Sunday, October 28, 2007


THE DAY: barely october 28th 2007
THE MUSIC: Stand Beside Me; Jo Dee Messina
THE MOMENT: Ceiling fan chilly bumps. The pages blowing around on the table.

Tonight I'm sitting on the floor in Siovhan's living room. She'll read this later. (Honey you fell asleep again so don't flip if you can't remember this part of your life.) We watched a movie, a sappy girl lovin movie. Which I love shamelessly. Which I will now quote, shamelessly. K thanks.

"I think I would miss you even if we'd ever met."

Outside there are crunchy leaves, living out their last nights. Was it worth it to them? To detach from their core, fall to the ground, and drain slowly of their sudden colors... Can the tree see them fading? Or maybe their most living stems are still up there, waiting to grow new expansions, until its time to burst red, float away, and start new. And so the leaves they release are really just shells, the exterior that could no longer hold what grew within them; they were ready to let go.
Maybe they actually think its worth it.

I sit here in my slouchy pajama pants pulled up to my knees, with too much hairspray in my leftover indian braid from halloween dancin... surrounded by glittery watercolor paints. I live down the hall. I consume grits and ice cream on a daily basis.
Sometimes I feel like I can't write as well as past years because these days-- I am happy always. (Guess what: I actually think its worth it.I was ready to let go too.)
I have two anklets on my right leg and
tangerine joy nail polish on my toes. My forearms smell like aloe because I still use my after-sunshine beach lotion. My lips feel odd. I have to pee kinda. This is my life.

I found out that this weekend was BYU Preference and something within me said "You went there once. Remember who you were then?" My reflex-typer wants to tell you that this realization was a reminder of how much has been found in the last year. The truth is though, that I never forgot. I am thankful every day for the verbs in my life, the movement, the progression within me.
Though I am ready for more, and so I also shake with a restlessness, an anticipation.

vernalization (vûr'nə-lĭ-zā'shən) The subjection of seeds or seedlings to low temperature in order to hasten plant development and flowering. Vernalization is commonly used for crop plants such as winter rye and is possible because the seeds and buds of many plants require cold in order to break dormancy.

Wednesday, October 17, 2007


THE DAY: October 22nd and 23rd, 2007
THE TIME: 9:33 AM. I am awake.
THE MUSIC: The Secrets In The Telling; Dashboard.

"They say that anger is just love disappointed."
--The Eagles.

My name is Lyndsi Brown.
But I always ignore the Brown at the end because there is actually a Shae in the middle...
...which I like better.
Sometimes I theorize that that has something to do with resentment for my Father and the way his name directly affiliates me with him upon introduction.
I then quickly decide to leave the possibility of that truth floating in my subconscious.
This is because my newest energy has been intentionally devoted to forgiving my Father.
Last night I told God I was ready.
I also told him that I may not know for sure until I see my Dad again.
And so, I wait for Christmas.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"I'll steal your honey like I stole your BIKE."

Neal called.
He thought I was engaged.
Thank you Brian Fukumoto.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"If dreams are like movies, then memories are films about ghosts."
--Counting Crows

I used to have three best friends. I was in love with one of them. The other two are still here.
He asked one for my address; he wants to send me a letter.
No matter what he says, he cannot have me anymore.
And by that I mean, he cannot alter my sleep patterns or occupy my pages.
There was a night, a summer dress, a backyard, and the two of us... I reclaimed myself from him.
This morning I thought of him without fear or apology.
You were a part of who I was, but there is no room for you in who I am.
I remain uninhibited by this distance between us. Every distance.
Spread over landscapes that recede behind me, descend beneath me: you are a handful of stories-- our commemorative ashes.
As you faded, I emerged.
Until further notice, I am my own, though I am not afraid
to belong to someone else.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Is there truth in your pain? You decide."
I am the happiest I have ever been. I know my Heavenly Father understands what I have endured. None of my new friends do, and I surprisingly do not feel distanced from them because of that. I know past struggles are mostly over, and that they can be entirely over very soon. I know this joy I've found is not coincidental. I know he sees me out here. He knows me. I am thankful. I am happy. I am myself, one hundred percent.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

rusty trucks.

