Briar Rose

     Alright, so there's this girl. And before you start thinking, it's not like that. I don't know what it's like, really.

     I've never had problems getting along with people. Whether I like 'em or hate 'em, love 'em or despise 'em, if I decide to be civil, we can usually get along. People eventually figure out that I'm exactly the arrogant bastard I pretend to be, and then realize that I'm mostly harmless(Like Earth). Once you know the brunt of someone's faults, then so long as you can accept those, your relationship with them will tend to be pretty stable. I'm pretty good about being a decent friend, too, which helps.

     That being said, there's some people who I have more trouble getting along with. My brother, for example. We're very alike, and being around him is like being a kitten rubbed the wrong way with a cold, wet brush. People who won't admit they're wrong and the utterly dogmatic are also problematic. But I'd have to say most of my more worrisome difficulties are in romantic relationships.

     See, I tend to get along really well with people once I know them. I try to go a little further, do a little more than most people seem to bother with. It doesn't take that much time or effort, and the intense friendships are worth it. This becomes problematic when I'm dealing with people that don't know me very well. Add that to the fact that I'm more likely to send chocolate than a get-well card, and not-so-hilarious misadventures keep happening.

     Guys, chocolate really does work. It's a universally accepted symbol of comfort as well as romance, and if you display it as comfort it'll only cause people to like you even more. I don't know if this is just me, but girls seem to like being lifted back up to their feet as much as they enjoy being swept off them, and chocolate has the unique capacity to symbolize both.

     This brings me to Valentine's Day. I'm new here, and an absolutely reclusive introvert to boot. I'd barely started meeting people, let alone making durable friendships, let alone finding romantic interests. So when a person from the Old World asked me if I'd keep her company on Valentine's, I figured that it sounded fun and I might as well.

     The girl requested that I call her Rose. It's a pretty name for a pretty girl. She's an old friend's old girlfriend, and we tend to get along pretty well. She can be moody, but it's worth ignoring nine times out of ten to talk with her. I'm not going to date her, and our lives split into completely different directions after a year or two more, but I'll take what time I can get for now.

     Returning to Valentine's day. She lives off in the hinterlands of Nebraska, but we texted as long as the day lasted. I liked it. There was chocolate and strawberries and just a hint of flirting, which is a guilty pleasure with me. She's a great deal of fun to talk to when she's happy, and she was a tad bit happier that night than most. I like to think I helped with that. And that's enough for me.

The Spice of Life

     The Devil's in the details.

     That's an idiom. Basically means that it's the fine print which screws us over. Which we all already knew. I'm going to talk about something else entirely- the idea that the best parts of life are in the details as well.

     Life always has some activities that take up most of our time. Whether it's schoolwork or regular work or sending Kerbals to the moon(Mun). But those large chunks of our life are rarely the best parts of our life. It can happen, if you really love your job or something, but it doesn't happen often. The bits of life that we remember and cherish are the tiny fragments of experience that we've set aside for ourselves, bits of time away from our ordinary experiences that we've chosen to enjoy.

     Hiking is a prime example of this. It's a relatively short amount of time compared to the rest of the week, but it can brighten that week immeasurably. Same thing with dating. It's a short chunk of time that is disproportionately enjoyable.(Hopefully.) I don't think that's coincidence. I think we set aside time in our lives to enjoy living, just being alive and enjoying what we're doing.

     The example that comes to mind is showering. Either you do it in a rush and think about other things all the while, and the time passes quickly and doesn't affect you much. Or you take your sweet time, sing a little(You guys that do this, we can be friends no matter what. Just saying.) and enjoy the warmth on your skin and the feeling of being clean. It's the same experience, but choosing to make it recreational makes it immensely more enjoyable.

     The way I see it, we scatter these experiences around our lives like spices in a dish, adding color and flavor and personality by doing so. Each time set aside too enjoy adds something to our lives. Granted, we need the basic building blocks. Work and school are important. But if the parts of life that we truly enjoy are just spicing, things we chose to add because we wanted them, then a fundamental problem of humanity -how to be happy- is simple. We become happy by choosing to make time for happiness.

