Mmmm, Bacon

Yeah, unless you are Kameron and actually read my blog, you have no idea that I just updated this post. Except that now you do. I've updated from a first draft to the last draft that I will ever write of this poem.

On a side note, I hate peer editing. With one group one day you get feedback like, "Don't change anything, it's amazing." And then the next day with a different group you get feedback like, "Change everything, this is horrendous." For the same work. I also hate when the professor sits down and takes over the peer edit group. Professors are not peers, no matter how much they want to be. If a professor wants to give feedback, then by all means give it, but not in a peer edit session.

On another side note

Bacon is King

By Matthew Fife

The Bacon Baron rules the breakfast lands

With feasting, singing ringing in his halls.

His greasiosity coats hearts and hands

He eyes the world developing his plans,

A passion grips his mind, no one can stall

The Bacon Baron’s plot to rule the lands.

With fierce determination he expands,

A side no more but center of it all

As salads, pastas – Salt! – fall to his hands.

He crosses borders into witches’ sands

Not slowing down, his rise means others fall

To give the Baron greater rule of lands.

No food escapes the burning of his brand,

Desserts like baconuts hold men enthralled

Accepting fate delivered from his hands.

Once pow’rful hearts were free of fatty bands,

Upon our cushioned thrones we sit and sprawl

While crowning Bacon king in all our lands.

The fate of all the food lies in his hands.

Essays: Not My Favorite Things to Write

The following is an essay I wrote for my creative writing class. If you want you could assume that it's 100% true. If you really wanted to. If you read it and would prefer for it not to be true, you could assume that it's 100% not. I try to be accommodating. 

Grown Men Don't Cry

By Sir Matthew R. Fife

“It’s okay, he doesn’t have any feelings. Isn’t that right, Matt?” Brooke said.

            I sat there, trying to figure out how to respond. A million thoughts ran through my mind. I felt my face getting hot at the statement and all the previous comments said to belittle me. I knew what she wanted. An outburst. Something to show that what she had said had gotten to me.

            But I refused. To retaliate would show weakness, it would show that I cared what they thought. As the warm tears built in my eyes I fought them back with everything I had.

            With my emotions firmly in hand I replied, “That’s right.”

            There was a time in my life when an outburst would have been second nature. Tears came as naturally to me as eating or breathing. At the drop of a hat I would break down as if the end of the world had come, finding me unprepared. But I stopped.

            I don’t remember if there was a particular thought or moment when I decided that it was time to stay reserved. Growing up I kept to myself, spending hours on end with books, my only friends. No one wanted to hand out with a crybaby. By the time I was a young man I had put my childhood completely behind me, and with it my tearful ways.

            From then on it was a self-reinforcing cycle. Because I appeared in complete control and even-keeled, people would rely on me, seeking strength and comfort. The more people relied on me, the stronger and steadier I needed to be for them, and the more they would rely on me. No matter what I did I couldn’t break free, so I shackled my emotions more and more, becoming the absolute master of them, bending them to my will.

            So it wasn’t that I didn’t have emotions. Instead, I had controlled them so tightly and so completely that the more expressive and irrational of them had ceased to rebel. They plodded from day to day, eyes to the ground, broken and defeated. Sometimes when I wondered if they were still there they would bubble up, trying to force their way to the surface, and I would have to struggle against them to force them back into the corners of my soul to which they had been banished.

            I knew that they were part of me, but I did not think them important. Not then, at least.

            I was seventeen. My phone rang. On the other end of the line my girlfriend was sobbing, asking me to come over, to comfort her. To fulfill my assigned role. So I answered the call.

            When I arrived she threw herself into my arms, pulling me inside. Barney, the dog that was as old as she was, had finally reached the end. Due to an enormous amount of health problems ranging from tumors to blindness and everything in between, they had decided that there was no more need for further suffering. Barney was being put down that day.

            As I knelt on the ground beside him, one arm around my girlfriend, the other stroking Barney’s shaggy hair, the tears welled up from nowhere. The hot drops of sorrow overflowed onto my cheeks and dripped down the tip of my nose. I made no noise, simply crying silently next to my sobbing girlfriend.

