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.