as this! Where is the BOY in all this, Kitty?"


"I haven't spoken to him as of yet."


"The young man is unaware of your intentions?"


—"The Village"

This makes me laugh, because I do this in my head more often than I'd like to admit. Or, another example, from Mr. Michael Buble:

"I'm not surprised, not everything lasts
I've broken my heart so many times, I stopped keeping track
Talk myself in, I talk myself out
I get all worked up, then I let myself down"


—"Just Haven't Met You Yet"


I think it would disturb some people how often I think myself "in love" with a boy just to change my mind a week later. And what's more disturbing, I suppose, is how incredibly easy it is to decide I no longer have interest in them. Some people have control over their dreams at night. I have a pretty good control over how I feel about men: If I sense they are out of my league, interested in someone else, or otherwise unattainable, I simply find a flaw and/or several excuses why I don't need to like them and voila! It's done.

(I'm guessing this has some deeper psychological meaning, like how I am afraid of trusting people so I don't venture in at all, or how I lack confidence in myself so I come up with reasons not to put myself out there, thus protecting me from the risk of confidence-crushing experiences.)

And I wonder why I'm not married! Ha ha.

Happy Tuesday! :o)

7.22.11


Hello, gorgeous. 

(More here.)

7.19.11

© 2011 e.gosney

An essay, of sorts, I wrote on Oct. 5, 2010.

I'm a runner.

I run from things, though. Not to things, not around, not a runner with tennis shoes and shorts. No, I prefer a healthy dose of cowardice, disregard for reality, and a foolish optimism in the greener grass that must be on the other side. 

I have my family fooled, I'm sure of that. They see me as driven, accomplished, always making bad situations not so bad. But they are mistaken, or rather, deceived in their perception of me. 

Perhaps I am all those things, do all those things, but it is all motivated by a much deeper, more selfish and fearful set of attributes and desires. 

I am a runner because I cannot sit still, be still, settle down. Not mentally. My mind has an unhealthy habit of dreaming of what could be. Sure, I manage to enjoy what is, but only for a time. And then I must escape. I must. Or else I hole up, shutting myself off until I can make that escape. Or die, I guess. But I've always been able to break free, thus I am not dead.

Running from responsibility. I think that's one of the biggest motivators. Next, running away in hopes of being missed. Then, running in hopes of finding something better. There always has to be something better, right? I just haven't found it yet. Or else, I guess, I'd stop running.

I ran from there because I thought here would be better. I'm running from here to escape expectations, boredom, and a relapse into childhood. But I seem to be slamming into a wall of doubt as I run into the darkness. I can't see the green here, or there, everything is gray. And lonely. Always lonely.

I cried at a TV show tonight. Hard. I tried to stifle it, but there was no one there to see me weep, no mascara to run, and no reason to stop. I let the doubts, for a moment, squeeze out of my tear ducts and drop onto my shirt. And just as my fluids will regenerate, my doubts have already begun to mount. But it is too late. I must take the doubts, harness the fear, and run again. Not to anything, around anything, and not even from something this time. I'm just running. It is not liberating. It is terrifying. 

***

This piece brings satisfaction to me every time I read it because I was able then to capture exactly what I was feeling. And in a way that doesn't just describe it, but illustrates it. Simply. I can see, as I think you can too, someone running both physically and mentally through their life. 

I contradicted myself, in this essay. I just noticed it as I typed it up. I said I was running to escape expectations, etc., but at the end I say I'm not running from anything at all. I suppose both were true. I did want to escape the boredom of a part-time job and no friends, but that wasn't why I was leaving. My need to run came from what I described at the beginning — an inability to sit still and be satisfied with where I am. 

I say "am" not "was" because this unbearable desire to run is back again. I cannot think of word adequate enough to describe the suffocation, the pulling and pushing inside my chest, the ever-increasing static inside my head that is deafening my senses to all that I once enjoyed in my present life. 

