Tuesday as Monday or Monday as Tuesday or. . .

Is anyone else terribly confused? It's not enough that they control our meaningless, consumer-driven lives, now they have to play games with the days of the week. I've spent the day trying to remember if it was Monday or Wednesday and receiving mild shock therapy every time someone mentions that it's actually Tuesday. Did I lose a day or gain an hour or what?

That being ranted, I am writing yet another paper. Maybe I should change my blog title to "yet another paper." Or maybe something clever. Any suggestions?

This one is just a 6 to 8 pager about, well, something from my civ class. I'm thinking of expounding on a quote from the Bacchae: "Man's true nature's seen in darkness not in light." Now, I know that nighttime is when HMP busts out the speedo and goes high stepping it down 9th, so no need to point out that correlation--but if you have any other ideas, they are most welcome. Granted, the paper is due tomorrow. Maybe I should be more worried than I am. Then again, maybe not.

Cheers. And april tomorrow.

Losing My Voice, or Questions of the Universe for 200

Luckily it's just my physical voice, not my writing voice. Due to the decided lack of writing classes this semester, this voice is here to stay, my friend.

As to the other half of the title, I'd like to clarify the first item on the april agenda. Not that anyone else can be absent without excuse or explanation, but such is my lot. Sigh. I was supporting my friend who was in The Rainmaker tonight. The facts that he is very attractive, loves Shakespeare, and took me to dinner a few weeks ago is irrelevant.

Just Duckie

Hi all. Who "all" is, I'm not sure, but it makes me feel more directed.

The debate has returned to the JKHB--or at least one side of it--in the form of eye-searing yellow posters. Just in case you missed them.

One of my favorite reactions to the debate have been the duck pictures. You know, the duck near Hickman's old office, with papers listing off different forms of criticism: feminist, Marxist, postmodern, etc. This go around there was a note under the duck saying "Poetry as Criticism," then papers with sonnet, limerick, and haiku available along with the standard options. There were a few haiku, a note on the limerick, and nothing on sonnet. And because I had nothing better to do during class, I decided to contribute to the conversation. You can check it out in the JKHB (if it stays up--I used tape) or here it is, free for the mocking.

Duck Sonnet 1

Here, this yellow means of explanation--
my feathered love for you sits a waiting
duck, overlooking these halls debating
which theory to give our dedication.
Yet is this duck true magnification
of my affection? In its elating
"quack," is it real or is it the grating
squeak of rubber duckie? Hesitation,
my love, will demand we pause our passion
and here in structured form lay out our vows
yet with only one hundred and forty
syllables at hand, I can but fashion
a construct of love and this will not wow
or woo, but seem only rubber duckie.

Charybdis

Thanks to everyone for their comments on nostalgia a few posts ago. I've been thinking about it a lot this weekend for a very specific reason. But before I go into that, I want to recap some of the comments made, mostly so I have them in front of me as I write tonight.

and on nostalgia. i can't say i agree with you the least. i don't claim to speak for all, and girls seem to be somewhat unified with you on this, but i love to reflect back. even on the stupid crappy stuff, i never liked the question 'what would you do different if you were to go back into the past' it seemed so...disrespectul maybe. even to change the absolutely wrong things i did, i would be very hesitant to say i would like to change it, even if i wish i never did it. i like to look back, i like to be sad on occasion, and to stew in my despondancy. (HMP)

On rememberese, I vote: depends on the memory. Some are fun to savor. Others give me physical pain. True I wouldn't change my past; however, I would still choose not to remember some of the hurt with quite as much poignancy as I am prone to do. (Miss K)

think i am in the same boat as HMP with the whole nostalgia thing. I love diving into old memories, often just as a way of renewing my gratitude towards H.F. Even the bad memories give me pleasure when i realize how far i have come from them...but i guess that all depends on how far back you cast your mind. (AA)

Apologies for the length of that. And apologies for what I'm about to write. I'm mostly doing it, as always, to give my mind a sort of release, so if you want to stop reading here, go for it. I don't blame you.

Chad is engaged. Chad is--was--boyfriend number one. I don't think my life is a drippy romance story at all, but this weekend it's felt like that. The nostalgia that I so dread has been sucking me in and spitting me out and tonight I feel broken. No, that's not quite right. I feel numb. Because I'm not sure what to feel.

I've been trying to explain this all weekend. How an old boyfriend's engagement to another girl can make my entire world spin out of orbit. Chad was my first kiss--a perfect first kiss, as far as I'm concerned. He was the guy who taught me how to kiss. He was also the first guy to tell me I was beautiful. And the only guy who has kept telling me that, even after we broke up. I guess in the back of my mind was always the comforting thought that even if no one else thought I was beautiful, even if no one else wanted me, Chad was there.

This is sounding like a pity party for one. And in a way it is. I've spent the weekend wondering what happened, when I know exactly what happened. I wasn't there for him when he needed someone. I kept reasoning that I needed him as much as he needed me and it was his turn to make some effort. But part of it was knowing that Chad wasn't who I needed, that he wouldn't make me happy--and vice versa.

The shattering came on Thursday. I had decided to call him when I went home this weekend, just to see how he was. And then I found out, Thursday afternoon. My mother told me. And I told her I was fine, even though I couldn't focus the rest of the afternoon.

