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.