My life seems to have so many chapters. This "present life" is one chapter. Short, like all the rest. But now I want another new beginning, a fresh page, a different patch of grass. 

I've heard it said that if you cannot be happy with your life now, if you say to yourself, "I'll be happy when ..." that you'll never truly be happy. I agree. So what do they say about people who are happy for a while and then change their lives in order to find happiness again? 

I suppose we're all discontents. Some just hide it better than others. 

7.14.11

I posted more pictures on that other blog of mine. They include kids and cows. Oh yeah. ahjunkphotography.blogspot.com

7.13.11

It has come to my attention that no one understands what I do.

I'm a copy editor and designer.

Not a writer, not a photographer, not a metro editor or the publisher. I'm a copy editor and designer.

Let me break it down for you.

"Copy" = Text, articles, stories, cutlines (also known as captions), etc. Anything, aside from ads, on the newspaper's pages that has words involved? I edit it. (Thus the use of "editor" in my title.) I edit for grammar, misspellings, accuracy, flow and so forth.

"Designer" = Page layout. Reporters write the articles, photographers take the pictures, they put all of that onto the computer, which I then take and lay out on the pages, using a program called Adobe InDesign. The page is like a Word document, you know, blank, but InDesign is infinitely better than Word. In fact, I just threw up in my mouth thinking about having to use Word. Ever.

I just thought I'd explain that to anyone who still thinks I write for the newspaper. I never write articles. Ever. That's not what I'm paid to do. Nor do I ever take photographs for the paper. But I still work with those elements.

People forget there is someone in between the reporter and the paper showing up on their doorstep. That would be me. Without copy editors, all those articles and pictures would sit stagnant on computers in the newsroom.

So if you've ever read the news, in paper form or on the Web, a copy editor has had a hand in it.

Lucky you. Now you know that much more about the newspaper world.


My desk, in case you were curious. (Don't iPods take awesome pictures? Not.)


Close up of "desk personalization"



Oh, look! Even janitorial knows what we do!

(Just so we're clear, I don't write this out of resentment toward anyone. I understand that you're not obligated to know what I do. I just thought I'd inform you before you asked me what I've recently written for the paper. Because, you know, I don't write. For the paper. Ever.)

7.7.11

I had a thought the other day, and if I may say so, it was quite a good one.

I was reading a magazine when the thought occurred to me, "Man, I'm bored with my life. What the heck am I doing with this life? What's my purpose? What am I living for?"

And then I realized, I'm living entirely for myself. I do everything for myself, thinking very little about others or even God, relative to the time I spend thinking about myself. What a sad life. No wonder I'm bored with it.

So I came up with a plan. There's 24 hours in a day. Eight of those are spent sleeping (or, in Catherine's case, 12. Just joking, just joking ... kinda). That leaves 16 waking hours. What do I do with those 16 hours? I shower, dress, eat, read, drive, clean, work, write, occasionally exercise, and on and on.

But 16 hours is quite a bit of time. What if I took roughly 10 percent, just an hour and a half, of each day and spent it thinking about and doing things for others?

An hour and a half writing letters, doing the dishes for my roommates, volunteering for Meals-on-Wheels, reading the scriptures, giving someone a ride. It's so little, yet, for some reason, incredibly daunting.

After living 24 hours a day for myself for 23 years, it's hard to suddenly devote 10 percent of my time to others.

But I'm gonna do it, because I'm bored with life and, more importantly, as President Thomas S. Monson said, "Unless we lose ourselves in service to others, there is little purpose to our own lives." (Nov. 2009 Ensign).

And isn't that what I want? More purpose? Or, really, a better purpose.

7.2.11


Me and Kyle? We're friends. I'm pretty glad about that. 


Me and my roommates went to the balloon ... launching thing today. It wasn't a festival, it was just a bunch of balloons flying around. It was pretty cool. 

Happy Fourth of July ... ish. I have to work all weekend, so have fun without me. Puh-huh-huh.