Sunday, March 05, 2006

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.

8 comments:

Master Fob said...

But have you gone skinny dipping with him?

Melyngoch said...

I'm not certain I would have myself, if he'd had a mustache then.

eleka nahmen said...

I can see collections of your poetry, prose, essays, musings one day being the darlings of elitely underground and artsy intellectual venues. Even your "mundane" posts are poetic.

Lady Jane said...

I'm just laughing

Th. said...

.

I'm not so sure I would like to see Seth Green with a moustache.

Anonymous said...

You know what the most brilliant way to write about your life is. In snow drifts. Snow drifts on top of mountains.

I'm just saying.

InDialect said...

I have a rather vivid memory of you once telling me that being friends will a writer was an automatic acknowledgment that I might end up in print, in whatever form it please you.
I also remember you saying that you were always a little too aware that anything you might write (an email, a birthday card message, a grocery list) might end up in The Complete Correspondence of Eg, edited by Ms. Miz from some small Eastern lib arts college.

Anonymous said...

The ultimate forum for writing about your life: in snow drifts. Snow drifts on top of mountains.

I’m just saying.

 

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