Where are all the gods?

I refuse to sit in the nice, comfy recliner in my therapist's office. Instead, I sit on the couch, which is. . . not so nice and comfy. But it allows me more control of the situation. I don't relax, I don't recline, and I don't squeak, which is the downside of nice, comfy, pseudoleather recliners.

Today was this odd day of breakthroughs. We talked about the normal stuff and still had 20 minutes of the session, which we filled in part by talking about John Cusack movies. (The man is amazing--and no, I'm not obsessed. It's just that when you've recently seen a Cusack movie, it tends to come up in conversation.) And then he (the therapist, not Cusack) asked if I was avoiding anything.

Of course I'm avoiding things, you idiot. I'm (1) human and (2) me. No more explanation needed. But this question led to a rather disconcerting conversation. He asked about relationships--not just romantic, but friends and family--and I realized something. I avoid relationships with "available" men. I know this isn't a shock to my friends, but it's easy to be blind when looking at yourself. I always joke that I sabotage relationships, but there's a lot of truth there. I sat on that damn couch and tried to think of one single (not married or seriously dating or otherwise unavailable) guy that I consider a good friend--and I don't have one. There are some cool guys in my ward who I'm getting to know. There are a few single guys in my grad program. But mostly I fill this weird little sister role with guys. I don't date. (I pointed out that I don't have time to date, but this is obviously a cop out, according to Hitch.)

This wasn't always the case. In high school I felt more comfortable with the guys than most of the girls. I dated. I went to parties. I flirted. More importantly, I had strong friendships with guys. And I still consider them my friends, but they're part of the past. And during my undergrad--not as many, not as tight, but still single guy friends. So what happened this year? Where have all the good (and by good I mean single and available) men gone?

the unhappy part

Part three: This is the unhappy part. I found out today that my junior Honors English teacher died a few days ago. She was pretty young and I was surprised and sad, to say the least. And then I found out she killed herself by hanging. And I stop thinking when I type those words. It turns out she had been dealing with depression for years--not that any of us would have guessed. It scares me. So many people I love are dealing with depression and other things that no one would guess. I want to reach for all of them to say "I'll help you," but I'm just as scared that no one will reach for me. But I will help you, if you let me. I love you. And yes, this is an obnoxious plural "you," but I really do mean it. I apologize for assuming that I could help anyone, but I wonder if the same thing would have happened if we all hadn't been thinking "She was the happiest woman I knew." A facade is a dangerous and scary thing.

the girls are back in town

My friend who abandoned me to go to grad school in Cali decided to visit Utah (and me) for spring break. I know, I know--not the brightest crayon in the box. And actually, first she abandoned me for Japan and then grad school, so we haven't had a chance to catch up for two years. Yet that pattern seems so familiar. . .

So I've written at least a dozen blogs in my head since Monday. There was the blog about being the token woman in 617. There was the "my top five albums" blog. There was the blog about how I like lists. There was the blog that was just a list. There was the blog about talking to Eleka for two hours after Poetasters. And there was the blog about today, which is what I'm about to write. I should warn you that it curves rapidly downhill.

Part one: English 115. Oh the stories I could tell. Today was APA basketball, which is as dreadful as it sounds. One tape-and-paper ball, one trash can, two lines to shoot from--a three-point and a one-point. Of course no one shot from the one-point line--that's for girls. And not even girls, who kept taking their chances from the three-point line. Nevermind that it's for extra credit and that single points can add up. There was one student--we'll call him Wade--who consistently nailed the three-point shot. So after he had been up a few times, and was up again for the last attempt of the day, there was some complaining from the ranks. In a moment of fairy godmother-ness (and pure stupidity), I said that if Wade made the shot, everyone in class today could have the points. No pressure on the poor kid, who stood at the three point line and arced another one headed straight for the "basket." At which point a guy sitting in the front row jumped up and blocked his shot. Brilliant kid, that one.

Part two: Somehow the conversation in 617 today turned to High Fidelity--at which point Kim mentioned that she preferred Grosse Pointe Blank as far as John Cusack movies go. I stopped the conversation to inquire after the comment. Kim loves John Cusack too. I am validated. (And immediately went out and rented GPB, which is brilliant and I'm buying on payday. Movie night anyone?)

smashed family heirlooms

Where to begin? I wish I had the patience of some people I know to draft out their blogs, but I don't. I just sit down and start typing, which must be unhealthy.

