For example

After posting "To Kolob," I said good-bye to Tolkien Boy and Eleka, who were only one computer removed from myself in the computer lab, and marched my way down the library stairs to the basement for the English reading series. Today's offering was Kim Johnson, who I think I can safely say is a genius. She is a poet who has deep, deep roots in the classical tradition, who graduated from Iowa, Johns Hopkins, and Berkeley, and who is flat out brilliant. Why she is also a professor at the Y, I can't really tell you. I'm just glad she's here.

With excited anticipation, I found a seat in the library auditorium--my regular seat on the third row, seven seats in on the south side was taken, but I happily settled into the fifth row, glad to see so many people already at the reading. Until they started to talk. They seemed young, all of them. I glanced back at a guy I had recognized when I walked in and realized that he was the "Mr. Rich" a few of the girls were talking about. He had brought his English 11 class to the reading series. Not just any reading, though. Kim Johnson--a woman who is intense, precise, clinical, brilliant. What the hell was he thinking?

I managed a quick rant to JeffT when he arrived, then relaxed back into my seat as John Talbot began his introduction. I appreciated the symmetry--Kim had intro'd Talbot when he read winter semester. He praised her, compared her to Milton, discussed her roots to the seventeenth century and Latin (what he called "the dear departed language of precision"). I've never seen Kim embarrassed before, but this was close. And then Talbot wrapped up and Kim walked to the speaker's podium.

When Kim reads, she enunciates every syllable. The emphasis and energy is exhausting just for her listener. She is amazing on a million levels. The way she plays with language is fascinating. I sat, literally on the edge of my seat, so intent on the poetry that I didn't realize I was smiling. At the end of the reading, Jeff made the comment that he'd never seen me that happy. I don't think I often am that happy; words, language, poetry invigorate me, make me feel alive like nothing else can. I get such a rush from poetry--maybe I'm a little crazy.

The after-reading was good too. Talk to my brilliant friends, and then JeffT asked if I'd read his short story. I'm not sure how I got the rep I have as a good critical reader/editor, but reading a well-written story and commenting on it comes just behind hearing Kim Johnson read her poetry. This is what I live for. eg

P.S. I forgot about the high school juniors I introduced at the beginning of this post--kind of like I forgot about them as the reading went on. They actually behaved very well and some of them seemed really intent on the poetry. And I did know "Mr. Rich." He's very good looking. Not to undermine the euphoria of this post, but why can't I meet a guy who makes me feel like I'm at a poetry reading? How's that for decent criteria?

To Kolob

Reading over last night's post, I realize that I didn't manage to say anything I wanted to. I've been composing a new post in my head, but now that I'm actually typing, I have no desire to attempt to explain myself. Because I don't have to. So there.

Instead. . . the infamous MJ emailed me, asking me to write a press release. He's running for mayor of Centerville. Mad props to him, but why do I have to be dragged into it? I now find myself wondering if I should have been completely honest with him when he told me about Tina. "Oh, that's nice. By the way, I've been in love with you for six years. I'm going to take my broken heart to London, though, and maybe I'll be up for talking to you at our thirty-five year reunion." Instead I said, "Good for you. Please take me home. I have to pack." And I went to London. Without saying anything. Which is probably for the best. . . right? And now I'm supposed to write a press release for him, because I can't say no. I should say no. I should say "Hell no and damn you and," but I won't. I'll write the press release, even post it here and you can all tell me what a gracious loser I am. Gracious and stupid.

ps. And the form of protest today is apparently conjunctions. But it's not very effective. I'm not very effective. And yes, I am going to go cram myself into a corner and cry now.

punk rock princess

When I was a freshman, I received a call from my best friend. "Eg, you're either going to love me or hate me--I'm not sure which."

"What did you do?"

"My friend called me asking about girls he could take to Homecoming. I gave him your name and number."

"Do I know this friend?"

"No. But I told him about you. I told him you were a combination of a fairy tale princess and a punk rocker."

"What?" I'm guessing this wasn't just my reaction five years ago, that you, my reader/friend are also thinking that I needed a new best friend. She explained that she was referring to my appearance--at the time, long blonde hair and big blue eyes, etc.--and my attitude, which I still wouldn't call punk rocker.

I've been thinking about this lately. Who I am, how I define myself, how others see me. You discover interesting things if you pay attention. Even more interesting things if you don't pay attention, but that's another blog.

