The Macey's Report

I should just get to the point, which is, as always, Macey's, but I'm going to dawdle along the way.

I went to ThirdMango's tonight to heckle the sinners. And by sinners I mean people intelligent enough to figure out the rules of poker. I got there to find Asmond and 3M's roommate watching 3M play some Japanese video game. After he rolled over the world (or something like that), they pulled out the table to play poker. And somehow I got sucked in.

MorningGlow and Asmond's friend came over long enough for me to almost embarrass myself. (Complete embarrassment would require my caring about the game.) And then came the Macey's run.

We walked into Macey's and there he was--The Macey's Guy. I had gone last night planning on talking to him if I saw him. Tonight I had the same plan in mind, but he beat me to it.

We chatted for a few minutes. He's applying to English grad programs in literary theory. And he had noticed that I had been in Macey's often.

Apologetic

I deleted a post. Maybe this goes against all the rules of blogging, but I suppose it can be done in rare and necessary cases.

What I wrote last night was a severe case of what I wrote not matching up with what was in my head. I made connections and leaps that weren't there for you to read and for that I apologize.

I do believe in God. But believing in God (for me) is tied to, however tenuously, believing in myself and in other people. This past semester I've been talking to some of those other people the way I used to talk to God--not really praying, but the sense of apostrophe that we were all so proud to know in high school English classes. It's not so much postmodernism--I refuse to accept that label--as it is erasing boundaries between God and the absent, boundaries that I realize now are necessary and have to be constructed again in my mind.

I don't pretend to have a monopoly on sorrow. I do have a monopoly on my sorrow and my mind. I don't pretend that other people don't have problems or that mine are somehow more important or to a greater degree. Last night was me trying to figure out myself, not God or anyone else. I suppose, however, that those conversations are best kept private.

My apologies.

Orange you glad?

Cheesy title, I know, but absolutely necessary. Why am I so happy? Hmm. Let's see.

Is it because I bought a(nother) Szymborska collection today? No. Close, but no.

Is it because I went to Mimi's today with Kapka? Nope.

Is it because I watched Grease 2 and am now watching the rest of Grease? Don't make me laugh.

Is it because I came home and my house smells like whatever the hell they were painting with? Oh wait. That's a bad thing.

Is it because Melyngoch and I were in the same room for five hours and the universe didn't implode? That's actually a cause for rejoicing, not just gladness.

"Haul ass, kid." Good advice. Enough with the suspense.

Despite the fact that I left Fob an hour or two later than usual tonight, I decided to keep up my habit of stopping at Macey's to grab something to drink and, let's be honest, see if TMG is working. I was determined to talk to him tonight.

But he wasn't there.

I headed to the drink aisle, and decided that tonight called for something a little stronger than Dr. Pepper. Or maybe it's weaker. I don't know. But I decided on Apple Beer in honor of Sven (the kid loved it so much that he painted the logo on his wall). Macey's did have Apple Beer, but the drink aisle was all rearranged. I was checking out their new selection and there--crammed in with all the EANABs (equally attractive non-alcoholic beverages)--was ORANGINA. In both glass bottles and cans. I was so happy I kissed a bottle.

Life is good. Now I'm going to get high and watch John Travolta. Ew.

tolerable

I escaped. Ran away. To Provo. Sad, but true. After all, I am paying rent right now. I might as well take advantage of an empty house in return for a few days' peace.

Grades were due today at noon. I've been working on them when I felt like it the past few weeks. Yesterday at noon I still had fifteen research papers to grade and a bunch of "minor" points to figure out. Around five o'clock I realized that I had left four research papers in Provo, so I drove back around 8:00. Why the hell am I giving you the play by play? The end of the story is that I turned my grades in at 2:30 this morning--and again, the play by play. Good grief. Moving on.

Watched Intolerable Cruelty with ThirdMango last night. Brilliant film. Not a romantic comedy, thank heavens. Coen brothers. And apparently I've lost the ability to write in complete sentences.

Ladies, gentlemen, and deities, I would like to introduce you to dancingqueen. She is the latest edition to my happy little home. Wait. Scratch that. My life. No happy, no little, no home. Maybe little. I don't know. Anyway, dancingqueen is my Christmas present, my birthday present, my next year's Christmas present, and a decent sized chunk of what used to be my savings account. She is my new laptop. She'll be replacing. . . I guess my desktop doesn't have a name, although it does have a Snoopy cartoon. Hmm. For a while I was determined that dq was a boy computer because I was determined to have some male companionship this next year. But then I read Melyngoch's diatribe on chivalry (okay, so it wasn't really a diatribe, but it's such a good word) and decided that male companionship is overrated. Plus she decided her name is dancingqueen. Granted, that doesn't necessarily make it a "she." Maybe we'll just leave it at "it."

P.S. Saule, next time I'll let you open the door for me. Dancingqueen can't. No opposable thumbs.

Does it show again?

Warning: I (finally) got ABBA Gold for Christmas, which means I am listening (and dancing) to it incessantly. Because there is nothing else to do here. Nothing, from the Greek not and the Danish hing, meaning "Your life when you come home after a semester of working your rear end (can't say ass at home) off and now you just sit around watching the theatrics of home life."

Don't go wasting your emo--tions. Lay all your love on me.

Yesterday passed in a dreamlike haze. Mostly because I spent most of it asleep. Up at 7:15. Opened presents. Decided to take a "nap" at 9:30. Up at 11:00 for church at 11:30. Church, lunch with grandparents. Nap around 3:00. Up at 6:30 when my father came to tell me I couldn't spend the entire day asleep. I disagreed, but obliged long enough to watch Sister and her fiance open more presents. Short nap again. Up again for. . . don't remember why this time. Probably no good reason.

We were supposed to call my brother (on a mission in the Ukraine) at 9:00 p.m. His "not-girlfriend" E came over for the joyous occurence. My mother, to quote another mother we all know and love, "really likes that girl." She is not-so-subtley manuevering to have E as a daughter-in-law in the next two years or so. Add that to Sister and Fiance who still have not yet accomplished that stage in their relationship where they can stand to be around each other without touching each other and my 15-year-old brother wearing the fleece blanket his not-girlfriend gave him for Christmas, and it's been all I can do to not scream out in pain. Agony and pain. Pain and agony. Is there another word for it? No. No there isn't. I just don't belong in this world. I belong in my happy academic world where there is no puppy love and no mothers who really like that girl or this boy and absolutely NO TOUCHING.

Keyboard smoking. Again. That and my sister (not Sister) has effectively drown out the sweet sounds of "S.O.S." with the Entertainer on her new keyboard. Which includes dogs barking and horses trotting and a damn flute that for some reason always sounds sharp.

I heard the *BEEP* on Christmas day

So I officially started the holidays off right today by swearing at my little sister when she woke me up at 7:00 a.m. with a dog that barks. . . some dreadful Christmas carol. Carol of the bells it was not. I then managed to offend my mother by not exclaiming over every present I opened, a la Sister. (Oh my gosh! *psychotic cackle*) I did get excited over the last present--a fondue pot (New Year's Eve. . . what do you think?). And then I went back to bed. Happy Christmas.

_____underscore which represents (I'll let the Fobs finish this)____

Things I am officially declaring war on: the word "babe" and the phrase "cuddle buddy," chocolate dipped marshmallows, snow pants, Fresca, etc., etc., etc.

And now I'm going back to sleep. Cheers.

Manifestations of Deity, or Fob #4

In the comments section on my last post, it was established that Melyngoch and I, editorgirl, are in fact deity. I would, however, like to clear up a few misconceptions.

Master Fob: It's unfortunate, but Melyngoch and editorgirl pose a threat to the universe when they are in the same place at the same time because they are both incarnations of the deity known as Fob #4. (Sorry, eg, it's not your fault you're number four--Melyngoch was the fourth to join, so blame her.) I suspect, though, that it's safe for them to occupy the same part of the blogosphere at the same time without causing any galactic implosions.

editorgirl: Melyngoch and I have, in fact, at different times, occupied the blogosphere, blue-beta, and the fobcave simultaneously. The universe is safe. . . as long as we're kept happy and, well, contained. We can also establish the fact that both beings known as Fob #2 have been in the same room (same hot tub, I believe) without dire consequences.

Master Fob: You are not deities, you are a deity. Two incarnations of the same deity, just like there are several incarnations of Avalokitesvara, Buddha, or Madonna.

editorgirl: Considering that we exist simultaneously, I would propose that Melyngoch and I are not, in fact, incarnations of Fob #4, but manifestations of Fob #4, similar to the division of Artemis and Selene in Greek mythology. She is Artemis on earth and Selene in the skies. Fob #4 actually manifests herself in two different beings which can be divided if and when necessary. E.g., one is a medievalist, one is a contemporary scholar. One is dark-headed, one is blonde. Etc.

Thirdmango: Two heads on one body perhaps? Ancient mythological demon, the evil foreboding Melyngirl.

editorgirl: As already mentioned, we do not occupy one body. Furthermore, we are neither evil, nor foreboding. At least not all the time.

Tolkien Boy: I have both imbibed caffeine and sworn casually around my brother, who has similar hangups. So far, the universe is still ordered.

editorgirl: I believe, TB, that the meeting of multiple manifestations of both Fob #4 and Fob #2 within the same week must cause you to retract your final statement. The universe is not in order; however, the Fob pantheon still stands.

back in the atmosphere

It's 10:41. p.m. Evening. If I open the blinds, it's dark outside. Well, it would be dark if it weren't for the damn street light on the corner.

I'm sitting at my desk. Bottle of cherry vanilla Dr. Pepper, almost gone. Bag of Reese's pieces, also almost gone. "Drops of Jupiter" playing with enough static that if I cared more I'd do something about it. Pile of bills. My checkbook. Dead ink cartridge. Post-it notes. The filing cabinet is open with fifty brand-new hanging files waiting to hold something.

Funny how typing random things will make you think. I'm multi-tasking tonight. I'm thinking about finishing the task of organizing my study, how that will mean that next I have to organize my room, about inviting A to lunch tomorrow, about the cost of groceries, about how everyone leaves, and now about holding someone.

