on chapped lips

I've known what I was going to title this post since just before 9:00 this morning when I was standing in line at Cougar Copy trying not to kick or cuss at the idiots in line in front of me. I'm not sure exactly what the post is about, but I do have an idea of what I want to include:

1. I post pictures--pictures--of John Krasinski and Jake Gyllenhaal and only get two comments? Seriously? Seriously? (P.S. I love Edgy and Th. more than you right now.)
2. My 218 is rocking workshop. I've never been so pleased with a class before. Which brings me to
3. To kick off workshop I brought in a few of my poems that are in progress. After some really smart comments, "Millennium Bridge" is now two poems that I need to work on instead of one. But I can't work on it because I have to work on
4. thesisgradappsacapcaproposal. Who has time fore all this? All this and
5. Christmas shopping. If only more people were as forthcoming and subtle as Grover.
6. Okay, enough of the annoying numbers skipping through sentences.
7. Kapka (aka MLH, but I still think of her as Kapka), Cassie Keller, and Emily Dyer are all reading on Friday. This promises to be the best student reading ever (mostly because I won't be tempted to throw anything at any reader).
8. This week at International Cinema: As You Like It. Next week: Devdas. Can life get any better? Only if IC were open Mondays.
9. I should take the time to make it to 10, but since numbers have never been my thing, I'm not even going to try. I am going to end with one final jubilation: Anna is coming! And staying at my house, which now comes with heat and a vacuumed floor!

P.S. I do have chapped lips, but since its not the result of anything interesting, who cares?

because tomorrow there will be more important things to blog about

Thanksgiving was a success, if Thanksgiving means eating until you pass out. Go turkey!



The rest of the week/weekend is kind of a blur. My family saw Enchanted. Sven and I introduced the rest of the family to Indian cuisine. I spent a few days holed up in the extra office at my dad's law firm working on the thesis. Shopping with Mom, where I saw this:

After this ad, everything paled in comparison. Still does.

Christmas begins in two weeks. . . bring it on.

P.S. (Because sleeping is just not happening.)

What Kind of Guy Will You Fall For?
	You would fall for the sensitive guy. You'll find your future man wherever turtlenecks are sold. He will have depth, introspection, and a disturbing knowledge of musical theatre. And he may be a little weird. But hey, while your girlfriends cry over broken hearts, you'll be having Shakespeare read to you every night.
Find Your Character @ BrainFall.com

on thesising

After some half-hearted attempts to thesis yesterday, I made myself wake up early this morning and go to work with my dad today. Sure I'm in downtown SLC, but I'm also in an empty office where I have nothing to do but thesis. And blog. And facebook. But mostly thesis. So far, so good, although I have started a new D list. Currently on the D list is the author of How to Read the Bible as Literature who keeps referencing his past works as the "best" resources available on everything. He also likes to say "someone said this" and then footnote someone's name. Why not kill two birds with one stone? Or is it the same bird?

of blogging blogging blogging blogging blogging blogging

My blog is my homepage. . . which is probably not the best idea. But it is, and when I open my browser, I'm reminded of what I have or haven't posted, what I wanted to post but forgot, what I should be doing that doesn't include blogging.

I'm not always sure who these posts are for. I can't flippantly say "me," because at this point "me" is way off the charts. There are the people I first started blogging with and for--april. There are the friends I've picked up along the way. There are the people I want to impress. There are the people I want to notice what I write. Most of you (dear Reader, to quote Jane Eyre) fit in multiple categories. But I'm not sure that's why I'm writing.

Tonight I knew it was time for a new post, but everything feels the same: I write the poetry, the letter of intent, the thesis. I teach the classes. I make the promises and break the promises to myself. Nothing feels like it's working right now--I'm breaking down. Or I'm broken. I hate that feeling. On my wall I've posted the requirements for each school I'm applying to. I like to think that they're the solution, but I know that's not completely true. I want to be part of that conversation again, but I have to be able to function on my own.

My own. Not to go all Eponine on you, but that's my biggest problem right now. I feel so alone in this fishbowl city. Is Provo even a city? Either way, I miss having someone around--even if it was the crazy engaged roommate. I do have L and her husband and baby, but they're a unit I don't want to impose on any more than absolutely necessary. Maybe that's why I want to move on to a PhD: most of my friends have moved on and I feel left behind. Becoming part of the conversation elsewhere means becoming part of a community, a group of people who want to talk about writing as much as I do.