THE DAY: Tuesday October 16th, 2007 THE TIME: ninethirtyseven pm THE MUSIC: the temptations THE MOMENT: hallucinatory rainbows in the misty fog mountains

*Disclaimer... remember last time when I said my surroundings were mediocre? I was talking about the LRC, not provo. K thanks.*

A certain attitude is dancing around in my brain today...

I care very much about the trees.

About my Mom saying she's worried for my younger brother and when my next road trip will be.

I care to play with my friends and eat walrus-portions of ice cream on dollar-scoop Tuesday.
I care to wear flowing summery shirts that make no one in the world look fat... ever.
I care to read a book and drink apple cider and go for a walk in the rain.

I think these are lovely things to care about.
I do not, however, care about my humanities assignment due tomorrow.
Or my philosophy essays.
Or really any aspect of academia.

And so, despite the vast black holes of studying I conquered last week, I am now considered an unproductive member of society.
I would like to clarify that somewhere within me, general authorities speak.
"good, better, best..."
"mediocrity will never do... this is your time, your opportunity..."
"seek not just a degree, but a true education..."

I don't want to be the annoying slacker kid.
I do want to be the freedom child.

Oh bummer.

Also... Man Cravings. Have Mercy.

Friday, October 12, 2007

More from the LRC

THE TIME:6:28 pM
THE MOMENT: the library, involuntarily resistant.

Swore to myself I’d never get lost again

that you’d lead me home like a fire leads a siren
well I’m just lookin’ for a door that’s always open
that doesn’t need no pushin’ doesn’t need no shovin’
oh please
won’t you let me in

Swore to Myself
By Sophia.

Some songs bring a certain feeling. I don't have the word for it quite yet... or maybe I'll decide to never find that word. Regardless, this is one of those songs.
The lyrics aren't really enough for this one though.
Download it.
Hit play.
Close your eyes.
Let go.

Today I am restless.
I am wide open.
Somehow, despite my mediocre surroundings, my previous motives, my fully obligated agenda,
I am floating through my own longings.

Something within me sways from side to side.
She is a musician.
She is an artist.
She is everywhere.
She swims across the oceans, she passes through the walls, she jumps from her own eyes, off of high dive cliffs, falls freely without fear of the future.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Week 5- Brain

THE DAY: October Tenth TwoThousandAndSeven
THE TIME: ThreeFortyThreeAM-Crap.
THE MUSIC:Counting Crows (I'm imagining them)
THE MOMENT:After my Kahiliaulani. Before I go to sleep

There is so much life inside of me. I feel like there has to be more ways to set it free. The other day I was sitting in class next a love of mine: Camille. She was typing messages to me on her laptop. (Sneaky huh?) Letter by letter, I watched her spell out the insides of her brain. She said something like this.

Isn’t it funny to feel like that yet we sit here silently in class?

Like…I wonder how many people feel like that. Feel like jumping up right now and running around. Or feel like bursting into song. Or feel like crying.

I feel like that all the time. I would love to find a way to saturate my moments with the purest kind of life. No doubts, no inhibitions, just power.

There is a newspaper clipping I keep with me, a headline singing…


I’ve had it for close to four years.
Five different houses.
Four jobs.
Fifteen boys.
Two nights runningaway from home.
One change of my favorite color.
And Seven journals.

I am more free now than ever before.
Still, I long for further release.

Sunday, October 7, 2007

S u n d a y, o k n o s a y?

THE DAY: 10/07/07
THE TIME: 6:07
THE MUSIC: Tim McGraw; Taylor Swift
THE MOMENT: My new hat. My old pajamas. Bum on the bed. Laptop on the lap. A Sunday.