Brilliant reading on Saturday. I ran into LLarsen today (or LanceL if you prefer). I'm not sure what possessed him to ask about my weekend, but he did. And I'm not sure what possessed me to tell him that I hosted a poetry reading, but I did. And now I've moved up a few points on the Pritchard scale of stupidity.

Confession: I was not looking forward to Saturday. Well, I was from Thursday night to Saturday morning. And then I woke up to a text saying that someone wasn't going to be coming. I woke up to text that he wasn't coming and my clock reading 12:45. Why can't I just wake up? Morning and I do not get along and I'm supposed to teach at 8:00 this summer. Pray for me.

So the reading went well--not surprisingly, considering that I had begged a few people to come and they came--and a surprise guest made the evening totally worth it. (I almost typed "surprised"--should I have left it?) I did, however, realize that everyone has heard everything of mine and so am beginning new poems. I have a whole notebook of titles and ideas and not one place to start from. But I'm working on it and I'm sure we'll all survive. And then Sunday came.

Sunday, Sunday. 10:00 a.m. meeting with the second counselor. I woke up at 9:45. Made it there by 10:05 and waited five more minutes. Brother Lunt emerged from the bishop's office and we went into another room for the interview. My mind was considering all possibilities (teaching gig, teaching gig, please let it be a teaching gig)--or one possibility. No such luck.

BL: So how are you?
eg: Good.
BL: Good. (awkward pause) How old are you?
eg: I'm 22.
BL: Okay, so no mission.
eg: Nope.
BL: That's okay. (pause) When was your birthday?
eg: Um--it's next month.
BL: Oh, so I'm ahead. (realizes eg has no idea why she's sitting there) Did you know this was a birthday interview?
eg thinks: What the hell?
eg says: No.
BL: Oh, well, that's what it is.
eg: Okay.
BL: Are you dating anyone in the ward?

I'll leave you all with that cliffhanger--because it's a stupid question. And because my arm hurts, my head hurts, and the whole point of this stupid post was going to be that he didn't come on Saturday, so I decided no more men, and then I flirted like a madwoman after church. So the real question is: Can one swear off men but still flirt?

personal revelation, or alstroemeria

So I haven't posted what I consider a "real" post for a while. . . maybe not a Sahara-like stretch, but still, it's time to write.

I've been worried about blogging this week because I wanted to figure some things out in my head first. Here's what (I think) I figured out:

1. My favorite flower is alstroemeria (see left). You can buy them for cheap at Smith's and they have this quality about them--delicate and yet fierce. I know it's nothing concrete, but they make me happy. Maybe I like them because they're always the complementary flower in a bouquet--you notice the roses or gerber daisies, but these show off those flowers.

2. Number one is important, but not the most important thing of the week, which is an accumulation of multiple thoughts, etc.

I've been wondering for a while if my plan to PhD after next year was the right idea. I kept getting stomach aches and head aches and all other kind of aches when I thought about it. Sometime this week (okay, Wednesday around 2:40 p.m.) I realized that I was planning on the wrong kind of PhD. All this time I've been thinking I'd pursue a literature degree and do writing on the side. I need to flip that. I am about to declare something I never thought I'd declare: I am a writer. I'm going to apply to creative writing PhD programs. (I know I posted that, but now I'm saying it and explaining it and just getting it out of my system.)

The big deal here isn't the PhD program, although it's part of it. The big deal is that somehow in the past week I started to think of myself as a writer. I'm having too much fun genre-bending to declare myself poet, but I'm a writer. I'm a writer, I'm a writer. And this means a bunch of scary things, like suddenly caring about sending things out for publication and pursuing poems that I thought were just fun little pieces and being a writer. I've never been one before. I mean, I wrote. But I didn't have the dedication or the persona or the attitude or the thought process. Look at Miss K. That girl is a writer, body and soul. Same with oh!resolution and HMP and, of course, aa is the epitome of the writer-wanderer.

Is it odd that with this revelation comes some degree of sadness that I didn't realize all this last year when we were all together?

Poetry Reading and Open Mic Night

I know, I know. But they're just so much fun. And if we're lucky, Tolkien Boy will read again.