            When the time came to load Barney into the back of the van to take him to the veterinarian, I pulled my tears back and stood firm, a pillar of strength to which my girlfriend clutched. The time for tears had passed, and the time to comfort others had come.

            Several months later my phone rang again. On the other end my girlfriend did not cry this time, but still requested that I come over. I thought nothing of it. She had just returned from a weeklong trip to Michigan and clearly wanted to see me.

            I first noticed that no one else was home when I stepped through the front door. Not normal, but not without precedent. I was greeted exuberantly by Gracie, her other dog that had just months before lost its best friend. Dogs have always found my company rather pleasant. I scratch heads very well.

            After disengaging me from Gracie, my girlfriend led me upstairs to her room, a place I had never gone nor wanted to go. It was the attic bedroom, a little tight, but cozy. It was a room filled with color, unlike the rest of her house. Most of the houses in the neighborhood all looked the same, leaving something to be desired in terms of aesthetic value, but this room was unlike anything else. It was comfortable.

            We sat on the edge of the bed as she told me she wanted to talk. She felt like our relationship had isolated her, keeping her from making friends. She also felt like that was my fault. I did not list off the friends that she did have regardless of dating me, though I desperately wanted to. IF my recollection still serves me like it should, she mentioned some other failings of mine before finally getting to the point. Our eight-month relationship had reached its end.

            By this point she was crying. Maybe the shock prevented it, maybe all the barriers I had erected inside my heart and mind helped, but no matter how much I wanted to, I could not cry. I had spent a significant amount of time with this girl, being more emotionally invested that I had ever been before. I just sat there, staring at the wall in front of me. I wouldn’t even look at her. She sat there beside me, facing me, silently pleading with me to react. Mustering up everything I could I managed to alter my breathing, put my head down, and squeeze out a tear or two from my unnaturally dry eyes.

            I remember saying sorry, but I’m still not sure what I was sorry about. Possibly the end of the relationship, for being smothering in her mind, or for not being able to react like she wanted me to.

            Somewhere, deep down, I know that I can still cry. I don’t know how it happens, or even why. Why should the end of the life of a dog that I had barely known affect me more than the end of one of the first significant romantic relationships of my life? I have never cried at the end of a relationship or the death of a loved one. When things break and end, I move on. Even when I sometimes wish I could unbreak what I’ve broken, when tears could be the salve that the wound desperately craves, when I want to mourn with those that mourn, I still cannot let the tears come to my eyes.

I’ve seen a lot of people cry in my lifetime of giving comfort and being an available shoulder and a pair of strong arms. I’ve lifted and strengthened and listened and helped and hugged. But emotional connection gets harder and harder with every passing moment. Somewhere in the back of my mind is a prison full of emotions begging to be fully released to run wild and free. But I am the listener, not the speaker. In my mind needing others would somehow weaken my ability to be needed.

Someone once said that grown men don’t cry. But maybe that should change. I can think of no reason why in order to be a real man one must be only emotionally receptive and never expressive. I can think of no reason why crying should be a sign of weakness. I can think of no reason why a grown man should be exactly like I am. Yet the prison doors remain barred. The chains remain strong and firmly in place. Somewhere in that deep place a part of me lies that I lost long ago, but I know if I unlock those doors I can never lock them again.

Even-keeled. Steady. Firmly under control. It’s all just another way of saying cold, distant, and inaccessible. Grown men don’t cry.

Plan C

I feel like people always tell students in the arts to have a back-up plan. While I understand the value of this, you know, being qualified to have a job after graduation and whatnot, I think they fail to realize that all of my back-up plans are just as crazy. When your back-ups include writer, hip-hop artist, street performer, professional wire sculptor, and 7-11 owner, you had better hope that your main goal doesn't fall through.

However, with the aim of getting feedback, I share my writing from time to time on this blog. Therefore, I will do that. The next three posts will be based on my writings over the past couple of weeks. I probably won't desire feedback on the haikus because I already know they are awesome. In fact, I know that I won't get feedback anyway, but at least my writing will be out there in the public domain.