I'm getting used to sitting in my study working, trying to get my music loud enough that it doesn't distract me too much but still covers Sister and her fiance's whispering and giggling and laughing and kissing. I keep reminding myself that it will go away. They get married in a few weeks. I'll get a new roommate. Sister is on the LGN (look good naked) diet/exercise routine. I'm on the who-gives-a-damn diet, as detailed above.

LittleSister sent me an e-postcard today. She's excited for us (Sister and me) to come home, but she asked me to not fight because it makes her sad. For the record, and because I can't say it to her, I never set out for home planning on fighting, although it often happens. Oddly enough, being at home intensifies all the loneliness and worthlessness and depression(ness) I feel so often in Provo. Shouldn't it be the other way around? Anyway, I mentioned it to my mother, who added LittleSister's other two worries, swearing and caffeine. I promised to avoid both as much as humanly possible.

Back to cleaning. Sometimes I just wish I were somewhere else. The moon, maybe.

From HMP's archive: 30 November 2004

I just found this. I think I must be trapped in some cycle. Big surprise.

You fiend. I start to think you're normal and then you throw this at me. Thank you. But while I'm posting, I just want to note that this conversation did not start because of depression or confusion. It started b/c I foolishly confessed that I was closing up. And although this may lead to another dialogue I'm not ready to participate in, I was thinking that you and I do the same thing in the opposite directions. You attempt (forgive my paraphrasing) to offend everyone so that they cut you off. I find base reasons for dismissing people because, to reverse your appraisal, if I cut you off then you won't cut me off. And poof. My extreme sense of self importance is saved.

Question: Does e.g. stand for "for example" or "editorgirl"? Either way, you should have seen me at Thanksgiving. I spent most of my time reading, in the kitchen, or hiding in my car with a (gasp) contraband bottle of Dr. Pepper. How the mighty will fall.

Santa's workshop

Shopping, shopping, shopping. After the extravaganza with Kapka on Monday, I didn't think I would be able to bring myself to shop again this season. But necessity demanded it--I needed file folders so that I can organize my study tonight and I had dropped some film off at Inkley's yesterday and needed to pick up the pictures and I needed CD-RWs for the great inscape. So I climbed into the Muffy car and drove myself to University Parkway. Picking up the pictures was easy. Then on to Best Buy, where I grabbed a pack of CD-RWs, a Queen CD (for Sister), and talked myself out of a million other items.

My next (and final) stop was Office Depot. Which is right next to MediaPlay. Which is having a going out of business sale. I always feel a little bad about buying things at going-out sales. It seems. . . mean spirited. Like you're celebrating the death of someone's hard work and dreams. I contemplated this for about 2.5 seconds and then walked into the store. I left an hour later with Oklahoma! with Hugh Jackman for my brother, and Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead, Spellbound, Wait until Dark, and Arabian Nights for me. Oh, and dog stickers for LittleSister. I have a feeling that tomorrow I'm going to re-enact the scene from It's a Wonderful Life with George Bailey shouting "Where's the money?!?" but tonight I'm quite pleased with myself.

And, for the record, my holiday shopping is done. Almost. But I won't see M and F until after Christmas, so I'm waiting until then.

Stay tuned for tomorrow when I deliver that classic story, "The Night editorgirl attmepted to organize her study."

It's a comedy.

we close our eyes

I have a best friend. Actually, I have quite a few people who fall under the "best friend" label. Which completely negates the idea of a superlative, but who cares? But this best friend. . . we started out on the same path, with the same idea: English major, grad school, marriage someday. I stayed on the path. She got married at 18. Her husband is now in grad school (MA/PhD track) and they have a 10-month-old daughter.

We met for lunch today. First time we've met for a year. And I didn't have much to say. We live in completely different worlds now. I didn't want it to be that way and eventually we did work up to a rapid fire discourse similar to years past. But my life revolves around me and my work--so does hers. Except her work is her daughter and husband.

Is this just the natural side effects of becoming adults? I had to wonder what she needed to know about me. One year is a long time. It's longer than a lifetime.

One Day More

Last night I was terrified. Those scenes where girls are running through dark narrow hallways alone, but they're not alone because there's a man with a knife or a chainsaw running after them? Yep. Nothing on last night.

Yesterday was shopping with Kapka. Never thought I'd put those two words together in a sentence fragment, but shopping with Kapka it was. And we were marvelous--in, out, purchased, wrapped. Now I just need to find her something.

Then came the one hour break where I nervously anticipated the rest of the night, which began at 6:00 at the Training Table. I'm not really a casually-hang-out-with-people-I-barely-know kind of girl. My acquaintances are many, but the people I'll break bread with? Not so much. But I knew at least a few of the people going and I did want to meet a few more of the people coming, so I nervously drove over to TT. Of course I was the first one there. Of course I was setting multiple mental alarms. And of course I stayed and eventually had a great time. Until someone suggested we move the party elsewhere. We were down to eight people (yes, that actually was the small group). And then I hear this voice suggesting her house. And then I realize the voice is mine.

I gave everyone my address, booked it for the car, and then frantically called my sister. Who was shopping and couldn't hear a word I said. So I called my mother. Something about people coming over and I didn't have any food and no games or anything (even though I knew Latro was bringing the games). She attempted to calm me down. I attempted to calm me down. Whatever.

Suddenly, eight people in my house--and I didn't have to play hostess. Katya and Duchess played the piano, 3M and Asmond fought over the bean bag, and Squeaker, well, squeaked. (Saule and Latro stood around looking very manly.) It was your regular, rather dreadful, Mormons-in-Provo-night-of-hanging-out: Apples to Apples, Taboo, and Do you love your neighbor?

It was wonderful.

My therapist will be so proud.

Sanctuary

Too much down time is never a good thing. I think too much, but not productive thinking--my thoughts just circle morbidly around dreadful topics. I found myself spiraling in that direction today and decided to claim sanctuary in the form of my grandparents' house. I called to see if they were home and was immediately invited to dinner. You can't pass up free food, so I went.

When I spend time away from them, I forget how wonderful my grandparents are. My grandfather got his PhD in education (I want to say from Oklahoma, but I could be wrong) and then did his post-doc at UC-Berkley in the 60s. My grandmother was--and I think, is--incredibly beautiful. The only problem was that once they settled in Utah Valley, my grandmother refused to move again. And Utah Valley didn't appreciate my grandfather's progressive (and at times political) views of education, which limited him to teaching math and being a principal and a school counselor. Limited is the wrong word because when you hear his students talk about him, he gave a lot of them a fresh outlook on life, a view that took them out of Utah Valley. But in his mind, he's a failure. In both of their minds, my grandparents are just silly old people living out their lives. They never see how wonderful they are. And because of that, many of their children and grandchildren don't see how wonderful they are.

Tonight we had dinner and talked for a while. (My grandfather informing me that (1) I don't need to rush into marriage and (2) if I'm wondering about any "fat little boy," I just need to bring him around and my grandfather can tell me if the flb is a keeper or not.) I mentioned leaving and received two "Don't leave yet"s. It was kind of nice to be wanted, so I stuck around playing with the toy train. I lay down on my stomach so that I could see the cars as they went behind the Christmas tree. I think Grandma forgot that I could hear (and that I'm 22); she was pointing out how cute I was to Grandpa.

I am cute. And now I'm going to take my cute little self into my room to read a book. Good night.

from Possession

Tonight, he began to think of words, words came from some well in him, lists of words that arranged themselves into poems, "The Death Mask," "The Fairfax Wall," "A Number of Cats." He could hear, or feel, or even almost see, the patterns made by a voice he didn't yet know, but which was his own. The poems were not careful observations, nor yet incantations, nor yet reflections on life and death, though they had elements of all these. He added another, "Cats' Cradle," as he saw he had things to say which he could say about the way shapes came and made themselves. Tomorrow he would buy a new notebook and write them down. Tonight he would write down enough, the mnemonics.

He had time to feel the strangeness of before and after; an hour ago there had been no poems, and now they came like rain and were real.

A.S. Byatt, 515-516

This is my song!

Done. Wrote my last paper. Presented my last presentation. The first semester of my graduate career has come to a close.

Now what do I do?

Macey's run

It's amazing how many things can make you sad.

He used to wear a black leather jacket. It was winter when we dated, a good, heavy, snowy winter and so when we got in the car, you could smell the wet leather. It's a smell I always associate with him--and I smelled it tonight. I was sure of it.

I went to Macey's tonight, saw The Macey's Guy. Still didn't talk to him. I stood staring at the Christmas candy, trying to decide if I wanted to. I did want to. But he--a different he this time, than TMG or he-of-the-black-leather-jacket--he worked at the local grocery store. I would go there to run into him. He'd bag my groceries and walk me out to my car so that we could talk.

It doesn't bother me that I'm single. What bothers me is that my romantic experiences total two and both of those happened nearly five years ago. I listen to people list off the number of people they've dated--I listen to my now-engaged sister list off the number of people she's dated--and I want to know why everything stopped. Why suddenly

Maybe it wasn't so sudden. Maybe it was the one fluke of my life, that two guys were attracted to me in a one-year period. Maybe this is the way it's supposed to be. I've never been able to believe people who are so sure I'll get married soon--or ever. Because why would everything suddenly change? So here's the plan: I'm going to live my life this way, alone. And you can come say hi to me and I'll be happy to see you. But I won't expect you to stick around. I'll understand when you say good-bye, or even when you just stop calling because it seems the nicer way to do things. And I'll keep my pictures of you, maybe on the wall, maybe in the box under my bed. Your nose or long fingers or gold-red hair will find their way into poems, but you'll never really exist for me again, just as a composite that I keep around, that "you" I write poems about and am addressing now. And someday that "you" will leave too.

Good night.

unmanned

"I write poetry. . . and I've never been in love." Kapka

"I am two fools, I know, for loving, and for saying so in whining poetry." Donne

518 final last night, poetry reading style. One student chose not to give a very long bio, so Dr. Howe provided one for him through the poetry he had workshopped this semester. It made me wonder what my bio would be if people based it on what I wrote.