     This almost seems too easy, but it makes sense. If you choose to worry about homework while cooking a meal for yourself, you aren't going to enjoy cooking. If you let yourself enjoy the cooking and then worry about the homework in its own time, the cooking will become enjoyable. Showering becomes fun when we let our worries flow away with the water. Netflix is great when you've forgotten about responsibilities, but the second you remember it ruins everything. I didn't learn the last from personal experience or anything. That'd just be irresponsible. And I am ALWAYS responsible.

     Thinking about it, this is basic knowledge. Don't mix work and pleasure. Take a break from your responsibilities for a while and it'll be easier to think when you get back to them. Take time off for yourself and your burdens will seem lighter.

     It doesn't ever take long to create this kind of experience, either. It can be as simple as choosing to focus on the pleasure of things we're already doing, even. Choosing not to worry when you're out having fun. I hate myself for the cliche, but living in the moment.

     I guess I want the takeaway here to be the realization that we can be happier if we focus more attention on the things in our life that are already enjoyable, and devote more small chunks of time to things we enjoy, spicing our lives until we've got them just right.

Man's Search For Pretty

     I was comfortable before. Classwork took up a fair chunk of time, but it was easily doable. I was figuring out how to feed myself and improving recipes in the New World. I'd even begun to take regular time out of my day to swim and improve my slightly worn and badly folded trench-coat of a body. This was a mistake.

     As I began trying to improve myself, the world around me pitched a perfect storm. Midterms ended, and suddenly my professors expected me to perform miracles of perfect recollection and transmogrification of blank pages into essays. People outside of my minuscule peer group appeared and were awesome, causing me to spend more time chasing down friends. Deadlines began cropping up in every class, multiplying like rabbits that know the end is nigh. (This assignment included. Ten blog posts is a LOT when you go on and on, taking up time with irrelevant tangents and asides. Like this one.)

     On top of this, my brother resurfaced. I hadn't heard from him in months, which wasn't really anything different, and he'd come back with a Minecraft server, which was even less surprising. I agreed to play, mostly because I felt sorry for him, living in his apartment alone with his girlfriend and three incredibly spunky cats. I figured I'd play a bit, make appearances when I had time, and then say that Minecraft just wasn't for me.

     But Minecraft IS for me. I'd forgotten just how much I liked the stupid little game. It didn't help that my brother had introduced an entirely new mod-pack, which in Minecraft changes EVERYTHING. Literally thousands of hours of new content. I'm a college kid. I was running out of time already, and now there's one of the greatest timesinks in the history of mankind just waiting for me to play.

     When I began trying to improve myself, all I wanted to do was replace some of the body mass I'd lost during the starvation diet (I only realized later that pancakes and cabbage on alternating nights, with no other food, didn't count as healthy eating) and turn some of what I had left into muscle. Before, I could say that I had muscle hiding somewhere underneath the fat, but now I've found that that's just not true, and it's making me all sorts of ashamed. Swimming has always been something I wanted to get back to, and college is the perfect place for that, but I didn't realize the earth would conspire against me to stop me from being pretty.

     Looking back, I should have known. The earth sent me a warning shot before it decided to wage war, and arrogant fool that I am, I decided not to listen. It was the fourth week of the semester, and I'd gotten situated enough to think about things like exercise. So I thought I'd get back into swimming. There's a myriad of reasons for this, among them a call to water and childhood, but the real reasoning went more like swimmer body=girl magnet=do want. I thought it would be that simple. I wish it were.

     The first time I went swimming, I had forgotten how good the water felt. I had forgotten how soothing it was. And I had forgotten how easy it is in an soothing environment that feels great to push yourself far beyond your limits. I swam until my arms felt like lead and I gasped for breath. I swam until I forgot what my mouth tasted like when it didn't have chlorine in it. I swam until my eyes hurt more opening them above water than underneath. I loved every second of it. I should have known it couldn't last.