After another brilliant meeting of Fob tonight, I mentioned (via IM) to Tolkien Boy that I feel most like myself when I'm at Fob; I felt the same way last year during april. I've always attributed that to being in a workshop/writing/editing situation, one where I feel I have some control over my own thoughts and actions, and where I know I belong. But TB pointed out that part of it is being among friends. I can rapidly switch between joking and being serious and being sarcastic without having to explain myself or my multiple personalities. I'm comfortable there. More and more this semester I'm finding myself out of my comfort zone, forced into personalities/roles I'm not ready to be/fill. But it's nice to know that some of the time, I can still be a punk rock princess. (Dance party anyone?)

tenpoints for Foxy (plus 1)

This is much easier when you know the person. After a least twenty minutes of serious musical contemplation, I'm feeling pretty good about this tenpoints. . . plus one. Hey, I make the rules.

1. So Says I (The Shins)
2. A Long December (Counting Crows)
3. Marvelous Things (Eisley)
4. Fresh Feeling (Eels)
5. I've Got a Crush on You (Sinatra)
6. My Baby Loves a Bunch of Authors (Moxy Fruvous)
7. Soundtrack for Our Movie (Mae)
8. Holding Out for a Hero (Frou Frou)
9. My Love (Keeping the Faith. . . not as cheesy as it sounds)
10. Just a Ride (Jem)

plusone. mr. darcy (Mary Cox and the pop rocks)

Looking at that list, I'm suddenly terrified that Foxy only listens to country.

Good. For. You.

Have been conferencing since 8:15 a.m. with freshmen writers. Brain no longer functioning. Will have to share the personal essay about the boy who puked on one of my students and then the progressively creepy young men who decided they were in love with her. Will also share love over a Cannon Center meal story. Must go to class.

Yes, Master Fob, this is yet another form of protest. Will be functioning enough to provide cookies tonight. Maybe brownies. Does Foxy have a preference?

[Needs title]

I don't usually do this, but without april meeting in person, I'm thinking it's the only way. And yes, aa, this has gone beyond you. In some ways.


He goes quiet
removes his hands from my shoulders
the smile dropped from his face
his shoulders tight
back hunched, head bowed low.


He prays in his poetry
makes me the virgin mary,
lowercased, shrouded
figure in blue, waiting
for someone else
to point the way to heaven.


He prays in his poetry;
and this is not a love song—
it is confession: I kneel
waiting for his hands to return,
to find my shoulders.

Sven the Swedish Model

So he's actually an English/Danish blend, but. . .

I thought it was a cool pic. From family vacation. And a nice little tribute to Elder Jenkins.

Because Jeremy did it

. . . and if Jeremy jumped off a cliff, you would too?

Yes. Provided that cliff was in Hawaii.

From the man who started the insanity:

1. Delve into your blog.
2. Find the twenty-third post.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.

Curiosity killed the cat. Or the eg.

23.5: "Every time I enter the Marriot Center I have the same vision-—me tumbling down the full length of cement steps, crashing at the bottom in a pitiful heap, and breaking my nose."

What's right with me

I've been making a list all morning of what's wrong with me: my head hurts, my stomach hurts, my eye refuses to let me wear my contact today so I'm out of focus, etc. This is just a normal continuation of my usual train of thought: what's wrong with my clothes, my height, my hair, my weight, my mind, my intellect, etc. And I just had the thought: Why can't I ever list what's right with me? Not in a pompous-ass train of thought, just a natural, this-is-what-is-good-about-me way.

On another note, I told my students today that I will never tell them if they are doing (i.e., writing) something correctly or incorrectly, right or wrong. There are more effective ways of presenting a story/argument, but I refuse to be a writing teacher who says "Thou shalt" for every minor detail. I want these papers to be their papers, not mine.

Why do I have such a hard time applying this concept to my own life?

confession

Trying to find a way to say/indicate "confession" without using the word "confession."

Any ideas?

Identity crisis

Yes, I'm well-aware of the fact that my blog has had about twelve too many names in the past month or so. Eventually I'll probably work my way back to the original and brilliant "Bitter diatribe is redundant," but Kapka would and will gnaw my ear off for that one and I'm not ready at this time in my life to mimic Van Gogh. (Did that sentence make sense to anyone else?)

That being said, today has been a good day, so far. Got up, ate breakfast, showered, got dressed, did some writing/revising, went to church, realized it was supposed to be fast sunday, enjoyed testimony meeting (I usually just grit my teeth, but today was decent), decided it was time to go home after sacrament meeting, came home, ate scrambled eggs and chocolate chip cookies for lunch, etc., etc., etc.