"If love is the answer, could you repeat the question?" Lily Tomlin

"May I admire you again today?" Duckie

Someone has been persistently asking who my "crush of the day" is. And I keep telling this someone that I don't have one. I realized this was primarily the result of staying at home and working on papers (which I should be doing right now). So today I got out. Periodicals baby. And I decided Master Fob is right.

"You will end up childless and alone."
"Well, fingers crossed, yeah." About a Boy

"Speak, cousin--'tis your cue. Or if you will not, stop his mouth with a kiss and let him not speak neither." Beatrice

By way of explanation

They turned the water off today for. . . something. They forgot to turn in back on. When we discovered this, it became my responsibility to figure it out. Because if you are dating/engaged and female, you are exempt. So my cousin (male) and I fixed the problem as best we could, while the cousin's girlfriend (aka my roommate) and my engagged sister went to bed.

No, I'm not bitter.




Oh wait. Yes. Yes I am.

Dance Party!

Unfortunately it's only in my head.

Overrated: changes of heart

Fact: I like my brother-in-law-to-be. I like him when he is changing lightbulbs and fixing my computer and killing spiders and making my sister happy. I don't like him when I wake up at 9:00 (a.m.), wander to the bathroom, and find him in my kitchen (which can be seen on the way to the bathroom).

Fact: I decided OrneryGuy wasn't so ornery. Maybe just misunderstood. Struggling with not being the class/staff genius. I decided to be nice to him, to encourage him (yes, this is all terribly patronizing, but what are you going to do?). And then I get my final workshop responses back from him. I would quote it, but then I would have it here forever and I'm planning on burning the damn thing. But he begins by telling me that he thinks workshop would be much better if we were all more honest (e.g., we should tell him he sucks as a poet so that he can just stop working--his idea, not mine). So he's going to be honest with me and tell me that I should stop working on "things incommon" because it has and will never have any redeeming value. Oh, and "Captions" is an exercise in futility. And his final "constructive criticism"? "EG, were you born in a museum?" Damn him. Damn. Damn. Damn.

I was going to stop there, but it isn't happening today. I have all these stupid, idealistic theories and beliefs that I adhere to in my life. One is that if you work hard enough at anything you will be successful. I know this isn't a fact--it's just what I want to believe. The other is that if you believe enough in people, they will start to believe in themselves and in others. So I'm an ass. A quixotic ass. And I wind up being disappointed with people occasionally. But this. . . it wasn't out of kindness or honesty. It was just plain meanness. I want to kick him in the shins. But let's face it--I'll see him tomorrow night at the final and just smile and clap and be pleasant to his girlfriend (who is too cool for him). And then I'll rant to anyone foolish enough to stand still for a moment.

Excuse me. My keyboard is smoking.

Blame Tolkien Boy

Bring on the men and let the fun begin. A little touch of sin, why wait another minute?

I really can't type another word. My brain had emptied itself into a 20-page pile of vapid wasteland. Not that any of those words really belong together. And now I need to doctor my 610 group's powerpoint so that we don't completely embarrass ourselves tomorrow. (Although, I must say, writing a paper while preparing a group presentation is the way to go. No one bothers you, no one asks your opinion. They just keep their distance while you go type-type-typety-type.)

None of this, by the way, is TB's fault. I just felt like saying that.

guilt trip

The. Paper. Still. Is. Not. Done. That being said, I'm not too worried. I know what comes next and I finally figured out why I was having such a hard time writing. I can only write (academically) in two situations: complete silence or louder-than-most-people-can-stand music. One of my best papers during my undergrad was written with Matchbox 20 blaring. It drove my roommates brilliant. Last year the solution was headphones (okay, earbuds, but that just sounds silly to me). I'm continuing the tradition with this paper and it's working. Thus far.

All that being said, I'm still having a hard time focusing. Despite a good friend figuring out sadness, I'm sad. I'm missing someone and I'm not sure I'm allowed to miss them. So then I miss them and feel guilty about it.

I'm tired of being alone. I like being independent though. Can you be independent and not alone?

PA: Procrastinators Anonymous

Except you all (for the most part) know who I am. Oh well, it was a nice idea. And by nice I mean silly, stupid, and a waste of finger-typing energy.

I have to do it. It refers to multiple things, but most importantly in this case, my paper. I hate every word I've typed so far and I'm starting over. Which means I have to do it. Disconnect my internet.

Goodbye, cruel world.

What I Like About You

The danger of me not having a roommate on hand is that something like this happens and I run to tell my blog.

I was at Hollywood Video, a hangover from last year. (And yes, Kapka, I know I should be writing my paper. I'm tired of my paper. I needed a break.) Anyway, I'm at Hollywood and I'm in line with my movie. It was a long line, back between the aisles and I was standing next to the Drama section. I glanced over and there was this guy, sitting in between the shelves, deciding on movies. Dark hair, dark eyes, beard, blue and grey sweater, brown pants. And I just thought, that's the type of guy I'm looking for. The type who sits down to think about what movie to rent. At least when the store isn't too busy.

Sigh. Back to the paper.

I can't avoid it anymore.

English 452. Class of death. Actually, I like my professor. I like most of my classmates. I even liked some of the reading. I just didn't understand it as well as I would have liked to. And now. . .

20 page paper. Due Monday.

This marks the first reading day I have ever actually spent reading. Benjamin, Brecht, Mura, JSTOR. We've all become good friends today.

"I have people I consider soul mates who don't confide in me this much."

Here's what I'm thinking: Mura says that he doesn't find a place for himself as a poet in the traditional English literary tradition. "I have to imagine myself." But how can a poet effectively accomplish this task? By establishing and acknowledging a dialectic such as those Benjamin sets up in his essays on surrealism and Brecht. A poet must take him/herself (the thesis), combine it with the outside world (the antithesis)--whether this is politics or economics or whatever, I don't care--in order to write a poem that extends to an audience greater than the poet (the sythesis). My professor wants me to act as the theorist, so I feel comfortable using my own poetic experiences to relate how me + religion or feminism has created effective poetry.

And now no one will comment because I'm not complaining about my unfulfilled sex life.

I spy with my little ear. . .

. . . Okay, so it doesn't quite work.

I've been talking with Kapka about our 518 final. We have to give a poetry reading. (Invitation only, so I'm inviting people I don't like or who have to love me anyway.) Since I've done, oh, two poetry readings in my life, including last week's Poetasters Shindig, I'm suddenly the expert. But here's the one thing that I did learn, from SHowe, before I read and that I've noticed "professional" poets doing.

Give your audience something to listen for. It keeps their attention, makes them invested in the poem as you're reading. It's an audio Where's Waldo?

And as for the visual, just look hot while reading. ;)

Bah.

Humbug.

I like the snow. I like Christmas. I like angels and presents and stars and wings and lights. I even suspect I would like mistletoe if I ever had a proper encounter with it.

The Christmas season begins, officially, on Saturday for me. The WC (not water closet) Christmas party. Every year it's a brunch at Little America, which means gluttony to the nth degree. My brothers load up on eggs and bacon and sausage. Sister loads up on fruit, etc. And I sit happily with my cup of hot chocolate chatting with my dad's secretary, who is one of the greatest women in the world. After eating comes presents and Santa Claus. I know I blogged about this last year, but they finally decided that "older" offspring don't have to sit on Santa's lap in order to get their present. Hooray, etc.

This year will be weird, though. Sven is gone and Sister's Fiance will be there.

And until then and beyond then, the end of the semester beckons. Like Kapka calling for you while hanging upside down over the stairs. Not that that has ever happened before.

I always felt sorry for Max.

For your viewing (reading?) pleasure, two 115 anecdotes.

On Friday (Was it Friday that this happened? Have I already told you this story? Hmm.) On Friday, I needed five minutes to finish my lesson plan. The problem was class had already started. So I decided we were doing a rushwrite. On Christmas. A rushwrite on Christmas. When I wrote it on the board, they (they being my students) all just stared at me. I stared back. Finally someone asked if I was serious. Of course I was serious. I'm always serious. Most of the time. But that day, I was serious. I wanted to hear from them about Christmas. And if they didn't feel like writing about Christmas, they were going to march out to the quad, join hands around the Christmas tree, and sing the "Yah-Who-Dor-Ay" (who knows how to spell that?) from The Grinch Who Stole Christmas. Deem.

Today I was boring. Well, not boring. Just not exciting. I think my students respect me and all that jazz, so they don't mind when I'm a little off. Today, however, was an exception to every rule. (Which makes it grammar. . .) I was chatting away when I realized that most of the class was looking at the window with expressions ranging from joy to pain on their faces. The pain I'm used to, but the joy threw me. So I joined them in looking out the window. It was snowing. At 9:15 a.m. And it hasn't stopped. Yah-Who-Dor-Ay indeed.

Revelations

Fact: Taking medication with Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper is not a good idea. Because when you burp, the taste of the meds come back to haunt you. This probably applies to the majority of carbonated beverages.


I've been running little moments through my head. They're kind of nice, so I thought I might share. Some are recent, some not so much. All are wonderful.

The first time I met Kapka. She was poetry editor, I was a wannabe staffer. She asked me to read a poem, but would only refer to me as "scarf girl." Too bad it didn't stick.

Hugging CRad at his mission farewell. Because I don't hug people. And neither does CRad. Oh yeah. And he's short.

The april when oh!resolution and HMP were discussing the possibility of selling their testicles on the black market. And me terrified that my roommates were going to come home.

The first time I read Joe's poem "Why the Virgin Mary hangs in my bedroom."

Last year's Christmas decorations. I think I have a picture somewhere. . . and definitely a post about it.

The april at K's while my roommates decorated for Christmas. I kept getting messages from different roommates saying "It wasn't my idea." I finally got annoyed and answered the phone with "What the hell is going on?" And a rather timid male voice said, "I'm not sure." It was a poor unsuspecting guy from the ward who had stopped by and been asked to call me.

Last night's Fob. It was pretty much perfect. At least, I was smiling.

Tell me about myself

This isn't an invitation, but an idea I've been tossing around in my head lately. I don't know how to write about myself. I mean, I can write out ideas and agonies here, but giving facts about myself is an incredibly difficult task. My bios always turn out silly and forced, and if you ask me how eg is doing or what eg is thinking, I can't tell you. Because I would have to sort it all out, analyze it, and then get back to you. And whatever I come up with comes out in pieces.