     It wasn't until after that I faced the consequences of my actions. I planned a leisurely trip home, starting in the sauna, heading up the Long Stairs,(It seems evil to put the stairs right next to the workout areas, so I'm calling them a torture device and capitalizing the name.) and finishing with a long stroll up campus to my bunk. It was a good plan, but immediately I knew something had gone wrong. It turns out that basking in a warm sauna after overexerting yourself is a bad idea, and when I grew suddenly dizzy exiting the locker rooms I remembered that. I sat down, hoping it would clear. It did, slowly, until I felt up to walking the Long Stairs, One thing I like about BYU is that it's bad at torture. I walked the Stairs without a hitch. It was only when I realized I was a mite thirsty and stopped in for a drink in the SWKT that everything went horribly wrong. If going to a sauna  after over-exerting is a bad idea, drinking cold water while queasy, overly warm, and malnourished is worse.

     I know enough to know when I'm being threatened. The slightly queasy feeling that came over me was the same one you'd feel when you'd eaten bad food, stepped out into the alley for a breath of air, and then had someone put a knife to you and stolen your wallet. It had all the same hallmarks- nausea, followed by needing to get outside, followed by a feeling of impending doom.

     I hurled not long after. I'm not proud. But more importantly, I know that this was just a warning shot. After this, it's war.

     The powers that be have declared where they stand. I thought it was coincidence the first time, but I'm not that lucky. Now that They know I am resolved to be pretty, no matter what the cost, They have declared all-out war, increasing homework load, throwing me into the social rings of people I could get along with, and generally trying to drown out any chance of progress.

     They don't know me. If arrogance can said to be a personality trait, I have it in spades. Icarus himself may have eventually turned back, but I? I am resolved. I have thrown my lot in with the pretty people, and there is no turning back.

Fat Days

     The last few posts I've written have been fairly self-centered, so I'm going to break that mold and write about Fat Days.

     A Fat Day is exactly what it sounds like. They are days where, for no reason you can explain to the people in your life, you don't feel like getting out of bed. You don't feel like doing homework. You don't even feel like sleeping. On a Fat Day, what you want to do most is stare blankly at a wall until it is no longer a wall or it is no longer a Fat Day.

     People argue that it's best to get up and take a brisk jog to shake off the Fat Day pallor. They say eating a healthy breakfast will help you feel more lively. Sometimes they'll even try to get you to do homework. Doing any of these things for long enough will make that Fat Day go away, but I believe that's a wasted opportunity.

     There's something about the Fat Day that's perfect for relaxing. You don't feel like thinking and you don't feel like responsibility, so you can shrug those off and focus your whole self on vegetating. It's a liberating experience, like wearing normal shoes to church or singing in the shower. Like the aforementioned examples, it is massively underrated. It takes a load off your shoulders and a weight off your heart. And everyone needs that sometimes.

     I like to spruce up my Fat Days. I like to dress them in candles and chocolate and make the most of the vegetation. But really, all you need to do is realize that you're exhausted once in a while, lean back with a bowl of ice cream, and watch Buffy until the world seems like a happier place. Trust me on this one, 's nice.

Old World Blues

     Before I start, the Old World is not England. It's Colorado, where I'm from. Old life, old friends, Old World.

     When I left the Old World, I knew it was time to leave. I had all sorts of reasons. I was done with classes and I didn't see any point in putting things off. There was a girl who it hurt to be around. I wanted to know how I did on my own. College and the college lifestyle as an ideal. New horizons. New places. Possibly even new people. (I'm actually very standoffish, but occasionally I find people who I click instantly with. There was hope that there'd be more of that here.)

     I like the New World. I can buy my own ingredients,which is a great blessing when I used to have to deal with whatever the parents brought home. (We never had sour cream or salsa. As far as first-world problems go, that's basically Dante's Inferno, fourth ring.) I can walk to the swimming pool, and now that I'm settled I plan to abuse the privilege. The showers never run out of hot water and that's the greatest thing since cheese on hamburgers.

     There's a few things I miss though. I had great geek friends, and it's difficult to find replacements for people who binge time-travel anime with you. I have to apologize for giving chocolate to someone. There's someone I'd like to convince to come with me, and failing that, who I'd like to spend a lot more time with.