PhD or Bust.

of kissing

Inspired by Amanda's brilliant visit to my 218 class today, I'm thinking blog titles are going to go Montaigne. At least for a little while.

Here we go.

I posted last time-ish (a related blogthing has appeared since) about a poem I've been working on that I knew involved kissing to some extent. Problem is I haven't kissed anyone since 2002. So what does one do?

Option A: Slap on the red lipstick and hit campus. . . must first buy red lipstick.

Option 2: Keep an eye out for kissing couples. . . not hard, but ew.

Option something: Pull out the chick flicks. And watch the kissing scenes. In my pajamas. With popcorn, Diet Coke, and whatever else I can eat. Now we're talking. Bathroom scene in The Goodbye Girl. The rehearsal kiss in Some Kind of Wonderful. Bathroom scene (again) in 10 Things I Hate About You. Funeral kiss in {Proof}. Rebound boat kiss in Sliding Doors. And the classic geek kiss in Mona Lisa Smile.

My choices are a little unconventional, I know, but it was what was onhand. And you can't beat Goodbye Girl. Elliot Garfield is adorable. And Some Kind of Wonderful? Pretty in Pink done right, complete with the best girl friend offering to kiss the boy before his big date--with another girl.

And (drumroll) the result? The formatting is crazy, so I can't get it to look right, but if you want to see it, email me. And some of you are going to have to read it whether you want to or not.

Kissing Color?

Your Kiss is Pink

For you, kissing is pure happiness... simple as that. You definitely get a little blissed out from kissing, even if you're a bit shy about it. You won't kiss just anyone. Your kisses are special! Young at heart, you still get very excited the first time you kiss someone. Kissing Type: Generous People See Your Kisses as: Sweet You Kiss Best With: A Black Kisser Stay away from: An Orange Kisser

What Color Is Your Kiss?

everything I should be doing right now

does not include blogging. Or watching Project Runway (3, not 4, because 4 hasn't started yet). I could watch Paris, Je t'aime, but I want to save that for another day. Which will start in 17 minutes. Go team. But first I have laundry and Morri Creech and statement of purpose and poetry and tomorrow is conferencing for 218. I've never conferenced with my 218 students so this should be. . . interesting.





So things that make me happy. . .right now.

Prairie Schooner with Kimberly Johnson. And I like reading what other poets are getting published. So that I can be jealous and push myself to submit more.

Brian Doyle is coming Friday. Friday!

The Jane Austen Book Club Saw it yesterday at Movies 8. Stupid thing was out of focus half the time, but Hugh Dancy is adorable. And they did a pretty decent job adapting the book. Problem is, it wasn't a great book. Hmm. Still loved Hugh Dancy. Even if he is an indoor guy. Actually, he's borderline. I wouldn't mind him out in the woods.

"I have this thing about stories. I hate them. I think they're stupid." Robert

bruised

I can't sleep. I've tried so many times and I realize I have to change that statement. I can't sleep at night. I sleep at inappropriate times for inappropriate lengths. I can't sleep, but I'm more afraid that I won't wake up. Not never wake up, but not wake up in the morning or in the afternoon or whenever I've decided I should wake up. I've slept through concerts and parties and meetings and papers and

My head is too full right now. I tried to empty it today, organize it. But it's like organizing my house--I pull everything out, but never manage to put everything in its place. Right now it's all Morri Creech and statement of purpose and this poem I really want to write because I'm pretty sure it will be good but I'm missing the vocabulary because I'm missing the experience. Does that make sense? I became obsessed with pale Regina Spektor and her red red red lips singing. I like lips. I've liked lips ever since a boy told me I had lips that were perfect for kissing. He was my first kiss. Appropriate. Anyway, this poem is--I think--centered on kissing and speaking and the difference in the expressions. But that boy kissed me and then another boy kissed me and then the first boy came back to kiss me again. My last kiss was a long time ago and it was a goodbye kiss.

Ben Lee writes genius lyrics--not complicated, but genius. His lyrics are all messed up with these other words I'm trying to sort out. His words are relaxed, they don't resist the rhythm they've created. Every word I own is tense, is clenched teeth. No red lips, but not brown and quiet and relaxed either. I want the word "bruised" for my poem, but I feel bruised, I don't own bruised right now. Right now it doesn't belong. But then I wonder if I belong. Maybe I'm not the one who's supposed to write this poem. Did I spell write r-i-g-h-t earlier? I do that sometimes. Please forgive.

What I'm in love with right now

courtesy of one fabulous, concert-heavy weekend.