In my poetry workshop someone (okay, I know exactly who it was, but I don't want to incriminate the person) suggested that we should each write in the style of another student in the class. There are seven of us; in my head I often divide us up as two grad students, two seniors (who deserve to be there), two juniors (who don't), and the returning student (who has never really written poetry, but who I enjoy most of the time in class). I can go through and tell you marked aspects of their poetry: tone, style, voice. But I have no idea how to describe mine. It feels so varied; each poem is a completely different experience. And yet, like this blog, it does have a vein running through that I can't identify--perhaps because it's me. (And yes, I do know how cheesy that sounds.)

Almost every time I go to Macey's late at night (meaning after 12:30 a.m.), I see this guy. We had a class together last winter, sat next to each other, and became the peanut gallery of sorts. Then we ran into each other at graduation in August. I think I may have blogged about it, but we began a running commentary on graduating in the humanities at BYU, mostly to entertain ourselves and then realized that we had an audience--and kept going. It was one of the few moments in my life when I clicked with someone: we were on the same level mentally and (dare I say) emotionally. We were even.

But when I see him at Macey's, I don't say anything. I'm not even sure if he sees me, although I know he'd know me if I said hi. But I don't.

Purge. . .

There was no bingeing. Bingeing would have been fun. Only purging today.

So this medicine I'm on, I was warned it might highten the depression symptoms during the first week or so that I took it. I thought that would mean the crying or the tired-ness. I've done those before. I can do those. But that part hasn't really changed--actually, I haven't cried in two whole days. What has been affected is my attention span and general scatteredness. I was having some problem with this before the meds, but now it's a little out of control. And it's having an adverse effect on my teaching. I tried to grade papers last night. Couldn't focus to save my life. It took me over two hours to grade three papers. I usually can do between five and seven in an hour.

And then I taught today. The odd thing is I know I wasn't bad. I just wasn't completely there. I kept getting distracted by the guy in the back who feels the need to charm the girls who sit around him. And the chalk. The chalk is dreadful and today it got on my pants and it was white and it cakes on my fingers and I hate it.

Do I just tell my students what's going on? Would that totally destroy my control of the classroom? Do I tell my professors what's up? My doctor actually asked if I wanted him to write a note so that I could drop out for the rest of the semester. I just looked at him in horror. I'm not there yet. I've done this before, I can do this again.

And now I'm going to go create a final.

This conversation will stop / in seven minutes.

Drama, drama, drama. Actually, a lack of. But we'll pretend it was drama.

Just got back from inscape. I love inscape--I really do. (This isn't like the time I kept telling my best friend I was happy that she was getting married but really wasn't happy at all. I wonder how many of my "issues" stem from that experience.) I love inscape, but I'm growing weary of that group. I feel like I'm baby-sitting rather than actually accomplishing things. (Note: This does not apply to Kapka. Kapka is wonderful. She is part of the trinity. She is--in fact--a goddess.)

I was putting the *fingers-crossed* finishing touches on inscape tonight. Next door I can hear my poetry staff not reading or discussing poetry, but talking relationships and phone calls and saying all the asinine things that make me want to leave Provo. It made me sad. I always want to believe that people who are on staff think like I do. And then I realized that no one things like I think--thank heavens.

Sister is yelling on her cellphone. Actually, Sister rarely yells. She just speaks forcefully and with an edge to her voice that is actually blunt and ramming into the lister's head. I try to avoid having this voice used in my direction. It scares me. And then I curl up like a wounded animal waiting for someone to put me out of my misery.

Let's end on a happy note, shall we? My senior year of high school I was an associate editor for the newspaper. It sounds silly now, but it was important then. The staff was split into two staffs after the first term so that we could put out a paper ever two weeks with the staffs leapfrogging each other. I was sneaky and gave Annie all the guys she wanted--seniors--for her staff and "humbly" took most of the juniors for my staff. I knew that the seniors would stop caring and my staff would keep working to the end of the year. (I was right, by the way.) So the point of telling you this. My senior year I had a group of "junior boys." They were wonderful, smart, funny guys who were great to hang out with, wrote well, etc. They were the group who were offended that I hadn't been asked to prom my senior year. And they are the people I really still want to see from high school, with the exception of a handful of people in my own class.

I still haven't gotten to the point, have I? Hmmm. Well, the point is that I saw Callan today, my favorite of the junior boys. I haven't seen him since well before his mission. He just got back. And he's an English major. It was a good seven minutes.

I'm not sure what I am

People were wondering where I was yesterday--I missed English 600, which is a fun class only because some of my favorite people are there. I explained my doctor's appointment. I only told LadyJane why the doctor's appointment. She was surprised--I don't strike her as being someone dealing with problems.

I don't feel that I have many problems. My biggest "problem" is that I can't be happy, that I don't know how. There's always an undercurrent of sadness and lately I've been drowning in it.

This is so trite and cliche to write. But it's where I am. Does that "but" effectively negate all my ineffective comments? Probably not.

I was going to write about my crusade to save the personal essay in 115 (okay, really only righteous indignation, but I can escalate it). But I don't care anymore. I don't want to care.

"I always care. I don't always know."

This is what it is to be broken.

broken

Live a life less ordinary
Live a life extraordinary with me

Don't give me that look. This is not going to be another editorgirl musical production. Just a few lines. I'll leave the productions to my brother, the singing wonder. I ran up to Bountiful for a few things today. As I was leaving. . . I was going to say "strains of Phantom" were finding their way up the stairs, but that would imply that it was quiet, peaceful, graceful. This was Phantom (of the Opera, not Planet, Phantom) blasting its way up the stairs, accompanied by my 15-year-old brother's singing. Apparently he does this with various soundtracks and CDs every night until my parents tell him to shut up.

Live a life less sedentary
Live a life evolutionary with me

Yeah, don't know what that means. But this is becoming my mantra. I have an announcement--an announcement and I want you all to be the first to hear (name that movie)--eg is broken.

Well I hate to be a bother
But it's you and there's no other, I do believe
You can call me naive but. . .

I need to stop listening to love songs. Or sort of love songs.

I know me very well (at least as far as I can tell)
And I know what I need

There's an epidemic going around, where people google their name followed by the word "needs" because. . . I suppose it's fun. But here's what I really need:

Started a list and then grew annoyed with it. So I'm stopping now. I said I'm stopping now. And telling you the story of the day.

I found a new music group that I'm enjoying. Carbon Leaf. Check 'em out. And I think it's time for a new playlist. Excuse me. . .

I need more hellos.

Why can't we get all the people together in the world that we really like and then just stay together? I guess that wouldn't work. Someone would leave. Someone always leaves. Then we would have to say good-bye. I hate good-byes. I know what I need. I need more hellos. (Charles M. Schulz)

Hello, you have reached the voicemail of. . .

After my reading last Friday, I turned on my cellphone to find the following text message:

Hey editorgirl, nice job. liked the arms blood heavy line and the icarus poem.

I didn't recognize the number and most of the people who usually text me are in my phone, so I spent a few days puzzling over that one. Then my sister mentioned that my visiting teacher had been there. I have yet to put her number into my phone, so I assumed it must be her.

Tonight I was wondering the status of our church meetings tomorrow, so I dug up the text message and called the number. After a few rings, I got an answering machine. In a man's voice.

"Hello, you have reached the voicemail of Gideon. . ."

My first and only reaction was to hang up, which I did. And now I'm wondering if he'll ever say anything.

Move it or lose it

Since Monday:

Pride & Prejudice
There is no such thing as a bad Mr. Darcy. He's just the perfect man, regardless of who's portraying him: Laurence Olivier, Colin Firth, Orlando Seale, Martin Henderson, or Matthew MacFadyen. They all make a movie worth watching. And worth watching again.

God's Army 2: States of Grace
It's a well-done movie with some amazing cuts, but honestly, Mr. Dutcher, lay off the sensationalism. Will not be watching again.

Saved!
I actually watched this twice: once last night and again this morning after I read MF's response to last night's (this morning's?) post. It's an interesting movie--decidedly fodder for a good discussion.

The Perfect Score
I've seen the preview for this a million times, as it comes at the beginning of The Prince & Me, which I only watched part of this week and is therefore not being included in this list (although I can and will discuss it at length with anyone who wants to). Part of the reason I decided to watch it was for Leonardo Nam and Scarlet Johansson. Part of the reason I'm going to watch it again will be the "perfect girl" character. She has a 4.0, but freezes during the SAT when she reaches a story problem about a woman getting on a train in New York. She starts to wonder about the woman, who she is, where she's going, if she knows the man who boards the train three hours later. The end of her story has her going to Europe after graduation, then going to a school she wanted to--and now, every other weekend, when a woman boards a train in New York, she knows exactly who she is and where she's going. I don't know if it's cliche or just terribly cheesy, but I liked that idea. I liked it very much.

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
Perhaps my current thoughts on this film can be best summed up by the following IM conversation I've been carrying on with my 10-year-old sister (whose name is not Aimee) while typing this blog:

Aimee says: did you see harry potter?
eg says: I just did.
Aimee says: just barely?
Aimee says: did you like it?
eg says: I think so. I'm still thinking about it.
Aimee says: hehehe
Aimee says: it's freaky!
eg says: agreed.
Aimee says: voldemort looks weird!
Aimee says: i mean, he has slits for his nose!
eg says: I know. It's creepy.
Aimee says: did you like it though???
eg says: I told you: I think I did.
Aimee says: you THINK you did
Aimee says: but DID you?
Aimee says: that's my question
eg says: yes.
Aimee says: ok
Aimee says: that's all i wanted to know
eg says: indeed.

honestly

I just finished wasting brain cells watching Saved and The Perfect Score. Is it sad that I can have quasi-intelligent thoughts about these movies? Or that TPS would make me want to move to New York, just so I can get on a train?

Hurcun, or AWOL

A is for Annotated Bibliographies.
My students are supposed to be emailing their homework to me. Which means my inbox is full with homework assignments I need to read and respond to. I will never, never, never cancel class again.