My place
Saturday, 25 March 2006
8:00 p.m.

We'll read for an hour and a half (or so) and then party after. It should be fun.

the art of reading

I am becoming too comfortable. WIM was a sea of well-dressed and well-groomed grad students. I showered this morning, put on a little makeup, one of my standard outfits. Nothing special. I just walked down to the grad student offices and every computer is occupied with someone writing out or reviewing their paper for this afternoon's conference. I have a dozen or so poems with me that I'll decide on as I'm reading.

I know it's nerve wracking to read, even just in front of peers. Most of you have been around me when I'm jumpy and nervous and wanting to throw up. (And when I'm about to read it's even worse.) But today I'm not worried. It's become routine.

This isn't really the art of reading, is it? I guess you'll just have to wait to buy the book.

Run mad as often as you choose but do not faint.

Insanity. Two nights with a bedtime of 2:00 a.m. One annotated bib completed. One short essay on Osherow written. One presentation on Italo Calvino. . . presented. And now. . .

reading tomorrow. Must choose poems.

presentation on Brian Doyle coming up. Must compile.

and the scariest of all--a list of my five cannot-live-without albums for Monday's 617. Oy.

Oh, and by the way, I have decided to look into creative writing PhD. The decision seems to have settled my stomach. Of course, my mother is less than happy that SUNY Buffalo has now topped the list--and ecstatic that the U is now on the list. Heaven help me.

Reading feat. Jeff Tucker

Thursday (tomorrow)

4116 JFSB
3:00 p.m.

Jeff, Scott Ross, and yours truly

Oh, and Jeff is promising puppies to the first 20 people there.

Criticism and Love and Stuff

I went off on a rant today. And it was a very good rant too. Some chick in one of my classes (deductive reasoning will tell you which one, but I won't) was presenting. Part of the presentation is to present criticism about the author/text. She's presenting along and then says, "I couldn't find any criticism about this author. Nobody had anything bad to say about her."

Wait. Advanced level, upper division English course and you think criticism equals negative commentary? Did you skip about a million classes and a good dose of "Duh"? Criticism doesn't mean negative comments. Criticisim means critical comments of all shapes and size and biases--because they are biased.

So I vented. And I just vented again. And then I had this analogous realization. Someone--not family, not LadyJane--told me today "love you" in passing. This isn't attraction and it's not romance, but it felt just as good. I've been so desparate for love that I confused what love was and I'm sure I'll do it again. But for tonight I have my head on straight (and my hair, for the record).

All that being said, it still doesn't excuse the aforementioned female.

straight mode

I should be putting the finishing touches on my annotated bibliography for tomorrow--which, of course, means starting my annotated bib for tomorrow. Or at least reading the poems for my 8:00 class. So naturally I'm writing a blog and half-watching Win A Date with Tad Hamilton. Shame on me.

I should add that the title of my blog comes from Win A Date: "Do you know how long she keeps her hair in straight mode and how long in curly?" It's Pete questioning Tad on whether he knows Rosie well enough to really love her. And I listen to him and I think Topher Grace who plays Pete is cute (sorry to use the word TB, but he is), but I find myself wondering if it really matters. Do you know how long I keep my hair in each mode? Of course not. But you still love me. *shrugs cutely*

If only I had someone to deliver that speech to. Let's face it: I spend my time with men who sure as hell better not be interested in me--it's safer that way. The closest I came to flirting today was with a student, which is verboten for good reasons. Oh well, as least he was a he.

"You can't love someone for what they stand for or what they seem to be. You to love them for their details--for the little things that are them and only them." Rosie just said that in WAD. And then Tad steals Pete's line about Rosie's smiles--apparently she has six. (Honestly I don't think Kate Bosworth is that versatile an actress, but whatever.) This seems to be the message of the movie: that you have to know a person before you can love them. Which doesn't necessarily mean that you know how long they keep their hair straight or curly. But you know them. And no, not in the Biblical sense. Well--eventually in the Biblical sense, but let's take it slow.

So I called Dave tonight. Dave=D. From high school. I admit, I left a message, but, as we learn from WAD, "Honey, your odds go up when you file an application." We'll see what happens. A good chunk of me is hoping he deletes the message or got involved with some female in the two weeks since I saw him (not that I've kept track). But there's this little piece that's hoping he'll call me back and we'll figure out some time to run into each other again.