Ben Lee, including, but not limited to, beginning his set with "Begin," ending with "Catch My Disease (That's the Way I Like It)," and "Bruised" (with Ben Folds and Ben Kweller). He's the complete opposite of Regina Spektor in terms of aesthetics, but the same intensity in loving their music. I've been playing Awake is the New Sleep since TB suggested it to me. Heart.






Cary Brothers played just before Ben Lee (the Kahn Brothers opened). How can I not love someone who covered the Thompson Twins' "If You Were Here"?



















And finally. The Skinny Mice. There are so few words, so I took as many pictures as possible. I just plan on going groupie and showing up for every show.

Okay, I love these three. And there are a few other items on my "love" list right now. But for tonight, three is enough. Now go forth and listen.

The Skinny Mice @ Muse

3 Reasons to Love the Skinny Mice

Jimmy D

Laura

Rosie

Wait. . . what is Spencer doing there?

Can you say "Tin Whistle"?

Can you say "Genius"?

a post to send all good vibes to K for tomorrow's reading

even if she didn't tell me about it in time for me to send the cupcakes.

something to burn

I have spent the better part of this excessively long day (no, I didn't know it was Daylight Savings and that I could therefore sleep one more hour) attempting to find a way into this year's statement of purpose/letter of intent. Last year's began with the inspiringly direct "As a poet, I am interested in. . . " which was (I thought) very, well, direct. Possibly effective.

This year, however, that introductory clause just isn't working. Part of this, I think, is that even though I have that letter written, I'm a different person and a different writer this time around. I've taught another creative writing class, I hiked and wrote and taught through England, and, more importantly, I've established one very important truth about myself: I'm still coming into my own as a poet, which is why I want to continue my education. I know what excites me about poetry and why I write poetry, but my interests change and I don't write "about" one thing. I'm drawn to language more than image now. I'm interested in challenging form. I read both poetry and prose for inspiration. Hell, I read song lyrics and watch John Cusack movies and Kenneth Branagh Shakespeare adaptations for inspiration. How do I hand all this over in a neatly-typed page to represent who I am? Or what I am? And, most importantly, who/what I'm in the process of becoming?

Renaissance Girl to the Rescue: For inspiration, consolation, and breathing techniques, read this.

consolation prize: the weekend

Weekend part one: Regina
I have decided that I love the name Regina. More importantly, I loved Regina Spektor and her concert on Friday night. In the Venue was packed, I was smashed behind and between couples who convinced me that concert + lust = annoying (the highlight being when LeatherJacketBoy missed his girlfriend's shoulder, resting his hand on my shoulder). Luckily the couples and the sweat and the leg cramps were worth it. RS is an insane performer, the best kind of artist. She experiments with everything and she's completely in a world she's created. Her music was amazing, and she got bonus points for telling the talkers to shut up and listen.

Weekend part two: The Book
Weekend part two started Friday night after the concert when I drove up to Bountiful to drop off a sweater. My mom had been looking at what I can only refer to as The Book (a project I innocently started helping my grandmother with a month ago) and had found a few things that needed tweaking. The tweaking turned into sleeping over and working until 2:00 this afternoon to finish it. But it's done. Amen and hallelujah.

Weekend part three: Flames
In the process of completing The Book, my mom and I went through some of the family photo albums. In 2002 my grandparents were serving a mission in Nauvoo. At the same time, my ex-boyfriend was serving a performance mission in Nauvoo. Which means that when our family went on vacation to Nauvoo, we took pictures both with my grandparents and with the ex-boyfriend. And now, five years later, when my mom and I flipped through pages and pages of photos, there was ex-boyfriend singing and smiling and playing his guitar.
I asked if we could shred the pictures (the fate of the same ex-boyfriend's wedding announcement sent to my parents).
Mom said no.
I asked if we could throw the pictures away.
Mom said no.
I asked if we could at least move pictures to a location I wouldn't come across for a minimum of 30 years.
Mom said no.
The emergence of the photos of ex-boyfriend continued to plague me until tonight when I shared the (very dull) details of the dating with Kjerstin, who listened patiently. Very patiently. And then she agreed to join me in burning the few pictures I still had of him--although she did stop me from burning the picture from the night of my first kiss (it was the Senior Banquet, so having a picture was not that weird).
I threw in a picture of the now Eight-Year Crush for good measure.
Considering that this just might be at the top of the list of Why No Man Will Ever Love Me, I wish I had more to burn. There's got to be something else. . .

what does this mean?

"some combination of emotional intensity with intelligent clarity in the poetry"