     Some of this is because someone(who will remain unnamed{witness protection[He Who Must Not Be Named]}) convinced me to keep in touch with people from the Old World. Quite honestly, I know most of my friends pretty well, and they'd have been just fine if they didn't hear from me for three months. So that was what I was planning on doing. I was going to cut all ties and head off on my own. New world, new friends, new personality, new everything. I didn't realize this person cared. She did, apparently, and she said she'd whup me if I didn't stay in touch. I believed her. It wasn't difficult. I have full confidence in her ability to beat me to a pulp, especially because chivalry and she's a faster runner than I am.

     I'm still not certain I made the right choice there. There's a desperation that comes from being completely alone, and without it I don't tend to make the effort to meet new people. Now I had a safety net, which is one of the things I wanted to avoid. This is a bit of a trial semester for me, and the ability to crash and burn is something I wanted. Which sounds bad, when you say it that way.

     I also still have to text people. I have some fairly prolific friends, and one who takes it as an offense if you don't text them even if you have nothing to say. I also swore to keep in touch with the girl, and I never felt comfortable talking to her. And then you've got friends talking about gaming and friends who talk about the end of the world being brought on by Raph's chest(Jane the Virgin. It's beautiful. I'm a guy and it's beautiful.) and friends still trying to organize the world's most glacially slow relationship. (They're perfect for each other, they both know it, they both like each other in ALL the ways, and the furthest they've gone is playing Scrabble. Sometimes I just want to lock them in a room, cut the power, and then leave them with chocolate, candles, and Martinelli's apple cider{It's basically champagne, but non-alchoholic} until they learn how to talk to each other.)

     I like texting people. I do. But it takes time, and it reminds me of the Old World, both of which are things that I don't want.I came out here to start afresh, and that just isn't happening.

     So now I have two choices. Ignore many of my old friends and try to focus on what's ahead of me, or choose to maintain the tried and true relationships that I'm comfortable with and continue running into a pathological lack of time.

     I don't know what I'm going to do yet. Maybe I'll compromise and tell everyone not to talk to me during finals. Maybe that'll be enough.

Belonging

     I don't belong anywhere. It's something I've grown to live with over the years. I don't get that feeling of security, even if I'm at home. Some of that may be because I shared my room with the food storage, so I knew that anyone could wander in at any time and the best I could do was throw noodles at them. Even so, small comfort.

     I've been thinking about belonging more in college because I've got nowhere now. Before, I had a few spots spread throughout the open space we lived near. If I needed a break, I'd find a bench and watch the moon for a while. That's not enough here. It's never dark enough and outside has too many people.

     There's ways of looking at the idea of home. The most common is probably "Home is where the heart is." That doesn't work as well as people tend to think it does. Specifically, your heart can be stolen- by a friend, romantic interest, or someone you know you can't be with. If your heart's your home and its been stolen, you'll always feel slightly out of place. You'll think about where you'd rather be and who you'd rather be with all the livelong day, and there's no good way to steal your heart back again. Your heart can also be damaged- the passing of a loved one, a breakup, addiction- and then you'll have nowhere that's quite home to you. It heals, but it takes time, and a home built on the heart didn't have the stability I wanted.

     In the Old World, I made home a place. There were a couple of benches, a spot on the roof of the church, a fallen tree over a pond, and a concrete riverbed that I could really feel at home. Those places were mine. They were wild but hospitable, and I felt more at home there than I did lying in my bed.

     That doesn't work as well here. It's never dark and I've been having trouble finding places close enough to go to to think but far enough away from everything to feel alone, all of which I need. My room has a person in it, who I tend to like, but it's still not really mine. A place that you can never feel alone in is never really yours, and you can't feel alone in a place until you don't have to worry about people walking in on you.

     It is possible to make home a person. Don't.

     I may have missed another option, but the way I see it, I was left with one choice: Home as an object. I've got a set of bracelets for ideas like this, but I didn't want something to carry with me. I wanted something to return to. Something stable. Something solid. Something safe.

     Home is where the sourdough is.

     Think about it. It's something to return to. It's something wholly mine. It's something no one else will learn how to use unless I choose to let them, and if it dies, I can make another. It has upkeep, but something to draw you home's not a bad idea. And I can carry it wherever I go, just so long as I can feed it every twelve hours.