I have this habit of people-watching. I tend to try and interpret those in passing. Example. “Ooooo there was definitely a mysterious disposition about him” or “What an optimistic way of walking.” But sometimes I think something mean about them. No examples necessary on that one on account of it would negate my entire purpose which is as follows: lately I’ve been working on being less judgmental. Whenever I think something negative, I shove it out of my head and then pray that I can become better, that I can see them from the more loving child-of-god perspective. I’ve been getting better! However, the one thing I especially struggle with, is bleach blonde kids. Boys, girls, doesn’t matter. My head has a spaz-reaction to them. I almost want to claim that its involuntary, but I won’t because that’s a dumb cop-out.

There’s a big window in the Smith Field House that overlooks the courtyard-type area by the RB. I sit up there on a couch with my loves after aerobics while we’re waitin for Family Life to start. It’s a great time to read or write or just breathe and de-sweat your raunch-nast-aerobics self. (One time Tyler Yates walked by, personally witnessing the lyndsi-shae-raunch-nast-aerobics experience. I was almost embarrassed, but, knowing that I have surely not fooled anyone into thinking that I am the victim of perpetual glamour, I got over it pretty fast.) I was writing up there two Thursdays ago when a big group of Samoan boys walked by underneath. Oh the distraction. They were just GLORIOUSLY MANLY. Havvvvve Mercy.

Some words get on my nerves. Example. Chloe. It’s a pretty cute name to say, but annoying to read. The type of annoying that’s not too overbearing, but just agitating enough to be absolutely obnoxious. I mean c-h-l-o-e… are you serious? Something in there should tap you on the shoulder and say “Hey, I’m two syllables… just so ya know. K thanks.” Honestly. It makes me crazy.

Guess what?! The other day I was walking home from class. As I cut across the street, a boy passed in front of me. He was wearing a black t-shirt and bright blue pants. He also had those shoes with the fat tongues that poke up bravely above ankle-level. It was just BAM enough to make him unique looking, but not so much as to overpower the entire campus with some kind of arrogant sauntering implication. Without thinking I look at him and said “Alas I am truly in love.” Luckily, I‘m pretty sure I only said that in my head. And the biggest deal is… he had bleach-blonde hair! Yeah! Hellooo? Progressionnnn!!! I am getting so much better.

Today my Stephy Jay was making wheat bread. I’m talkin standing over a kitchen table covered in flour, kneading dough. Her hair was all loose around her shoulders, kinda curly. Her face was focused and kind. She was singing in and out of different country songs….
Who would not want that woman?! I feel that way about all my loves.
I often find myself wishing I could save our moments and show them to strangers.

L y n d s i S h a e

Wednesday, October 3, 2007

Love is a Battlefield.

THE DAY: Wednesday, October 3rd 2007
THE TIME: 2:14 am
THE MUSIC: Jesse's Girl; Rick Springfield
THE MOMENT: Zip up hoodies

A few nights ago, I was scrunched up in a tent all night long on a mountain.
Yes. I was.
At one point, there were anonymous animals snudging their noses at me from outside. I was the only one awake. In the morning I stuck my head out of a plastic zipper flap. I saw a sky and upside down trees. All my molecules were chilly from the air. "Hello World!" I said involuntarily.
It was a wonderfully rough feeling.

Right now I am nast from aerobics, layin out on my 102 couch, right inside of my 102 life.
Where the most valuable thing I own is a gallon of skim milk in the mini fridge.
Where my friends are very huggy and I'm unfortunately annoyed with the boy I'm kinda dating-ish but not really. Where I have a new appreciation for pineapples, rice, and going for walks. Where I tie things around my head like a ninja turtle and dance in my underwear. Where I was very opposed to the raunch couple in front of me in the library today. Who makes out in the LRC? Honestly ya'll...