I had another moment today where I realized that I'm doing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing--not just teaching and writing, but the whole grad school thing, right down to studying 20th century and contemporary poetry and planning on getting my PhD. Part of myself is terribly satisfied. The other part is screaming "What the hell do you think you're doing?!?!?" (complete with punctuation.) This is not practical, no one else cares, and would someone please explain why I want a PhD? As much as I love DPS and John Keating, poetry will not change the world. My studying poetry will not change the world. What if all I want to do is be married? And then I recoil at that suggestion. I'm not ready for marriage. I'm not even ready to date anyone. Which means the only thing I really can do is continue doing what I'm already doing. I just wish it wasn't such a lonely option.

the world's first unmanned flying desk set

10 points and a plate of cookies if you can name the movie.

Final thoughts of the evening:
1. I really want to see Elizabethtown.
2. People are not supposed to fall in love at 15.

i give up

there will be no capitalization in this post. to capitalize would be to show respect for a very lousy day. i refuse.

i'm not sure why i'm so tired. maybe it's not sleeping for three days. maybe it's the pounds of reading i've done this week (measuring it in pages has become a futile attempt.) maybe it's because i've accepted my fate as a single and singular academic. maybe it's because counseling today consisted of many metaphors, which i felt were unnecessary and unfair. and rather painful. or maybe it is simply because all my roommates have left me and i'm alone in my big house, with my books, my grandfather's car, and the piano.

the story of the day:
i was teaching my class today. . . well, teaching is rather a stretch. i was standing at the front of the room as my brilliant students workshopped each others' papers. hooray. no thinking necessary, except to do some fast thinking when i realized that there was no way the thorough would finish before class was over. i opened the door, glanced at the clock ticking just outside (my room does not have its own clock), and returned to stand just at the doorknob inside the room, leaving the door open. i was beginning to get the class's attention, when a creature swooped through the door, snarling and grabbing at me. i screamed. and then i realized it was my sister, who thought the opening of the door meant class was over. i chased her out of the room, and resumed to give the weekend's homework, but in a rather distracted and scattered manner. so it really was like every other day.

I won't dance; don't ask me.

This morning I found the perfect example of a situation/issue/experience to help my 115 students with personal essay. I was in the women's restroom in the Wilk, across from the ballroom, when the room was flooded with girls in high heels and swishy skirts--social dance females. Their presence was the trigger I needed to start thinking about dance, dancing, ballroom, etc. The fact is, I don't dance. I can't dance, unless it's in a Top-40-everybody-looks-like-an-idiot situation. But I love watching people dance and I wish I knew how--that I had taken the time and energy to learn.

So I presented the situation to my class today, then asked them what kind of questions I could ask about the situation. They came up with a decent list, including the obvious "Why don't I feel like I can dance?" We answered that question: you feel foolish, embarrassed, you don't know the steps. I thought one guy said "skirts," so I pointed out that I was wearing a skirt, so that wasn't a logical answer. "Um, I said scared," he said. "Oh. That's a good one."

"So now we have our question and all these answers: I don't dance because I would feel foolish, I don't know the steps, I'd be scared or embarrassed. Is this enough for my personal essay?" And I got a resounding "NO!" They got it! They knew the story and the analysis had to be taken one step further. Success.

This is your brain on 452.

In my contemporary literaty theory today, hereafter referred to as the class from hell, something finally clicked for me. (Please note that the name is editorgirl, not theorygirl.) In writing about Karl Kraus, Walter Benjamin made the statement that using a quotation purifies or elevates the language. Benjamin's ideal book would be completely composed of quotations. And apparently Kraus was a genius with this.

So the question posed by my professor was why or how does quoting something purify or elevate the language? The conclusion I came to was that by removing the words from their original source, they are forced to stand on their own and "really mean something" (TTIHAY). Which makes sense to me--by isolating a statement, I am able to focus on the language and derive meaning from it, often to a greater degree than when I am attacked by a massive treatise on whatever.

This is my electronic pat-on-the-back. Go me.