And if he does, I need to decide whether to wear my hair curly or straight. Because I honestly don't have a system. Yes, it was a trick question.

tremendous

Tonight we celebrated my grandfather's 80th birthday. And by "we" I mean me and 61 other relatives (and kind of, sort of, really not relatives), all seated around small tables at the Skyroom. No, I don't know why we celebrated there. Probably the family's extreme nostalgia for the BYU--I've heard that it can happen to people, although I'm not sure I believe it. And the EN was challenged by the two uncles who opted for USU instead. Let's face it--if you have the choice between a nice celibate lifestyle in Provo and becoming a "True Aggie" in Logan, which are you going to choose? That's what I thought.

I love my grandfather and it was fun to see some of the tributes to him. The five grandsons in the three-to-five year old range sang a song about chewing gum that apparently Grandpa sang as a youngster and most of his children and the older grandchildren remember him teaching them. I admit that I have no memory of the tune, but it was entertaining to watch the boys singing around wads of bubble gum while singing "My dad gave me a quarter to buy a garter. I didn't buy a garter; I bought some chewing gum."

The Jester sang "I Want to Grow Old with You" from The Wedding Singer. He's a good performer and he altered the words about being put to bed when you've had too much to drink. The cousin who jumped on the IWtGOwY bandwagon forgot the alterations, however, and so there was plenty of merriment accompanied by the Jester shaking his head as he played his guitar louder.

Grandpa's a singer himself, so he began with the French national anthem for no apparent reason other than he learned it for a BYU production when he was in college. Then the Nauvoo classic "Old Mother Hubbard." He sings it opera-style and really gets into the performance. The final number was "The Men in My Little Girl's Life," which he sang at each of his daughter's (first) weddings. A girl was chosen from each family. I admit a little chagrin on my own part when they chose LaLa for the "married" stage, along with some ribbing by my older married cousins, but I survived.

Dinner was something chicken or chicken something, naturally. The high point there was my cousin Nate's wife asking if each missionary was given a life-sized cardboard cutout--my dad had brought the Sven cutout and my grandfather had introduced him/it earlier.

I love my family, especially this extended family. Cool uncles, funny aunts, great cousins, cute little kids running everywhere. But I'm starting to feel even more on the outside of things. One of my older cousins (older meaning late 20s, early 30s) proposed to his girlfriend last night. He spent a lot of time talking with LaLa and the cousin her age who got married in the summer. Both of them are 19. There's only two cousins around my age still single. D is in a relationship that's going on year two now and L is a lesbian--with a girlfriend. Even the younger cousins are married or dating. My world of books and poetry, etc., doesn't match up with theirs anymore. Not that it ever did. But when we were all in high school, we were at least on the same page--or at least somewhere in the same text. Now I don't know what book they're reading.

itinerant evangelist (LBB)

Um, it's been a long week. And at the end of said week, I'm finding the need to unwind (times twelve) via blogging. Here I go.

Bedtimes. This week has been marked by an unusually high amount of napping and an even more unusual "early" nights. Last night I asked LaLa to quiet her guests down--I was tired and ready for bed. Then I realized it was before 11:00. No wonder she looked at me like I was crazy.

Oh hell. I don't feel like a list. I'm annoyed tonight. I know we all like MST3K (I've only seen one) and it's fun to comment on bad movies. But even the bad ones deserve a little bit of respect. Tonight I found The Good-bye Girl for cheap at Borders (I was there to buy Howl for 617) and decided I wanted to watch it--Marsha Mason bugs but Richard Dreyfuss totally makes up for it. Yes I'm a romantic and Yes I shouldn't let myself watch chick flicks, even the unconventional ones like TGG. But the friends I watched with tonight went beyond MST3K. They were shrieking and picking it apart and I know they've both sat through and enjoyed worse fare. (Granted, I shouldn't have been surprised by the one who mentioned she'd rather watch The Notebook than About a Boy. Must find new movie watching friends and assign her to lunch dates.)

Deep breath. Back to the list of this week. Maybe.

Homework for next week: Read Calvino's Invisible Cities. Annotated bib for Lance. Presentation on Calvino. (Mon, Tues, Wed, respectively.) There are a million books on Calvino. I have no idea where to start. Oh, and my creative assignment is due Wednesday too. No idea what I'm writing about yet. I'm stuck on the one subject I know I'm not ready to write about yet.