W is for Wislawa Szymborska.
So in September or October I purchased miracle fair, a collection of poetry by Szymborska, who is fast becoming my favorite poet. . . or at least one of my favorites. I read the first section of the book, shared it with some people who agreed that it was brilliant stuff, and then duty called and the book was left lonely on the shelf. I waited too long, ignored it, allowed its pages to collect dust. And so it got revenge. When I finally had time to pick it up again this weekend, I found that starting in the second section, every other spread was blank. At first I thought it was an artistic, poet thing. But then I checked the table of contents and poems were supposed to be on those pages. I took the sad specimen to the bookstore, got in-store credit, and, after a day of mourning, bought Szymborska's newest book, Monologue of a Dog. This one has Polish on the verso and English on the recto--and it's hardback. And yes, I do spend too much money on poetry.

O is for "Out," which is the next word in (one of) my favorite Shakespeare passage(s).
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,
creeps in this petty pace from day to day
to the last syllable of recorded time,
and all our yesterdays have lighted fools
the way to dusty death.

L is for London buddies.
There has been a sudden influx of Londoners (i.e., students who went on the 2002 Theatre in London study abroad program) in my life. First Kimball "accidentally" forwarded me some piece of chain mail, which I teasingly rebuked her for and then we spent an hour on the phone catching up. And then yesterday I got an email from Todd. Just before our London trip, Todd had been an intern at BYU Magazine. He would tell me about it as we walked back to the flats from school and I decided that was what I wanted to do--and I did it. He was also the one who recruited me for Inscape. I didn't join the staff until after he had left, but I still blame him for my illustrious editing career at BYU. (Did you catch the slight sarcasm there? Just checking.)

P.S. I'm still in Provo, waiting for the parents to show up.

On repeat

When I was born, they looked at me and said,
"What a good boy, what a smart boy, what a strong boy."
And when you were born, they looked at you and said,
"What a good girl, what a what a smart girl, what a pretty girl."

I was going to use "Testing 1, 2, 3": both are by bnl, both have good lyrics, but this is the song that decided to get stuck in my head today, at least stuck there when I started writing.

We've got these chains that hang around our necks
people want to strangle us with them before we take our first breath.
Afraid of change, afraid of staying the same,
when temptation calls, we just look away.

My mom brought me flowers on Friday, my favorite flowers. She didn't know they were. I need to give her more credit. She's a pretty cool mom. I'm kind of looking forward to Thanksgiving with her. Fingers crossed, we'll only spend 94% of the time talking about Sister's wedding. That gives me a whole 6% just to talk to her.

Chorus
This name is the hairshirt I wear
and this hairshirt is woven from your brown hair.
This song is the cross that I bear,
bear it with me, bear with me, bear with me, be with me tonight,
I know that it isn't right, but be with me tonight.

Here I should look up "hairshirt" and tell you exactly how the definition fits my interpretation of the song. But that would influence your reading. And I'm lazy.

I have yet to write a love poem--a real love poem. Kapka thought that "Adam" was a love poem. And maybe it is, just a little bit, but I realized this morning, as I started to turn around some lines for a poem that wants to be written that I've loved but I've never been in love. I'm not a person who argues that you can only write what you know--you can imagine--but I think I need to be in love before I write a love poem that is aware that it is a love poem. Maybe I'm wrong.

I go to school, I write exams,
if I pass, if I fail, if I drop out,
does anyone give a damn?
And if they do, they'll soon forget 'cause it won't take much for me
to show my life ain't over yet.

I have two seminar papers coming due. One is ten pages and on teaching, which I understand. One is twenty pages and on anything under the sun that I can tie to Benjamin, Levinas, or Zizek--none of whom I understand.

I wake up scared, I wake up strange.
I wake up wondering if anything in my life is ever going to change.
I wake up scared, I wake up strange
and everything around me stays the same.

Yes.

Chorus

Writing about yourself is difficult--as in writing an introduction. What do you include? What do you leave how? How much is necessary and how much is bragging?

Another difficult writing task: writing an email to someone who you haven't seen in years but who just wrote you. How much of it needs to be formal and how much of you is allowed? What if you still have just a touch of schoolgirl crush on this person? Or is that too 1990s?

I couldn't tell you that I was wrong,
chickened out, grabbed a pen and paper, sat down and I wrote this song.
I couldn't tell you that you were right,
so instead I looked in the mirror,
watched TV, laid awake all night.

Yesterday was my movie day.

I was chatting with my cousin and he suddenly quoted Say Anything. It didn't occur to me at first--I prefer to converse with people who regularly quote Say Anything--but then I realized that cousin is not one of those people. Turns out he and his girlfriend (who is also my roommate) had borrowed it over the weekend. Hooray for spreading the Say Anything love.

Pelican Brief: I don't know why I wanted to watch this movie, but I did. And so I watched it. And I still don't know why. (It is a very well done adaptation.)

Confession: that's not the title of a movie. It's what I'm about to do. Confess. I don't really like the A&E version of Pride and Prejudice. It's six freaking hours, people. And Jane is ugly. And for that matter, so is Elizabeth. And it's six hours. So last night, when I went to see the new P&P, I was bracing myself. I quite enjoyed it. After I see it again I'll post a decent review.

We've got these chains, hang 'round our necks,
people want to strangle us with them before we take our first breath.
Afraid of change, afraid of staying the same when temptation calls ...

I'm going to Hurricane for Thanksgiving again. My aunt has internet, but it's so heavily screened that they only have access to lds.org, byu.edu, and cleanflicks, so I'm not sure when I'll be back to blog.

Chorus

Plus I don't give my family this address.

When I was born, they looked at me and said:
"What a good boy, what a smart boy, what a strong boy."
And when you were born, they looked at you and said:
"What a good girl, what a smart girl, what a pretty girl."

Well it's been a long, been a long, been a long, been a long day.

Act I: When it rains, it pours.

My sister's bridal shower. Bridal showers are a matter of routine in my family, at least on my dad's side. Aunt Kathy prepares a quilt, schedules her church building, and tells everyone to bring a salad or a dessert. Jell-O in some form is a given, along with rolls and lunch meat. It hurts Grandma's feelings if we don't come and there's always the possibility that someday it will be your turn and you'll want people to come to your shower, so aunts and cousins all show up to tie the quilt and eat food--the aforementioned Jell-O and sandwiches, but also the heavy-on-the-mayo salads, the veggie tray, and the chips and salsa. Today I threw them all for a loop with a baguette and ciabatta left over from last night's GSA dinner. At one point my size -4 cousin (she's fourteen-ish) had a piece of bread in each hand as she and her -8 sister circled the food table.

Another loop was thrown when both sides of the family were invited--my dad's and my mom's. This is the sort of situation we try to avoid. I never know who to talk to, who I need to be paying attention to; it's a rather peculiar balancing act: joke around with Lisa and then commiserate with Emily (who's turning 24 and is still single) and then have a nice chat with Megan and Meghan (different sides of the family) about their husbands and Megan's daughter.

The family decided to throw their own loop in my direction via two well-meaning comments. The first came from the thrice-divorced aunt, my mother's sister, who is known as eg's favorite aunt on that side--I'm not quite sure if that's true. She mentioned to me that she finally decided to try online dating, is enjoying herself, and maybe I should give it a try. I thought it was a joke at first--this is the side with the sense of humor, after all--but she was completely serious. I listened to her talk about her site of choice, ldspromise, and then excused myself to the quilt-tying where I thought I would be safe. At the quilt I found another aunt, this one my dad's oldest sister. She has had a hard life, due in part to a decision she made when she was young--to get married. She leaned over to me and said, "If you need to talk, I'm here. I understand what it's like to have your younger sister get married first." I knew she was sincere and I thanked her. When the sister just younger than her got married, this aunt felt that she needed to marry and did marry the next guy who came around, who was a less than ideal match. I've been told this story by my dad, my grandfather, and my dad again, but I wasn't expecting Aunt to tell it to me. We actually had a nice little talk as we tied the bride's quilt.

Act II: How to suck--I mean, succeed.

My brother is finishing a stint in his high school musical, How to Succeed in Business without Really Trying. I have never hated a musical more. I love theatre. I usually adore musicals, but this one is flat out dreadful. And tonight was the second time I saw it. The "leads" were double cast and this was a new cast for me. I found myself getting annoyed with the people I knew were the other leads who still felt the need to spaz out on stage. You get the spotlight next time, people. Chill.

This time I knew where to look to see Brother, so it was a little more entertaining. The high point of the evening came during "The Brotherhood of Man," which is actually a decent song, but it wasn't the music. Brother had forgotten to do up his collar and tie up his tie, so my dad spent the number trying to subtlely signal to Brother. All this while Brother was stomping and flailing about on stage.

Act III: T-I-R-D, tired.

I just don't know when to stop. Actually, I don't want to stop, because stopping means I have to return to life at home where Mom is doing the dishes, Dad is sleeping in the rocking/glider chair, and Sister and Fiance are out on the couch being in love. No thank you to all scenarios. I think I'll go to bed. Good night.

What's done is done.

It's over. I survived, you survived, the audience survived, and "Phunny Phanny" is not my mother. *big sigh of relief*

The high points:

Getting John Bennion to ask Kapka to say the prayer. I don't care if she did enjoy it--I am still claiming it as revenge.

James and Joe reading. There were moments when I forgot that I wanted to throw up/pass out/not be there and it was like every other reading where I'm completely lost in the words and I'm on the edge of my seat, waiting for the next line.

John Bennion calling me "quirky" because of my odd little intro--which he didn't tell us was going to be our intro, but served as such.

Conquering my nerves rather quickly (for me) and then enjoying myself. Who would have thought?

The Q&A. I didn't know we were having a Q&A. It was fun to sit between James and Joe and feel like I just might know what I was talking about (after all, I was talking about me). And it gave me a chance to plug Inscape again, as well as mention the ever popular "Larry the Canary" poem I wrote in third grade.

My mom, dad, and Sister showed up to support. With flowers. And a camera.

Miss K came. So did Kapka, aa, LadyJane, Master Fob and Foxy with S-Boogie in tow, Tolkien Boy, and other people who I was so glad to see, but who don't have blog names.

Mass amounts of hugging. And handshaking. Usually not a fan, but today it was deemed appropriate.