Hey brother

I promise I went to sleep tonight shortly after midnight. But I wasn't sleeping well and around 1:30 a.m. I woke up, frustrated and disoriented. As I usually am when I wake up. I was trying to go back to sleep when my sister L started talking--loudly--in the next room. I was convinced she was talking in her sleep--which is a me thing to do, not an L thing to do--until I noticed the pattern of her talking. She was on the phone with S, make that Elder Sven, our brother (her twin), who is currently boarding a plane in Vienna for the Ukraine. (He was allowed to call during layovers at the airports.) I lay there, listening, and, I admit it, jealous. I wanted to talk to Sven. And soon I could hear her saying, I'll see if I can wake her up. She brought in her cell phone, handed it over, and there was my brother. I admit I haven't been a very good correspondent for the past 11 weeks--I'm a terrible correspondent pretty much anytime--but that didn't mean that I hadn't missed him. I got to talk to him, quickly, about important things like Death Cab for Cutie, Iron & Wine, and my 115 class.

I don't usually like to talk about God on my blog, but there's no way else to view this experience. At least not at this time of the morning. L and I needed to talk to Sven, and he needed to talk to us, so God made sure we were awake. And that is no small task.

Please believe the punctuation!

This is a quote from the poet Muriel Rukeyser. I've been reading her book The Life of Poetry, which was first published in 1949. Basically she thought that poetry could become the "meeting-place" that would resolve the world's problems. I don't take poetry that far, but it's a nice thought. As is "Please believe the punctuation!", so it is now an option for my blog title. The editor in me is all giddy.

And now I should sleep. But I think I'm going to read Franny and Zooey.

P.S. Elder Sven is almost to Vienna now. Then a flight to Kiev. Then a train ride (we think) to Donestk. And my apologies to anyone who reads this and realizes I spelled that incorrectly. (I'm not sure if I did or not.)

Big Words

Perhaps it seems a bit silly (which somehow means blessed? Or is it the other way around?), but I've been giving myself quite a few pats on the back for stepping out of my comfort zone and making your acquaintance. (And now the roommate is mushy-talking to her boyfriend, who happens to be my cousin, which is disconcerting and irritating and now I'm totally distracted.) At the same time, my comfort zone of words and editing seems to have been invaded--I find myself checking the dictionary half the time to make sure I'm spelling something write or that I understand what you are saying. Tonight was a vocab night, albeit a vocabulary that I've already started to learn.

1. Poetaster. Noun. An inferior poet. Also a workshopping group that meets once a week to, well, workshop poetry. I've known about it for two years now, ever since JD announced it in our contemporary American poetry class, and I fumed because I didn't like the name. Well, that was the reason I said I wasn't going. I'm not sure why I didn't. Too shy, too self-conscious. Plus I've never thought as myself as a poet or one who writes poetry, so I didn't know if I belonged. I'm still not sure, but I enjoy it.

2. Triangles. No part of speech can contain it. And I'm still not entirely sure what it is. But apparently I'm a green who frequently flips purple. Questions? Me too.

As a final thought, I saw Lizzie tonight. Or rather she saw me as she ran past. And she was right. I do know everything about London--and other things.

Ack and other sophisticated sounds

This is why I don't wake up before I have to--I feel obligated to be productive and then I use up my productivity and then I can't be stressed anymore because my list is all checked off and then I don't exist.

And because I can't have one coherent thought today and I am the queen of non-sequiturs, even if I have to look up how to spell it every time I use the term, I am now noticing that "There Might I Live" is a terribly pretentious name for a blog. I really need a new blog name. Hmmm. A list will now be forthcoming.

Cold medication is a wonderful thing. Hey Mom, look at me! I'm floating! (None of these are blog name options. My blog name options will be classy. Like. . . um. . . quick, TB, give me a quote from Emma.)

she would infect to the north star

An entire six hours since last I blogged. . . sorry, Shakespeare on the brain.

I'm sick, which my mother reminds me is normal for this time of the semester. I forget to eat well, sleep well, eat and sleep at all, and take my vitamins. Let's face it--after you pass the stage where vitamins look like circus animals or Fred Flinstone, what's the point? I'm just crossing my fingers that I don't lose my voice this time around. I'm not sure I'm up to teaching in mime.

((((((((())))))))

I'm terribly annoyed today because, in addition to being sniffly, I can't work out a poem that's been haunting me for months that I pulled out again. The worst part is I submitted it for my 518 workshop. I hate to workshop anything that's not ready, but nothing was and I had to have "three to five" poems. I don't even know what it's about. And I'm pretty sure what I have right now is actually two different poems, even though it would be the same speaker. Huh. It might be a series, or part of a series at least.

I might regret this. I probably will regret this, but the poem/poems/poem pieces are following. If you know what I'm writing about, please let me know. Cheers.