Did not call D this week. Thought about it. No good excuse. Maybe I'll plan a poetry reading. March 31, anyone?

Two readings this week: Peter Makuck on Thursday and Lucie Brock-Broido today. Both of them were excellent readers--I like them reading better than them on the page. He was so friendly and grandfatherly. He taught my 218 class and then I walked him over to the JFSB. We talked about grad programs and the need to experience life outside of Utah--give me more material to write about. L B-squared was intense and other worldly, which seems an appropriate adjective, but I still enjoyed her. I bought books by both poets, but I'm a bit scared to read hers by myself.

About leaving Utah: everyone's doing it. I'm finding myself more and more jealous of people who are leaving this existence for another one, even if that existence isn't necessarily "better." I know I'm lucky to be where I am and I'm happy where I am, but I want to experience something new. I need something new to write about, something new for my brain to mull over. Creative writing theory has provided a lot of, well, theoretical material, but I need to apply to something and everything seems to be stock ideas. Of course, Brock-Broido pointed out today that there are only a few themes everyone writes about--she had a list of 36 by some French author, then her own list of 6, then Robert Graves's list of 3: love, death, and the changing of the seasons.

Maybe that's my answer.

Puking is sort of like writing.

Am I the only person who lives life as if it all belongs in writing? Not that it deserves to be, but pretty much every minute of every day I'm considering how this moment can be transferred to words. (Please no discussion on the inability of the signifier to represent the signified or on how a true autobiography would simply say "I am writing" over and over and over.) This blog serves to allow some of the more banal out in writing and my poetry allows the more. . . whatever. . . out.

All this serves as preface to the past few days. I have been sick with the flu, which is an experience that really can be related in one less than elegant word. But added to that was feeling like every spot on my body was bruised and a sleepless stupor that was accompanied by minute bits of Rent lyrics. (Tolkien Boy warned me to stop, and I took his advice, but listening to Rent for a week straight had already warped my brain. I'm attempting to correct the damage with my new favorite CD: DJ Whitey's Intro to Hip-Hop and Neo-Soul. And no, you're not going to find it on Amazon.) The creepy thing about this experience is that even in my feverish state I was considering how to write about it, complete with interwoven Rent lyrics. (Note: It wasn't any of the good bits.)

But let's back up some more to Sunday night, which I was meaning to write about, well, Sunday night, when I got distracted by what I thought was just a headache and a cold.

We've been hosting Sunday dinners (and by "we" I mean my roommate and I) the past two weeks. These dinners are really just thinly-veiled attempts organized by my RS president friend to meet people (and by people I mean guys). Of course, this has all been helpfully disguised by the girls who have joined us in this endeavor who make it a point to not talk to anyone but other girls. It's a scary situation when I'm the flirtiest girl in the group. After the first week, which honestly just annoyed me, I decided to take matters into my own hands and drag Tolkien Boy into the mix. That boy makes any party a roaring success. At the very least he provides me with someone to make snide comments to--and as we all know, TB is never a "very least" type of person.

There was a point to this story, but in the past few days I've forgotten what it was. It probably boiled down to complaining about my roommate who refuses to flirt (despite subliminal brownie messages) and recruiting every tall male in the Provo area. RSpres even found one to invite to dinner, but he's--get this--too tall. I didn't know there was such a thing.

Where the hell is eg?

I have spent the majority of the past twenty-four hours in bed wanting to kill myself. No, not depression. Flu. I'm still trying to figure out what can make a girl puke lime green.

I wish I had more to write, I really do. But I'm going to go puke again.

Silly boy! Poetry is for smart people.

Today I wrote a rather long epistle to the 2/3 of the Trinity not sitting in my kitchen, complete with anecdotes and much love, and compiled an excellent mix for the 2/3 of the Trinity who can listen to heathen music right now. And then I realized that my printer was out of ink, so I went to campus to print up the epistle and blog posts for Kapka, who's trapped in the MTC.