Lunch with Miss K and Kapka--the trinity back together again. And at Mimi's, no less.

editorgirl is missing

From the mixed-up files of November 17, 2005, which will forever be catalogued under The Importance of Being Earnest.

Panic attack today watching Kristine Hansen speak about "What Writing is Worth." Not because of her lecture topic, but because I realized tommorow I will be standing in front of a room full of people and reading my poetry. The poetry I don't let anyone else read, unless it's in workshop. I don't really go about introducing myself as a poet or a writer. I don't introduce myself as anything. I usually just say "Hello. Nice to meet you." And then I expect to be ignored.

SHowe gave me the advice to give people something to watch for in my poetry tomorrow, as it will help them follow the poem better. I had thought of this in regards to three of them, but after that I'm at a bit of a loss. For those of you who know my poetry, here's the line up:

maybe
sum(marry)
Princess
I Study Barnett Newman's Adam
I Study Barnett Newman's Eve
Gender in Classical Mythology
things incommon

Considering this list and deciding what to read has led to a realization re: titles. LLarsen commented about a few of my titles that they were too clever. To which I thought, "Yes, and. . ." and kept the titles. But now, looking at sum(marry), I'm wondering if I should read it as summary or some marry tomorrow. In past readings, everyone had a copy and could see how clever I was. I'm now realizing that cleverness can be a hindrance for the hearer. Which may be another thing to think about--I've never thought about my poetry being for the listener so much as for the reader. Maybe that is why people like "Princess" so much and why I'm always so surprised that they like it.

The real thing I'm nervous about is that my mother is coming. I have two great fears in my life: one is that I'll someday be like my mother. The second is that I'll never be able to be anything like my mother. And I want her approval. . . which is why I haven't shown her anything I've written in the past five years or so. Because if she dislikes it, or disapproves, it might be enough for me to stop working so hard. I was going to say "stop writing," but that wouldn't happen. It would just become more a side project than it already is--and that prospect terrifies me.

Happy Lance Larsen Day!

Lance Larsen came to my poetry class today. And I made cupcakes. Which made me think of Corey in Empire Records, who makes cupcakes for Rex Manning Day. If you haven't seen the movie, you should. And if you have, the cupcakes were the only similarity of the experience. But it did inspire the rest of this blog. Yay blogging!

Warren: Who glued these quarters down?
A.J.: I did.
Warren: What the hell for, man?
A.J.: I don't feel that I need to explain my art to you, Warren.

I love it when I get to hear a poet talk about being a poet, or a writer about being a writer. It used to terrify me to hear them talk about leaving a poem alone for months or years, about rejection slips, etc., and I decided that I wasn't a writer. I didn't have what it takes. Listening today, though, made me think that maybe I can do this, provided I continue to pursue my academic career. Combining the two--creative and academic--will make me that better a professor in the long run.

Mark: Hey, Lucas. I've decided I'm going to start a band.
Lucas: The first thing you need is a name. Then you'll know what kind of band you've got.
Mark: Right, right. I was thinking about, um, Marc. How does that sound?
Lucas: Is that with a C or with a K?
Mark: Well my name is with a K, so I was thinking my band's name could be with a C. That way it's kind of that psychedelic, you know, trip thing.
Lucas: Always play with their minds.

I met with Susan Howe today to have her look over the poems I'm going to read on Friday. I found out that I'll be reading last, by the way. But that wasn't what I was saying. I was going to say that I had "things incommon" at the bottom of the stack. I told her I was thinking about reading the first section, maybe. She liked it all.

I have also decided that my first book will be titled "things incommon" and dedicated to. . . well, that I can't tell you, because I don't want to make anyone jealous. (I'm thinking in book form now!)

Lucas: Who knows where thoughts come from? They just appear.

I never want to be a Lucas; but I'll quote him.

A.J.: Lucas, do you think it's possible for a person to be in love with someone else and not even know it?
Lucas: In this life there are nothing but possibilities.
A.J.: Well, that's good, because I have to tell Corey I love her by 1:37.
Lucas: That's an excellent time.

I don't know if I'll get over my need-to-be-married complex anytime soon, but I'm working on it. What I have working in my favor is that I'm dedicated to my education and myself. That and Kapka's right. Flirting is fun. And would be awkward as a married person. But thank you for everything everyone said (I have to be general here because I don't know who you are, but somehow you know me). It got me through a really really really bad night.

A.J.: What's with you? Yesterday you were normal and today you're like the Chinese guy from the Karate Kid. What's with you today?
Lucas: What's with today today?

There are so many good lines left to use. But I'm running out of things to say and I can hear Zizek calling my name. It's very muffled (because of his beard) and heavily accented, but it's still my name. "Slavoj! I'm coming!"

Poem of praise/prays

Possible ode topics
April
april
cupcakes
the girl who used to bake cupcakes like a mad woman
the guy who sits in front of me in my contemporary literary class
Mater Fob (wonder where I got that idea)
my mother
Statler and Waldorf
John Cusack
Anonymous, phunny Phanny, and Kapka for their responses

I've spent the evening and now today trying to think of a subject for an ode. And I think part of the problem is that, in a way, every poem I write is meant to look at the subject from a critical perspective. Very rarely do I write a poem of praise, because well, they usually turn out very bad. Very very bad. (Add intensifiers to my list.)

On a less personal note, but still important, is that I think poetry is no longer the place for a proper ode. Watching New York Doll last night, about bassist Arthur "Killer" Kane was, in fact, watching an ode. Film is a more appropriate medium for an ode because it's able to more effectively present someone.

Which reminds me: go see New York Doll. I'll go with you. It was a little heavy-handed in places, but it really was a beautiful/brilliant piece.

od

It's a terrible thing to realize one must write an ode for the morrow and having nothing to ode about. At such a crossroad, there is only one thing to do:

go see New York Doll.

the difference between light and dark

It's one thing to think/logically conclude something. It's another to internalize/believe/accept that same thing.

I've been oh-so-slowly reaching the conclusion that 1) I'm okay with who I am, 2) I want a PhD, and 3) I'm okay being single. And in my head it all makes sense, but I'm having a hard time getting the rest of me to believe.

Courtesy of Library Communications (darn them)

Students speak out: featured in reading series

Three graduate students will be the guest speakers at this week's English Reading Series, sponsored by the Department of Humanities and the Harold B. Lee Library.

Once every semester, several students from the English Department are featured among other renowned authors and literary experts from BYU and abroad. On Friday (November 18) at noon [eg], Joseph Plicka, and James Dewey will read their own works in the Library Auditorium, and those in attendance might be able to one day tell others they heard them first.

Budding author [eg] could tell you that she loves London, the month of April, contemporary poetry, theatre, John Cusack, and the Muppets. Or she could tell you that she prefers the name "editorgirl," a story she just might tell if you come to the reading.

Joe Plicka teaches English 115 and is writing a novel for his Master's thesis. He recently won the Carolyn Barnes Poetry Award for his poem "Why the Virgin hangs in my bedroom."

Because James Dewey enjoys sound, he writes songs as well as poetry. He is currently working on a Masters degree in Portuguese, writing a thesis on Noemia De Sousa, a poet from Mozambique.

In my defense, I did not give them the phrase "budding author" (who would?) and it was "april," not "the month of April." Oy. Good thing no one will read this. Oh wait. . .

empty

I should be reading Slavoj Zizek's The Sublime Object of Ideology. I can only define two words in his title. (Hint: one is an article, one is a preposition.) Actually, I really enjoy it when I'm reading it, at least compared to Benjamin or Levinas, but then I put the book down and can't remember what I've read. It's an exercise in futility, one that I will be repeating until 3:00, when class starts and I sit in the back row, staring at the beautiful head of the tall, beautifully-dressed guy who sits in front of me. But for the next eight or so minutes, I'm going to let myself blog.

Thank you for all the congrats. I really am excited to teach 218--although I'm terrified of teaching short fiction. I don't write short fiction; I don't have the attention span. What I am is a very good reader of short fiction (of anything, really, as long as it's not Zizek). I'm hoping that will carry me through. Oh, and that Master Fob and Tolkien Boy will let me ask stupid questions when they're discussing each other's fiction. (My comments are usually "Wait. Do we know this character?" and "Hey, TB, you missed a comma." Actually, it's usually, "TB, get rid of this comma. It's unnecessary.")

In other news, there is no other news. My visiting teacher (who I suprisingly like) stopped by for a chat yesterday. She kept asking for news and I kept telling her I had nothing to tell her. My life is school and teaching and whatever movie I choose to anesthetize myself with. (Last night it was The Company. I love dance movies. This makes no sense. I can't dance. Much.)

I've paused too many times and am reaching the eight minute mark. Nothing profound to say. Only that. . . ooh. Final story of the day. SH (my 518 professor and the professor I'll be TAing for) thought that my poem "things incommon" was an Icarus poem. I actually liked the idea--I've been thinking about wings, courtesy of Miss K--and so "things incommon" is currently an Icarus poem. I'm taking it to poetasters tonight. Fingers crossed, they'll trash it and it will become something real.

you missed a spot

I've been absent a few days. Not that anyone said anything, but I felt it. This strange emptiness. . . my need to blab on and on about the most banal things, aka my life.

So what happened? A few things, beginning on Friday, post-post. (ha ha ha.)

1. I found out I'm reading at the English reading series this Friday. Yep, I'm reading my poetry to a bunch of strangers. (Unless you come. Friday, 18 November, noon, HBLL auditorium.)

2. I had an email from my poetry professor, with a postscript asking me if I had checked my box that day. I hadn't, so I raced to campus and found. . .

3. a letter telling me I had received the first 218 internship. This means I'll TA next semester and (if I do well) have my own class next fall. 218 is a creative writing class. Creative. Writing. Oy.

What came next was 1) excitement and 2) a whole bunch of guilt. I knew that getting the reading and the internship meant that my friends who had also applied didn't get them--and I kind of wished they had the reading or the internship.

I didn't want to blog about it, because I knew at least one of those friends reads this blog. And I wanted to tell that friend in person. And it was really really really hard. And yes, Tolkien Boy, I'm excessively fond of intensifiers.