When he goes quiet
removes his hands from my shoulders
I finally know him
the smile dropped from his face
his shoulders taut
back hunched in religious devotion.

He prays in his poetry,
makes me the virgin mary—
lowercased, abused—
when all I ask
is the few drops of oil
to give him light.

Looking at it, I know the last three lines are going to have to go. Where, I'm not sure. And it was originally, "He prays in his poetry / and this is not a love song". Any takers?

What the?

It is 6:36 a.m. (can I use small caps on this program? Hmmm. Must find out) and I am awake. I have been awake for twenty-one minutes when my body misinformedly woke up. I am a firm believer that one should only wake up in order to give oneself sufficient time to get ready and be on time to class. Seeing as how my first class today is at 5:10 p.m., I shouldn't have to wake up until, oh, 2:00 or 3:00 p.m. (I do have some reading to finish. I'm also wondering how I feel about the excessive use of "a.m." and "p.m." in this post, particularly when I don't know how to small cap them, thereby making them look classier as well as ridding myself of those irritating periods. So distracting.)

Hmmm. As I was sitting here, my mind was making a list of things I could be doing right now that are much more productive than blogging. Like showering. And then getting that reading done, preparing for class tomorrow (even though I did get a great head start during Sunday School yesterday), more reading, more reading, more reading, more reading, more reading, and, oh yes, making treats for FHE (the only way to get Paul-from-the-ward out my study. . . which is where one of the front doors opens into). Now that I'm a little more awake (let's hear it for rambling and parenthetical statements), I think I'm going to start that list and shower.

And kick myself for agreeing to go to FHE.

Double booking

My roommates are having people over for dinner. Which is fine, except that I am also having people over for dinner in an hour. And I told them this last week. Grrr.

Necessary Evils

I have spent the evening with two necessary evils: shaving my legs and grading papers. But not before I was introduced to Jeeves and Wooster, courtesy of UffishThought. It was brilliant and British and Wooster was played by Mr. Palmer from Sense and Sensibility. . . in my opinion, he's the best part of S&S. (Sorry, Hugh, but it's just a fact of life.)

Anyway, with a big sigh of resignation, I am going to begin grading papers. Again.

An HMPism

I've been thinking about this for a while, maybe because it's linked to HMP. But I started reading through my blog and found this in a comment. It's connected to the "The Play's the Thing" post in April.

nothing makes painting or writing art that doesn't make auto repair art. give me the lowest basest work, and I will show you a canvas waiting for an artist. (HMP)

I'm not trying to make anyone else sad or depressed or anything, because I don't wish that on anyone. I realized yesterday that I never had time to mourn him. I had to still be super-TA. And I was so far removed from everything, physically, that was done to commemorate him. So I am now mourning. And this is the only way I know how.

We were wrong

I hate crying. I avoid it at all costs. Which usually results in crying harder than necessary and winding up with a killer headache. Unfortunately, yesterday was a day that demanded crying. That hard, hiccough-y, gasping, snotty crying. As I was driving. And when I came home to excise my demons, my computer wouldn't work and the upstairs of my house was overflowing with couples. So I left again, called aa, and showed up at his apartment looking like Hell's second cousin.

& & & & & & & & &

I dreamed him alive last night. . . well, not last night, but recently. I dream that I'm in the classroom where we held the second FAD and I'm looking over and I'm surprised to see him, but all I can focus on are his face, which is bearded, and his ankles and his hand reaching down to his ankle. And I realize (in my dream) that he didn't die. He just hurt his ankle and the story got blown out of proportion. The dream ends there, usually because I'm so excited and wanting to get out of the classroom to find april and tell them we were wrong. We were wrong. We were wrong.

Damn zoobies indeed

I refuse to tell this story again. Let's just say that for at least 24 hours I was seriously doubting my drive to be a professor. Do I really want to put up with freshman for the next two years of my life? There are slightly more pleasant things to do, like kicking myself in the face (hypothetically).

But then today the class just seemed to click. The "focused freewrite" that I stole from Plicka worked for one of my students--so much so that she asked if we could do it the rest of the day. I told her we had other things to do in class, but she was welcome to freewrite for the rest of the day after class. In fact, I told her that she should cancel her hot date. "Sorry I can't go out tonight. I'm freewriting."

That and Nick Mason is supporting my goal to go to Chicago for my PhD. Take that, all you nay-sayers.

So tired

Does it bother anyone else that it says "1 comments"? Grrr.