I printed the epistle and then decided to check the library for a book of poetry criticism I've been wanting to thumb through. They didn't have it, but I found a few more titles and headed up to the fifth floor. I found the PS 325 section just fine and took my sweet time selecting books. Then I headed for PS 3515. I found PS 3511 and then nothing. And then PS 3657 or something. So I walked back to the reference desk and asked for help. (See--I can ask for directions!)

The nice man at the desk checked the call number I gave him and then walked back to the shelves with me, but went in the opposite direction of where I had been looking. For some twisted reason there is a tiny corner of shelves that includes PS 3515. I was grateful for his help and made some crack about "so this is why no one reads poetry anymore." He smiled and then said, "Actually, there's a better reason why people don't read poetry anymore, but I don't think you'll want to hear it."

Jerk.

This is definitely an overshare

I admit that I was happy last night when I realized that some of my "crazy" symptoms were probably just PMS. I wandered through Macey's reciting the first few lines of a poem another chick workshopped in my 319 class: "It's a relief when the blood comes." Can't remember the rest of it, except a comparison to crayon scribblings.

Today my legs have cramped up, I'm heavily drugged, and I seriously contemplated writing a post that consisted of one word repeated over and bloody over again, which I'll refrain from for the sake of my soul.

at the end of the week

Student: "Where did he go?"
eg: "What?"
Student: "Where did he serve his mission?"
eg: "Who?"
Student: "[Jeremiah]."
eg: "Oh. Um. . . Brazil?"
Student: "Are you sure?"
eg: "I don't remember. I think it was Recistencia."
Several students: "That's in Argentina."
eg: "Well, it was somewhere down there."

And thus began my Friday class. I love my students, I do, but they were so dang chatty today. I kept asking them to stop talking, telling them to stop talking, cracking jokes about them, etc. And all this while I'm being observed by my PA. Who luckily didn't mind, although she did point out that one student was texting all the way through class. His cell phone is going in the fish tank. As soon as I buy a fish tank.

So they were chatty, but it's insane how well this class gets along. They must have bonded on those mornings when I was late. When I asked them why they were so chatty today, one girl answered "We missed each other. We haven't seen each other for a long long time. We love each other." I think she was only half-joking.

And when it came time to work, they buckle down. I let them move into their IFATgroups, which they seem to like, and we used [Tolkien Boy]'s Diagram (aka the Diagram of Death) to analyze Lou Gehrig's speech and then put together a thesis statement. It really does make teaching rhetorical analysis a million times easier, which is always good.

Hmm. Maybe today went better than I initially thought. At least, class did. But the follow up. . . I was walking out to my car and hit a patch of ice. I let out a ladylike "Oh shit" as I hit the ground and the box of donuts I was carrying went flying. The donuts were fine, save some smeared frosting, but my hand and my butt are both bruised and my lap top's computer screen is messed up in the very corner, which worries me.

I've been trying to comfort myself with Diet Coke and soup, but it's not helping thus far. I guess I'll just have to grade some papers.

each argument

To days of inspiration
Play hookie
The need to express
To communicate
To going against the grain
Going insane
Going mad
"La Vie Boheme" Rent


Today I confessed that I think I might be going crazy. I'm having a hard time focusing, I'm losing my grip on priorities, There are very few things that I really care about. I seem to be reaching out to people, because with people around I feel better--I have to concentrate on them--I get to concentrate on them--instead of letting my thoughts circle and circle and stop and come back. But even with people around, I lose my focus and have to force it back. I get distracted and tangential. I have to excuse myself for moments to

And I'm back. Interruptions, of the human kind. And Uffish says I look alive, which is a good thing. No need to panic yet. Alive and going crazy is much better than alive and crazy. Wonder when I'll get there.

A few thoughts from Ms. eg before she retires for the evening.

1. Everyone should read through comments for InDialect. In the very near future, I will dedicate a long post to her.

2. I'm tired.

3. I ran into Heavy D tonight. Friend from high school. Who is gorgeous. And brilliant. And just awkward enough to make me feel comfortable. Chalk one up for the "decent guys" score.

4. Still thinking about D. Sorry.

5. D D D D D D D.

6. Okay, that was a little much. My apologies.

7. One page papers are stupid. I will never assign one page papers.

8. I now need to grade a stack of one-page papers. Good night.

A rather atypical post from eg. Enjoy.

Just in case you missed this.

And I know people disagree with me. Well, you go ahead and do that. I'm going to sit here and enjoy my picture of a scruffy Jake Gyllenhaal.