I interviewed a group of people that night for an article. After the interviews, one of the guys asked me if I had a boyfriend. "No." Was I upset about/with guys? "Not tonight." Where did that answer come from? I was upset, more upset over a guy than I'd been since my freshman year. Again, something to distract me this weekend. And tonight I'm coming to the conclusion that nostalgia does operate like Charybdis--we get pulled into the swirling mess and then spit out again, only to wash up broken on the shore of some empty island. But I missed what comes next. Nostalgia is a good thing, because it allows us to re-learn our mistakes and our successes. After we're left on the shore, we're given time to heal, even though sometimes it feels like a redundant process.

Part of me always expected Chad to show up on my doorstep, or to at least call. And part of me has held that against every guy I've known. Somehow, though, I've arrived on the opposite side of this bout of nostalgia. I'm still not feeling too hot, but I've rebuilt my world again, this time one without a ghost clouding my view.

While the iron's hot

I found my story tonight. Meaning, I can write anything--I really can. But tonight I found the article I want to write. I can see how it's going to be set up, I know the descriptions, I have the quotes inserted all neat and tidy. This is a feature I know I can write.
Now I just have to convince somebody, aka Mr. Super Cool Editor.

"DC" can stand for so many things

Not much to say, except that every once in a while, life is really good. This would be one of those times. Which means I have nothing interesting to say. . .
Question: literature, stories, narratives, texts, whatever you want to call it, is most often and most successfully the relations of conflict, resolved or not. So the question is, is that necessary? Can you write a successfully entertaining anything--poem, short story, personal essay, blog--without that tension? I read through my journal last night. Anyone reading it will think that my life was the greatest melodrama of the twenty-first century. Which it isn't. Yet. But who honestly writes when life is just ordinary? It makes for a very boring read.
Point. Counterpoint. Bring it on.

A Series of Inexplicable Events, or Everything Tastes Like Soap

This weekend has been decidedly bizarre, at least from my POV. When, or rather if, you read this, you'll probably sit there dumbfounded at what struck me dumbfounded. And so we proceed.

Chapter One. Friday. A very short chapter, in which editorgirl waits for the phone to ring. When it doesn't, she attempts to read The Tempest without falling asleep, is unsuccessful, and consequently goes to bed before 10:00. Lights out.

Chapter Two. Saturday. A slightly longer chapter, in which eg begins--again--by reading The Tempest. Is more successful, in that she finishes it. Receives phone call she had expected the night before. Now has evening plans. Is picked up sometime after 5:00 by Josh friend. Is surprised by Josh friend's sudden chivalric mood of opening doors and paying for dinner. Realizes that she is on date with Josh friend. Loses a game of name that show tune before receiving dramatic end of evening hug. Wonders when Josh friend grew up.

Chapter Three. Sunday. A chapter which was supposed to be another short chapter, but which rambling tripled its size, in which eg recalls receiving random phone call from male on Tuesday. Remembers male asked if she still plays Speed Scrabble on Sundays and if she would be playing Sunday night. As it is now Sunday, eg decides that she will play Speed Scrabble and leaves message for aforementioned male. Aforementioned male does not receive message as he is at a superbowl party, but calls eg to find out if Speed Scrabble is being played. She informs aforementioned male that she will be playing with an assortment of individuals at nine o'clock. Aforementioned male agrees to come. Speed Scrabble game begins at ten to nine; male comes around nine twenty. Male plays Speed Scrabble, eats dessert, and leaves, without much fanfare. Eg is confused. Eg is used to being confused, but can usually find farfetched explaination. There is no explanation, hence the title inexplicable events.

Eg will now return you to your regularly scheduled programming and the use of first person. Good night.

Reality! is overrated! [sic]

Has it really been a week since I last blogged? Scary. I've had one of those weeks where at the end of the day I can't tell you what I did at the beginning. Everything is blending together in a frightening combination of literary theory, the Pub, work meetings, interviews, and just a little bit of Houdini for good measure.

So, thoughts of the past week, in no particular order.

Nostaligia is like Charybdis in The Odyssey--a deep, black, swirling whirlpool that pulls you in and then spits you out, broken and wasted. I've never been one for memory lane. If I could, I'd put up a DETOUR sign in my head to keep me far far away. This week has been particularly bad. I've been reading Doctorow's Ragtime for one of my lit classes. I decided to pull out the soundtrack for the Broadway musical, even though they don't have much in common. But somewhere in the past four years I forgot that Ragtime was the top choir's big number my senior year of high school. I wasn't in choir that year, but I went to the concert to see my best friends and my kind-of boyfriend, who later became Boyfriend #1. Listening to the music has brought back a good month and a half of people singing "Sarah Brown Eyes" to me, but changing the lyrics to "Sarah, blue eyes." And BF1 singing the Henry Ford solo and ranting about the minor lyric changes made so as not to offend the conservative parental audience. In a way I feel as if I've had ghosts following me around.

That was a lot, but one more thought. Maybe two. I've been thinking about art and Mormonism and how the two inform each other in my writing and wondering how it works for visual artists. This is definitely something I want april to pursue.

Last thought. Promise. I was talking to my dad about how the decisions I make in the next month or two will affect the rest of my life. Is anyone else scared witless by this idea? Chime in. We'll start a support group.