     It's not as stable as I'd like, but I can live with instability for a few years. And it's mine. That'll be enough.

The Holy Grail

     Today I made bread.

     That's simple enough. Bread's a pretty common beginner's recipe to skin your teeth on, and I didn't know how to make it, so I decided to be normal (*gasp*) and try my luck.

     This could have been a simple story, were I not the arrogant cad I am. I decided I wanted to really push my limits. To go higher. To go farther. To go where plenty of people but comparatively few college students had gone before. I decided to make sourdough.

     There's a bit of backstory behind all this. Sourdough's difficult, and I wouldn't go after it if I didn't have a good reason. Simply put, my aunt gave me a romance novel about bread and it piqued my curiosity.(It's called Bread Alone, would totes recommend if you're into bread romance novels.) It went into great detail about levain, French artisan sourdough. Actually, I mostly ended up skipping past the romance parts and reading about the bread.(It has recipes, too. Best romance novel EVER.) Ever after reading, I knew I'd have to try to make it. First off, the descriptions of it were absolutely mouthwatering. Second, it was described as hellishly complicated and difficult. And I do so love a challenge.

     There was a problem, though. I'm gluten intolerant, and not because I think it's better for me. I stay away from gluten because I know if I'm not careful, I bleed from unfortunate places(My stomach. Get your brain out of the gutter.) and develop a completely irrational temper, of the throwing things and hurting people variety. And I'm huge. I knew I'd have to be careful on this one.

     So, I started by growing my own sourdough starter. I wasn't metal enough to pull yeast out of the air(Sourdough's pure witchery sometimes.) but I did feed yeasts until they grew old and disillusioned with the world, turning flour and water into something else entirely.

     I say there's a hint of magic in food. Sourdough's a perfect example of this. You throw a pinch of a living organism into a bowl, and then feed it every twelve hours, and are left with a completely unique acidic ingredient with properties found nowhere else. I know the alchemists of old never turned lead into gold, but maybe they were looking in the wrong place, because sourdough converting mundane ingredients into something other reminds me of nothing less than alchemy.

     It took more than the starter, of course. I had to acquire half a dozen pieces of cooking tech to be able to pull this off, and that took a while. My parents were instrumental in making this happen, because they're awesome people and could probably wrestle trolls with their bare hands if they wanted to. But this was a quest, a trial by fire, and I wasn't going to let a murderous recipe, complicated ingredients, dietary restrictions, lack of basic cooking implements and homework stand in my way.

     In the end, it took about seven hours, after I had what I needed. Most of this was watching the dough rise, I'm not gonna lie.

     It only got interesting after about six hours, when the recipe I was following called me to slide the fledgling dough into an oven turned to five hundred degrees. I've never turned an oven that high, and I'm fairly certain that's about as hot as the oven can get. The worrying only really started when I slid the dough into that inferno.

     Had I used too much millet flour? Would the water I added be enough to compensate for altitude? Was it really a good idea to follow a sourdough recipe from a freakin' fertility blog?

     It only got worse when I smelled the bread. A roommate later said it smelled like the back end of a wallaby. The worst thing was, I agreed. I'd put hours of work into this bread, and while it was cooking, a process supposed to fill the air with childhood memories and the nasal equivalent of a purring kitten, I'd gotten the back end of a wallaby instead. Suffice to say I wasn't enthused.

     And then I tried the bread. It was more than edible(A friend who can eat wheat liked it. That means a lot to those who can't.) it still wasn't what I was looking for. It, like its starter, was something other- a new kind of bread that I hadn't known existed, but I immediately decided I thoroughly liked. It carried and expanded on the warm, inviting taste of bread fresh from the oven, the added richness lending depth and character. Sourdough's kinda my baby, and I was a very proud parent.

     All that being said, it wasn't what I was looking for. As a bread it was phenomenal, but it didn't quite have what I was looking for from a sourdough, and I'm not willing to give up the chase just yet. I've got my equipment. I've grown a starter. And I'm not going to stop until the Holy Grail of gluten-free baking is within my grasp.