And this is for Thmazing Theric.

And all others wondering what Seth Green would look like with a mustache.

see a secret

I have a new project to work on: Find a form that allows me to write about my life. This is, of course, for cw theory--I would never willingly take on a project that requires me to write about my life. I hate journals. I hate writing things that will date me. I'm not sure what I'm afraid of, or if I'm even afraid. I just know I don't like writing about me.

Now everyone point and laugh and say "What about your blog?"

What about it? It is all true, all the concretes and the abstracts. And if I wanted to I could manipulate it into my project, which is something I've done before. But I don't want to. I want to do something different, something original, something--let's continue being honest--brilliant.

I'm looking at my "idea" board, which hasn't changed much since I put it up. A picture from a magazine of the road sign for "Boring, Oregon Exit 1 Mile." A sketch of me by Kapka, drawn at FroYo one night. I have sad eyes. My 218 letter. An explanation of triangles, by Tolkien Boy, whose real name I suddenly wish I could use on this blog, but I won't. A postcard from Paris that I bought myself. Another postcard from Oxford depicting a stained glass window I don't remember seeing.

What am I doing? What am I living? Poetry? Prose? Something in between? Too bad I can't deliver my bathroom wall. I tried to convince my mother this weekend that I'm all messed up. I couldn't do it. She points out all the times I'm with friends or going to meet friends. She points out that I sound happy--even plays back messages I left her on her phone. I tried to explain that I'm okay when I'm in class, when I'm teaching, when I'm at dinner or Fob or Poetasters or inscape or whatever. But when I'm alone. . . I shouldn't be alone.

I thought about making a postcard to send to postsecret. (This isn't it--it's my favorite secret this week.) I don't have anything to send them. I tell my secrets here, or I spread them out. Some of you know who I was in love with. Some of you know what pieces of my life I shatter on purpose. Some of you know that I like to cook or be kind or that my family's dog and I are tight. And some of you could tell me secrets about myself that I try not to acknowledge.

Here are two tenuously related secrets: 1) I think facial hair on guys is sexy and this is one reason I'll be glad to leave BYU for a PhD program. 2) I was the catalyst behind the 'stache contest among the English grads and faculty. Mostly I just wanted to see if S. Green could even grow a mustace. He can.

I wish I didn't need them so much.

My mommy would cry.

Today's special: Ethos, Pathos, and Logos. They are appeals and are not exclusive and here are video clips to illustrate.

And now, the writing portion of today. A natural disaster (any natural disaster. I suppose we should specify. Hurricane? Earthquake? Fire? Tsunami. Okay) A tsunami is headed for Provo. We have less than an hour. They've just notified us that our class can send two people to the special barracks under LaVell Edwards Stadium to survive (No, there aren't special barracks under the stadium--at least, not that I know of). Everyone else may or may not live. You have to make an argument, appealing to ethos, pathos, and logos, of why you deserve to live. You are not allowed to give up your space in an act of charity or whatever. You have five minutes to compose your argument. Go.

And (selections from) the arguments:

I'm a girl so I need to be saved so I can "replenish" the earth. [Instructor comment: When you think about it, we only need one man and a bunch of women and we're set.]

My mommy would be very sad if I died.

I do have a girlfriend so I have a good chance of marrying. One of my kids could be the next Gordon B. Hinckley.

The only reason I feel I am legitimate enough to be saved from this fatal disaster is because my favorite flavor is orange.

I don't really want to be saved. I'm not afraid of tsunamis. I'm more afraid of lava. If it was lava I'd want to be saved.

I should get one of the spots because I am a very unique individual. I grew up in Brigham City but refuse to see the movie and how many people you know can say that.

I am fairly attractive so while in the shelter people can enjoy looking at me.

I should be allowed to live because I'm really tired right now. Who wants to die when they're tired? It would be fine if I got some sleep before the tsunami came, but two hours just isn't enough. I must live long enough to get sleep!

I'm tall and tall people should be saved.

I have been through too much in this life to not be saved. When I was 9 yrs old my dog got hit by a car and was killed. When I was 14 yrs old our new dog also got hit by a car and died. Haven't I suffered enough?

I love my mom and she would cry if I died. Do you want to make my mom cry? I sure don't.