The first post will be a poem. Some backstory - Several years ago, like more than five, I received a poem as a gift. I thoroughly enjoyed it. In the following poem, I don't know if I so much respond to the poem as take a line and build upon it. The poem was written with feelings (I know, rare). What you will read is the first draft of the seventh iteration, which could possibly be the seventh draft if it looked anything like its predecessors. It is dedicated to a person, but that person, if he/she chooses to read this, will know immediately that it is dedicated to them. I don't see a reason why that part should be public domain. So, without further ado, I present a poem.

Starless Nights

By Matthew Fife

One day I’ll find starry skies

And open air to live and breathe,

But in this concrete jungle

My memories of light must sustain.

From where I stand

The night sky is starless,

Empty of light without

Your sun to guide me.

I’ve seen the vastness of heaven

Dwarfed in the mirror of your eyes.

Here in my desolation,

A desert of endless sand,

Cactus, rocks, and shifting dunes.

But beneath the surface

Locked deep in the earth

Wildflower seeds wait to bloom.

Washed out by city lights

The heavens seem distant,

The stars sitting invisibly

In celestial thrones above,

But knowing they’re there

Keeps my feet firmly on the path.

From where we stood

We thought we saw everything.

We saw victory and defeat,

Life and death, love and loss.

But we could not, would not see

The future that is now present.

I is Important

I

It seems to me that it is one of the more important words in the English language. It’s also probably one of the shortest, but for fear of being proven wrong, I won’t make a definitive claim to that effect.

Sometimes I am amazed at how important it proves itself to be in daily conversation. In fact, in lots of sentences the meaning shifts entirely if you drop the I. Let’s look at some examples.

I kick the ball. (Very clear that I am the one doing the kicking. Simple present tense.)

Kick the ball. (The meaning has shifted. Instead of me kicking, I am now commanding you to kick the ball. Fascinating)

Let’s look at some more of the same thing just for emphasis.

I eat cake. (Simple present)

Eat cake. (Command)

I dance. (Simple present)

Dance. (Command)

I welcome any spiders that choose to make their abode in the shower. (Present)

Welcome any spiders that choose to make their abode in the shower. (Command)

There is only a one letter difference in the sentences. So why does the meaning change so much? Well, because you are dropping all claim to the action of the sentence, forcing it out of the home of I into the cold, dark streets of grammatical ambiguity. It needs to mean something, so it, the abandoned sentence, seeks out a home where it is welcome, just not by you. Well, actually, it is the house of you. So just not by I. At least that’s what I assume happens in the grammatical reality.

So let’s look at one more example, and this example is, in fact, what I was aiming at from the very beginning.

I love you. (Simple)

Love you. (Command)

I hate (And not for the very obvious reasons of life circumstances) when I’m walking on campus, or in a grocery store, or in the middle of a forest, and someone is jabbering away on their cellular telephone, and then they say, “Love you.” Usually in a cutish voice.  It’s so sad that they have to remind the person to whom they are talking to love themselves.  I don’t think that that type of emotional problem should be broadcast to the general public.

I know, I know (Notice, if I had dropped the “I” then I would be commanding you to have knowledge). That’s not what they mean. But that’s what they are saying. Why is one more letter so difficult? I understand that you are a woman and therefore can’t help but exude cuteness. Believe me, it’s the strongest scent on BYU’s campus (As long as you are not in a confined space in the SFH. Then it’s unwashed man scent).

I also recognize that I am nit-picking, that it is clearly a widely accepted phrase, and that it is not really all that important in the long run. But don’t you see? It is important. In our community it probably wouldn’t hurt to remind each other to love ourselves (Except the actors. Don’t tell them to love themselves. If you want to know why, put mirrors in a rehearsal room. It’s hilarious).

If you are at a point where you are professing your amorous feelings to another human being of the opposite gender (non-family), then I can say with some certainty that you are in a committed relationship. If not, then all I can do is shake my head at your lack of class and personal honor. If you can commit to love and respect someone despite the fact that they are human, then you can commit to verbally express one syllable more.