And I'm not "so tired," I'm just trying to convince myself that I am so that I have a good excuse not to read the 80+ pages of rhetorical mumbo jumbo I have to write a two-page paper on for tomorrow.

Too distracted. . .

Why blog?

I don't have a reason for blogging. Is that allowed? Can I do something just as release. . . catch and release? I blog for myself and my friends and whatever. I blog to hear myself think. E.M. Forester said something to the effect of "I don't know what I think until I can see what I say." Totally butchered it, but that's my idea. (Totally incoherent; on drugs)

Two thoughts

1. Jeff told me today he forgets that I'm a first-year (like him) because I seem to know everything and have everything under control. Well, at least I have one of them fooled.

2. I feel totally incompetent to be teaching. I'm too messed up right now. Too much theory in my head, not enough to do anyone any good. And can I write my seminar paper for 452 on the flaneur in contemporary poetry?

3. Bonus thought: I always hate being unattached, without a crush, but they (crushes) are so unconvenient (deliberate word choice). I wish I could just tell my brain "Hold off until someone makes a move at you." Of course, if I said that, I would be waiting forever. (Somewhere Trent is rolling his eyes at this. That makes me happy. And a little sad.)

4. Dammit, they keep coming. This was supposed to stop. But how am I supposed to stop remembering? I'm teaching my class and I think about how it's what Trent should be doing. I'm talking to a great guy and Trent comes up. He's everywhere for me on this campus. Everywhere except the new building, which means I'm spending more time there than I want.

5. Might as well hit an even 5. I want to write, but I'm not letting myself. I'm just holding back, waiting for so much emotion to drop away. I don't want to write poetry laced with loss. And the only image I can conjure isn't the one I want to leave forever. Plus it already has a name attached.

You can't go back

I went to hear a friend's band play at Vermillion Skies. It was weird going back into that narrow little cafe--beg pardon--de-cafe. And I stopped right outside the door, because, like so many other things, it reminded me of last year and Trent and april and the fact that things will never be like that again.

The artwork on the walls is different, more abstract. And the floor was cleared for all the bands performing. I ordered my Dr. Pepper creamosa and leaned with my friends against the counter. It was so loud--people talking and bands playing over the talking--and I remember it being so quiet, with the very important exception of us.

I think I'm going to start going back there, to write and to think. In a way it's become my church--a place to remember and reflect and begin again. Because (pardon the cheese), even if you can't go back, you can step forward. I think it's time I tried.

The Joy List

A friend of mine had the idea that we have "pet joys," as well as "pet peeves." I started making my list elsewhere, but decided this was the perfect forum to continue. (I think this should be an april activity. Anyone second the motion?)

*really big messy hamburgers
*singing "Someone Like You" from Jekyll and Hyde
*Dali prints/posters
*quoting Say Anything
*finding other people who quote Say Anything
*reading poorly written YA novels
*reading well-written poetry and short fiction by my peers
*going to outdoor theatre. . . or any theatre for that matter
*talking about a play I just saw with intelligent (i.e., thinking) people
*my many nicknames (and the many word plays with my nicknames--thank you, Kapka)
*Kapka, conversations with
*AA, workshopping with
*Special K, not the cereal
*my collection of editing reference books
*my even-bigger collection of poetry books
*local bands
*being a local band groupie
*pictures of my family
*taking pictures with my family
*alphabetizing (too bad I didn't try with this list--I will repent and begin now)
*bagels, un-toasted, with cream cheese
*beagles named Bagel, stories of
*Beatles (such a cliche, but hey, they make me happy
*Beatrice and Benedick in Much Ado About Nothing
*Bollywood
*capitalizing prepositions. . .
*chick flicks
*Divine Comedy shows, introducing people to
*Eels, The (and Kapka's educational CD)
*guys who like girls who wear glasses
*guys who like girls who wear corduroy (I know that jumped out of alphabetical order, but it sounded better this way--see "poetic license")
*incredibly tiny volume of Much Ado About Nothing
*Inscape, finishing
*Lauren Callista
*London
*Muppets, the
*poetic license
*Rachel Yamagata, Happenstance
*Riki-Tiki booty shake
*Shakespeare, reading aloud

This list will be added to again and again.

I think I can

I think I can start blogging again. It's been a good day. I taught class, met with AA about ORCA (how cryptic is that?), went to an awesome poetry reading, and then ate the fattiest burger I could find. The best part? I was happy.

Fingers crossed, life will now continue as we used to know it, to some degree.