One day I will be in love, and we will watch the fireworks.
I think about that some times.
I just need to say,
that even though I have no makeup on
and I smell like a sweaty kickboxer,
and I am watching a movie all by myself...
I love who I am.
And sometimes,
other people love it too.
But if they didn't, I would be okay.
I am on a revolution to be the woman I'm supposed to be.
I am strong enough to be her.
I will become.

Monday, October 1, 2007

Written after the pinapple juice.

***Ya'll might want to copy/paste this into Word... its a long one.***

There is a woman on an interstate, her arms a lonely brown from the same sun of many different towns. She rides a hard-earned motorcycle, packed with a change of clothes, a humble savings, and her last letters. There is a mysterious determination in her countenance, a scar on her right shoulder, a rip in her jeans. Her son’s green bandana flies in her hair. Though she steers toward a hopeful horizon, the sun seems to always be setting. Ears ringing with power chords from her anthems of the seventies, she drives into the night. I am this woman.

There is a woman in a city. The type of city that makes lists of top twenty _____'s. Though it bellows with the cold metallic shriek of man-made structures, scraping the sky with its screams, she finds an art that sings from within it. She sees it in the brick-wall mural of a Cajun restaurant, owned by a foreign family, long forgotten by business men a few intersections north. She feels it in the exterior vent of the high-rise apartment building that breathes warm air on sleeping homeless families. She creates it in her pawn shop guitar that leaks chords onto street corners, feeding her need for the open air. She communes with it through the faint glow of distant lights, the breeze exhaling through the alleyway, the mirror glass in the sky, the paint that squeezes from tube to life onto her layered skirts. I am this woman.

There is a woman in a tribe, atmospheres away, who paints the corners of her eyes with deep violet juices that seep from fallen fruit. Whose soul dances around a fire, to the sound of her grandfather's drum, which mirrors the heartbeats of the elk and the rhythm of the river that keep her people alive. Who knows her friends not one at a time, but by the unity of their mothers and fathers and their strings of ancestors that watch them all from a perpetually returning moon. Who knows nothing more than the dust of her paths, which blanket her wise and weary feet. I am this woman.

There is a woman running down a dirt road that is flat for miles and days. Eyelids falling, she inhales the mint fields as they clean out the oxygen beneath her skin. She closes her mind to all but the steady rhythm of her feet, knowing her love of these paths will soon become distant. The scent fades, and she senses the wheat fields that now run alongside her. Deceivingly soft and swaying, she knows their surface is painful in reality. Her history is rooted here, she wonders if this is the same dust of her past. Has that earth blown away, or is it buried deep beneath? She struggles with these questions, longing to substitute them with the peace of blank spaces. Instead, she is intercepted by the memory of the summer before the change. Stowaway corn stalks slither up through the wheat, confining her with their indifferent stares. She turns her eyes instead to the road that lies before her, knowing she is strong enough to survive her transformations. She sides with the bordering canals, soaking up the column of coolness which promises life to the dry country surrounding them. Behind her, the soft dust kicks and swirls upward, proof that she is alive and progressing in this moment. I am this woman.

There is a woman on a suburban street. Who lives with her family of seven in an oddly skinny house half the size of the newlywed's across the way. Who prefers her windows down, her music loud, and her feet bare. Who, regardless of the season, has summer in the back of her mind and is wishing for the ocean. Whose favorite drinking water is un-bottled, streaming from copper-mouthed hoses in backyards of her past. Who measures life in words and thoughts rather than square-inches and dollars. Who is strong enough to no longer love the drunken boy across the lake. Who runs against her weak legs, fueled by the pulses of her immortal longings. Who flies to and fro across the country, between two towns: one upholds a reverence for who she was, the other, a fighting faith in who she is becoming. Both have combined to transform her home from a geographical definition, into fleeting and transient resting-place that she must now keep within herself. Who knows that though most minds passing by would see her as less, she is this woman, and yet all of these women speak from within her, the anatomy of her soul.