I've been rocketing back and forth between excitement, guilt, pride, fear, and annoyance (this one due to my family's reaction) all weekend. Which resulted in friend abuse, etc. And now blog abuse. And now I'm going to post what I wanted to post on Friday:

Everyone is invited to the English Reading Series graduate student reading on Friday, 18 November 2005 at noon in the HBLL auditorium. Joe Plicka, who is brilliant, will be reading. Oh, and me too. Oh dear.

Nothing but blue skies from now on

The white night is over. I apologize for that post. I apologize, but I'm going to leave it there as a reminder to me, because I really did feel those things/that way. And sometimes I need to say it, not dwell on it, and then go to bed (which I did).

Today, however, thus far, has been smashing. I woke up, got ready, and taught class. It was a fun class today, which is always good. We got off on multiple tangents, but I'm learning to structure my class to allow for those. And in the midst of tangential conversation, I can tell that they're getting what I need them to get.

That being said, I'm turning them into DC addicts. Which is wonderful. Yesterday I showed "Math Lab" and "I Like My Women" before class (I sometimes will turn on movies as they're coming in to loosen the mood) and then we brainstormed research topics from "Modern Dance." Today we talked about voice and I still had the DVD in my bag so we watched "Mother Goose." When it was over, my students called for more. I told them they could either do what I had planned for class in class or take it home as homework and watch a clip. We watched "BYU Kind of Life."

There is nothing quite like this BYU kind of life

baby.

are u ok?

How are you tonight?

And they all turn to look at me, like a divided Cerebus, staring, waiting. And I can feel--literally feel--my eyes not quite fitting the sockets and I can tell that they might care, not just be waiting for a response. But I have to give them one. And what do I say?

Fine, thank you. I'm just sitting here, patiently waiting for the work to begin that I came for.

Fine, thank you. I was just wondering how you were.

I'm fan-tast-ic, so carefully enunciated you believe me.

Or do I say that I'm exhausted? That I feel foolish and not intelligent? That I talked to my friend on the drive over, to my dead friend who I don't even know if I have the right to talk to. That I am missing a key part of myself so much I can't respond to them tonight. That I am alone, always. That I am tired, no matter how much sleep I get. That I have ceased to do what I've always existed for. That I stole her idea of wings and stapled them to my back only to discover they were only feathers and wax and are melting against my skin. That I don't dream and I miss that interaction.

But I am fine. Busy, but fine. Tired, but fine. Fine. I'm fine.

visualization and al-lusions

Actually, this post won't al-lude to anything. I just wanted to be clever.

The visualization technique is still working. I've been falling asleep and staying asleep, which is wonderful. I also feel like I've become less productive, but have decided my health is worth it. Anyway, Miss K asked about it and I have yet to get through the whole thing before I fall asleep (isn't that wonderful?), so instead of reading Zizek, I'm going to let you in on the secret.

Visualize (that means imagine) a room. It can be any size, any shape (mine is always round). Choose a color for the walls--or a different color for each wall. It's your room, you can do whatever you want with it.

Furnish the room, but sparingly. (Okay, that's what the lablady told me. I always have huge bookselves climbing the sides of the room a la British Museum Reading Room or Trinity College's library with a few paintings and a small writing desk.)

There is one chair in the room. You decide what it's like, how big it is, where it is, what it's made of, if it's even a chair (I thought about a LoveSac one night, but it just made me miss BetsyJane). Once you've designed it, sit down.

The wall you are facing has been removed and there is a huge picture window. What are you looking at? The mountains? The beach? Editorgirl?

And suddenly you are dragged out of your visualization to reality. Sorry--it had to happen. You're not in bed right now, preparing to go to sleep. You're in class and you need to be paying attention. Or S-boogie is clinging to the back of your chair, waiting for you to read to her. And she is much more important than this blog. Go read to your child.

one to grow on

happy blogday to me
happy blogday to me
happy blogday, dear eg
happy blogday to me

cupcakes are forthcoming

This desk set wants to fly.

After a rather traumatic Sunday, which I can't remember if I al-luded to on my blog or not, I've been mentally reassessing my life and what I want.

I want to write. Not Write, but write. And publishing would be wonderful, but I'd rather help other people get published. I want to see other writers succeed.

I want to get a PhD in English literature.

I want to teach and research at a university.

More specifically, I want to teach contemporary literature, more specifically poetry and drama.

I want to be a theatre critic. (Some of you might be saying, You want to be Claudia Harris. Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.)

These are my top five right now. Somewhere down the list are "I want to date, fall in love, get married, raise a family," but that isn't my focus right now. (Insert Trentian comment about how I'll change my mind next week.) Also on the list are traveling, learning more about Bollywood, living in London, studying at Trinity College in Dublin, etc.

I just want to live. I'm sorry that this post isn't comical or anecdotal, but this is what is in my head. That these are the things I want to do and these are the things I will do.

And someday everything else will happen.

sweet dreams

Yesterday I made a trip to the Stress Management Biofeedback Lab--which is as scary as it sounds. After talking about how my schedule must be stressing me out (thank you Captain Obvious), the lablady started giving me advice on sleeping. She starts talking about this technique "which is called (grand movement of the hands) Visualization." Yes, I know what visualization is. Yes, I have a decent imagination. Let's do this (the room was dim, warm, and there was "soothing" music in the background. I just wanted a nap). Instead, she gave me some additional advice of things to do just before hitting the sack that would not cause my mental or physical exertion. You know: reading a (fun) book, reading the scriptures, writing in my journal, writing a friend or "a loved one who is far away," writing poetry, medit--wait a minute. Did she say writing poetry? As an activity that demands no mental exertion? And reading? Good night.

I managed no greater reaction that nodding. . . the entire time. And then was hooked up to multiple (read: two) machines to measure tension and anxiety, or something like that, while she played a tape to lead me through a relaxation/visualization technique. I was doing an excellent job of relaxing until the end. She showed me the numbers from the machines--there was a sudden spike of anxiety. I knew exactly when that happened. It was when the man on the tape unknowingly offered a rhymed couplet.

After all this, I decided to try it last night, at the detriment of my homework. I wrapped things up 30 minutes before I wanted to go to sleep. I got ready for bed. (I admit that I hadn't completely stopped my brain--I keep revising my DC review in my head.) I dimly lit the front room and read "The Materialization of Cecil." And then I climbed into bed and visualized. And I slept. It was fantastic.

Eye Candy: The DC review

For those of you who want to, head to www.divinecomedy.net/board. Or you can just read it here.

Going to the late Saturday showing reminded me of the delicate balance of the circle of Divine Comedy. Well, not so much a delicate balance as the rampant insanity that ensues in the last show. Each month’s series can be expected to follow this pattern:
First Friday show: funny, but the cast might still be a little shaky on their lines and experiencing a wonderful case of nerves
Second Friday show: funny, funny, funny. The cast knows that they can do it and they nail just about every sketch.
First Saturday show: About the same as the Second Friday show.
Second Saturday show: Having reached this point, the cast again experiences a wonderful case of nerves, but this time as in “You’ve got some. . .” Which is wonderful to watch if you know the cast and Divine Comedy. Can be a little unsettling for first-timers though.

And now I will quit preaching to the choir and do what I do best: write another chapter of my dissertation.

The cast has achieved a sense of unity and balance that wasn’t there in the last show. Perhaps it was the influence of Yoda and company in the “Mentors” sketch, which was quite possibly my favorite this time around. That being said, I was enjoyed watching cast members working outside of their (or what I perceive to be their) comfort zone. Fingers crossed I’ll be able to point out some of these as I talk about the show.

“Freshman Nights” was excellent for two reasons. The first, of course, is that it was a fun, high energy number that involved the entire cast. The second reason was that the dialogue preceding the song was just as witty/intelligent/funny as the song itself. Matt’s letter took a very close second to the song itself (and Joel’s dancing was a distant third). I am going to qualify my praise with a few thoughts, however. One: the problem with a show-stopping number is that it, well, stops the show. In prepping to write this review, I remembered liking the sketch that followed (Clean Flicks), but I couldn’t remember what it was. There’s no real solution to this, other than having FN as the final number, which would change the traditional DC format. Two: just like “Freshmen in the Night” last time, I couldn’t hear all of the lyrics. Part of this was the overpowering (male) backup singers (who were wonderful). The result: I have “hum ha hum. . . dance, awkward romance” stuck in my head with no idea what the rest of the line was.

Next on my list of “things I want to talk about”: running gags. The highlight by far was Mr. Teacherson. I was glad to see him return and I hope we get to see more of him. Teacherson in high school, in college, as Joel’s supervisor snatching his hat away on the job, and finally, Mr. Teacherson in the rest home. It was nice to see it come out in other sketches (Mentors and Hillary Potter are the two I’m thinking of), but they came significantly later in the show than Mr. Teacherson. I’m just hoping the audience caught on—because it was brilliant.

The other returning character, Steve Erwin, I wasn’t as excited to see. (Although the rest of the crowd disagreed with me.) It’s probably just that I’ve never actually seen his TV show and am an undercultured, uneducated idiot. But it just wasn’t as exciting/funny as last time. At least not until Matt slithered into his snake act and delivered his line. That was beautiful. And an example of a strong ending, which I understand is hard to pull off, but some of the sketches were hilarious, but then had nowhere to go. Speaking of “ADD Judge,” it wasn’t obvious that he was ADD until the title went up on the web page—he was just some weird guy who couldn’t pay attention, which is the stock, stereotypical definition of ADD.

I was glad to see more of the cast being used in the different sketches. Paul was great in (what I’m thinking as) the “Closed for devotional 2” sketch, the Clean Flicks sketch (“The French have clothing-optional beaches. We don’t believe in options.”), and Halestorm meeting. Actually, everyone was wonderful in these sketches. It’s difficult to single out particular performances because cast members were used well. Although, I’m going to guiltily admit, that I missed the Ultimate Latin Lover (was that him in “Sitcom”?).