From what I can tell, love is sort of important. It’s also sort of a specific sort of thing. So why not be specific in your expression of love? Don’t make it a command. Don’t leave it ambiguous. State with pride, “I love you.” If you’re really willing to shout it from the rooftop, then show your love for her/him, as well as your love for the English language.

Love is no place for commands. Except for my favorite, “Love me.”

To Call or Not to Call

So here's the scenario. So I'm sitting there with my phone in my hand. I'm looking at the screen where I have the contact information for a lady displayed. In fact, all I would have to do to make a call is make one movement of my finger. I sit there staring at it. The screen goes to sleep. I wake it up. I stare at it some more. I notice that it says I have some notifications. I check the notifications. Just updates that I don't want to make right now. I press the back button and the contact information is on the screen again. I stare at it some more. I go shower. I come back, unlock my phone and the contact information is still on the screen. I set my phone down on the desk and stare at it. I unplug my computer, slide away from my desk, set my laptop on top of my lap, check e-mail, the Facebook, and then proceed to write a blog post.

This is not a one time occurrence. Which really makes me ask the question, Why?

I don't know. In reality I've always hated phones. Making phone calls of any kind really is not my favorite thing to do. I don't know what to do when I'm talking on the phone. Normally I pace a lot, but people stare as I agitatedly go back and forth across the floor. The last time I talked to a girl on the phone (like a conversation, not the usual, "Hey, you wanna go out?"-"Nope"-"Cool" exchange) I played a lot of spider solitaire and Mahjong Titans. When I talk to my ma I'm usually walking somewhere, doing homework, or pulling out papers and looking up data to confirm key conversation points. Some people can sit there and talk. I cannot.

Text messages are just impersonal enough for me to be comfortable with them, but you can't ask girls out via text message. With text messages I can read, reflect, and respond. I can delete what I was typing and try again. I can wait to respond if it's not a great time. I'm generally pretty good about getting back to people.

In essence, I'm really not so great at the whole human connection thing anymore. After years of perfecting my detachedness, aloofness, and after years of erecting barriers and walls, I might have unfortunately passed the point of no return (the final threshold).

You know how people always say, "Keep in touch." I don't. Like, I don't say that, and I don't keep in touch. I would be the worst pen pal in history. Except that I like writing, and writing a complete stranger is slightly more appealing than establishing bonds with a real live human (Because let's face it, unless you Facebook stalk a pen pal, thus attaching a life to the name, they're not a real person). Humans freak me out a little bit. And before you say, "But Matt, you are a human," think very carefully about whether or not that's actually true.

I feel like these could potentially be major problems. And man, have I got a long list of excuses to not bother fixing them. And yet, despite myself, I have somehow formed new connections with people that have gone beyond the superficial. I know (and have evidence) that it is possible. Maybe there are just (at least) two me's that are living simultaneous lives, one emotional and relatable, the other one more machine than man now.

But back to the phone. When I make these calls, I have not expectations. It has nothing to do with what comes before, and nothing to do with what comes after. I don't even really think about the after. It's the act of calling that I cannot do. I should just get a personal secretary who will dial the phone for me. I think that would be ideal. The secretary makes the call and says, "I have a Mr. Matthew Fife on the line for you, one moment please," and then I can continue with everything all normal like. The talking isn't the issue. I can talk. I can talk forever. I can talk about something or nothing. I can speak without saying anything or even say more than I speak. It's pressing the darned button (or the place on the touchscreen that signals to the phone that it is now time to initiate the phone call sequence).

One day I will press that button with impunity. I can do it when I call my mother (who really is the only person I call with regularity). I can do it if I have to call a man-friend. If I were dating someone I could do it no problem. But if I have to call a doctor, dentist, home teachee, potential date, or to make an appointment of any kind, well, then I cannot press the button.

So I guess if you were looking for my weakness, you now have it. If you ever want to slow me down and potentially completely derail and disable me, require me to make a phone call. There's almost nothing I can do about it.