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.