Having said that it’s difficult to single out, I’m going to tally up some of my favorite “little” moments of the show: Lisa sitting on the silver platter and her amazing half-time (that was impressive), Mary in “Divine Dorm Design,” Jono as Yoda and in “Freshman Nights,” Hillary in “The Ring” and “Saving Seats,” Joel as Kirby Heyborne (or was that Kirby Heyborne as Joel?), Taylor in “Sitcom” and “Freshman Nights,” Will in FN, “Sitcom,” and the lawyer in “ADD Judge,” Trevor as Teacherson/Snaperson, Matt as Cecildore (that hat was awesome), and Paul in the above.

I’ve review-ed myself out. That and I’m getting funny looks for laughing in the office. Thank you, Divine Comedy.

For Kapka

Item: leaves in the gutter.

After two hours of raking and bagging, my arms and knees and back weren't too happy with me. (Yes, I am a wimp.) Sister had come home and was helping me bag the pile on the strip of grass by the street, but we still had the longer part of the strip to clear. (What is that strip called anyway?) There was already mass amounts of leaves in the gutter in front of our house--I swear the neighbors pulled out their leaf blowers and just shot everything to the front of our house. I decided that a few more leaves wouldn't be too noticable, so I casually pushed the leaves off the strip and into the gutter--stopping whenever a neighbor came out of their house. It was noticable. I didn't care much, but then I had a stroke of brilliance. When I left to run an errand, I made it a point to drive through the leaves in the gutter. Genius. Pure genius.

Yesterday, with white space

Item: one leaf rake.

In order to avoid the wrath of Sister, I cleaned the bathroom. In order to gain the good approval of Sister, I decided to rake the yard, which was covered in enough leaves to make driving up the canyon a redundant activity. Two hours and eight garbage bags later, the yard was (almost) leaf-free. In the process, I wrote about ten posts about the experience. This will suffice.

Item: one editorgirl.

Item: four FOEGs (a term created by Master Fob, to stand for Friends of editorgirl, in this case, Master Fob, FoxyJ, Miss K, and LadyJane).

Item: one Divine Comedy show.

I will be writing a review of this occurence, but I will be leaving the following out of the review: 1) I was hit in the head by a flying piece of candy. Twice. Once in the right eye. 2) My dear friend who opened the show was being quite wonderful until she announced the opening prayer, given by one editorgirl. I froze. People gasped. And Master Fob stood up to let me exit our row.

I don't pray in public. Even when "public" is four people I know very well. This isn't because I don't pray. It's because I dislike the vocabulary and register requisite in public prayers. Hence, the shortest prayer ever offered in public at BYU was offered last night at DC.

I am still recovering.

Item: one digital camera.

Post-DC, Miss K, Kapka, and LadyJane joined me for a few hours of chit chat. In the course of the evening, we wound up on the couch. Miss K and I have been trying desparately to get a picture with Kapka, so Miss K went for her camera--no battery. I went for mine--no film. Finally, Sister produced her digital camera and much picture taking commenced. As demonstrated by the following:

And pictures would be here, but blogger is being mean. Will figure it out and then everyone can see our fabulous selves. Maybe that's it. We're just too sexy for blogger.

Nah.

Did you watch the sex scenes?

I'm sitting in my darkened study, basically eavesdropping on my roommates and their boyfriends and their friends in the kitchen. They're talking movies--oy--and one of them mentioned that her boyfriend (husband maybe?) rented three movies for her birthday: Million Dollar Baby, The Life Aquatic, and The Notebook. His excuse for the last one was that it was her birthday and he needed to rent something "girly." She had no desired to see The Notebook (right on, sister suffragette) so they watched the first two, but then the truth came out--he really wanted to watch it.

So they watched it. At which point in the story, Roommate's Boyfriend almost eagerly asked: Did you watch the sex scenes?

I'll pause to let you hear the white space.

This post was slated to be an exegesis of "Grocery shopping with Andrew," but as I have great faith in the intelligence of anyone who regularly checks my blog (and I don't feel like exegesis-ing right now), this is going to be my Blessed English Reading Series Post that occurs every once in a while.

Today's reader: Lance Larsen. Pause to prepare yourself.

I may have blogged this before, but I have an LL (Lance Larsen, not LadyLondon) complex. I've had him for a workshop before, he knows who I am, he stops to chat with me in the hall, etc. I'm completely comfortable chatting with him about anything, including poetry. But after I stop chatting, leave his office, walk in the opposite direction, etc., I freak out. Because that was Lance Larsen I was talking to. He's one of my favorite poets. The way that Kim Johnson makes me all tense inside and sitting on the edge of my seat? Just the opposite--I can relax. I can slowly savor every word. I love them both, but Lance is much friendlier.

Shoot. I have to conference with a student now, so I'll leave you with a few quickly jotted down statements from the reading. First, from Kapka's favorite Jorgensen, who intro'd Lance:

Becoming either one--a Mormon or a poet--is difficult.

Got Rilke?

Try making poems of whatever belongs to you.

Go home saying that.

And from Lance (Note: I was severely entranced, so I didn't get every pearl of poetry that fell from his lips.)

[Books] are the highest form of consumer therapy

ongoing meditations on mortality (re: his poetry)

Artists are the antennae of the race. (Ezra Pound)

I'll pause to let you hear the white space. (reading a journal entry)

There are a million ways to say California, but only a few promise rest. (From his poem "The World's Lap")

Grocery shopping with Andrew

INT--Guy's apartment. DAVE is sitting on the couch. ANDREW walks through the front door, carrying plastic bags from Macey's grocery store.

DAVE (with childlike glee): You're back! How was the store?

ANDREW: Pretty good. (Sets down bags and begins taking items out, putting them away.) I ran into editorgirl. She said to tell you happy birthday.

DAVE: Good old editorgirl! How is she?

ANDREW: She's good. Did you know her sister is engaged?

intimiDating

That was subtle.

This post is a follow-up of sorts to last night's late night ramblings. A conversation has been going on about if girls intimidate guys (I blame Saule). The concensus has been, no, girls don't intimidate guys much. But then the girls scream back with "But that's the reason I've been given for not dating, that I'm intimidating." I've stayed out of the conversation as far as comments go, but it has made me wonder as this is the reason I've been given countless times. (Okay, it's only countless because I can't count to save my life. Today in class I started to count down from 10. I stopped around 7, only because I distracted myself with another thought. One of my students said, "I knew you couldn't do it.")

So here's my thought: is intimidation just an excuse we allow ourselves for being un-datable? Or for simply not being with the people who would want to date us?

Back to Saule. In the infamous car ride home from a Halloween party, Saule and I were chatting. He asked about my job and then (tactfully) asked how much I was making. I make more per hour than most student on-campus jobs, so I usually refrain from answering that question. I reluctantly told him, more out of embarrassment than anything else. ("I'm a good girl, I am.") I'm not sure if in the back of my mind I was worried about intimidating him, but he interpreted it that way and told me--as background--that he's a guy not easily intimidated. He then asked why I thought I would be intimidating. I didn't give him a complete answer then--I got sidetracked by one of my many tangents--but I've been thinking about it.

Reasons (I've been given in the past) that I (might) intimidate a guy:
1. smart. I'm smart. I didn't choose to be this way, but that doesn't mean I choose to act stupid.
2. grad student. Just try telling this to a guy back a year from his mission who has finally decided on a major.
3. job. I know I'm just a grad student instructor, but I received a similar response when I was working for BYU Magazine last year. They are jobs that aren't terribly easy to get and ones that carry their own weight on a resume.
4. smart. Still smart. Maybe it goes beyond the "smart" label. I write. I enjoy cultural events: theatre, plays, etc. But as you've seen on this blog, I don't stick my nose up at not-high-brow entertainment. My only need is to analyze them after the show is over.
5. size. I haven't wanted to put this one, but it's part of me I can't ignore. I'm not huge or anything, I'm just not tiny, petite, doll-like, whatever. I'm tall-ish with a frame I (unfortunately) inherited from my dad's side of the family tree. But I'm comfortable in my body 98% of the time and I don't plan on changing. . . not sure how I'd do that anyway.
6. attractive. This is excessively confident, I know, but this is something my second boyfriend (who really shouldn't count) told me. He compared me to a character in a book (that I still need to read) who was beautiful, but thought she wasn't because she was so beautiful that guys were afraid (dare I say intimidated?) to ask her out. I keep that analogy in my pocket for rainy days.



But does any of this really intimidate guys? Or do I just keep myself barricaded? Or neither? Maybe I'm just un-date-able.

That's a strange line.

Yes, I did wait for the clock to strike midnight before I began another entry. Yes, I am tired. I seem to have lost my ability to stay up all night.

LadyJane and I were talking about what makes a guy--excuse me, man--attractive. And by considering past (two) boyfriends, crushes, etc., I've realized that I have absolutely no pattern. At least, not as far as body type goes. BF1 was on the skinny side, while BF2 was decidedly not. And my crushes have filled in the rest of the spectrum. My only request now, as far as body type goes, is that he be taller than I am.

I was going to blog about this conversation when it happened. And then there were more important things for me to whine about. But then the conversation started again, elsewhere. What makes a person attractive? And I am now going to be shallow and answer the question.

1.

Nope. Suddenly have no desire to discuss the finer points of hair, attire, grooming, and performance ability. (I will mention that I prefer someone who will critique a performance with me, or at least allow me to critique it.) Instead, I will leave you with my (current) top five movie men. Please note that I'm exhausted and only relying on two brain cells for this list. I just might regret it tomorrow.

1. AJ in Empire Records ("I have to tell Corey I love her by 1:37.")
2. Lloyd Dobler. You know the movie. And yes, he should have been number one. But I don't know how much I want a Lloyd as much as I want someone to watch Lloyd with me. ("I gave her my heart and she gave me a pen.")
3. Lord Goring in An Ideal Husband. ("Lord Goring, you are always trying to tell me what to do. I think it most courageous of you.")
4. Nicholas in Princess Diaries 2. ("You are amazing. I've tried to fight it--I have--but you overwhelm me.") This is where the regrets start.
5. Benedick in Much Ado about Nothing. ("Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.")
6. Jonathan in Sliding Doors. ("If you don't drink your fatty drinks, you'll never achieve quality cellulite.")

Okay, I know I said five and that was six. See, I can count. I just often choose not to. Maybe I should add "can and will count" to my list of desirable traits. . .