money, money, money

$20 at Amazon.com. What do you spend it on?

Myriad Harbour, The New Pornographers

1.Put your iPod/iTunes on shuffle to get the first answer.
2. For each subsequent question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER HOW SILLY IT SOUNDS!
4. Tag 10 friends who might enjoy doing the game as well as the person you got the note from.

IF SOMEONE ASKS YOU FOR SPARE CHANGE, WHAT DO YOU SAY?
Star Mile, Joshua Radin

WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERFECT DATE?
Have You Seen My Love?, Barenaked Ladies

WHAT DO YOU LOOK FOR IN A JOB?
Easy Way Out, Elliott Smith

WHAT IS YOUR LATEST DILEMMA?
Waterloo, ABBA

WHY DON'T YOU HAVE MORE MONEY?
Belle & Sebastian, Belle & Sebastian

WHAT IS YOUR SECRET NICKNAME?
Strange & Beautiful (I'll Put a Spell on You), Aqualung

WHERE DO YOU GO AT NIGHT?
Fighting in a Sack, The Shins

WHAT IS YOUR EMERGENCY PLAN?
Teenage Love Song, Rilo Kiley

WHAT DO YOU WANT FOR YOUR FRIENDS?
Tournament of Hearts, The Weakerthans

WHAT DO YOU DO FIRST THING IN THE MORNING?
Curbside Prophet, Jason Mraz

WHAT IS YOUR RINGTONE?
Against All Odds, The Postal Service

WHERE DO YOU WANT TO BE IN FIVE YEARS?
Flint (For the Unemployed and Underpaid), Sufjan Stevens

WHAT IS YOUR POLITICAL AFFILIATION?
Kissing the Lipless, The Shins

WHAT CAN YOU DO FOR YOUR COUNTRY?
You and the Night and the Music, Frank Sinatra

WHAT CAN YOUR COUNTRY DO FOR YOU?
Put the Lights on the Tree, Sufjan Stevens

WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?
Shakin', Rooney

WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM, PAL?
Einstein on the Beach (For an Eggman), Counting Crows

WHAT IS ON YOUR CHRISTMAS WISH LIST?
I've Had the Time of My Life, Dirty Dancing Soundtrack

WHAT'S THE BEST SONG TO MAKE LOVE TO?
Cemeteries of London, Coldplay

WHAT WOULD YOU DO FOR A KLONDIKE BAR?
The Last Unicorn, Kenny Loggins

WHY DO FOOLS FALL IN LOVE ?
If You're Gone, Matchbox Twenty

WHAT MAKES YOUR BLOOD BOIL?
Kingdom Come, Coldplay

WHAT MAKES YOUR LOINS ACHE?
Wild Pack of Family Dogs, Modest Mouse

WHAT'S THE SECRET OF YOUR SUCCESS?
Baby Blue Sedan, Modest Mouse

WHOM DO YOU ADMIRE MOST?
Giving It Away, Mae

WHO IS YOUR MORTAL ENEMY?
Painting by Chagall, The Weepies

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH YOUR LIFE?
Any Man of Mine, Shania Twain

WHAT HAVE WE LEARNED?
Follow You Down, Gin Blossoms

WHAT WILL YOU POST THIS AS?
Myriad Harbour, The New Pornographers

Not tagging anyone, but everyone. (And if K and RG jumped off a cliff, I'm totally jumping too.)

happy christmas

The Night Before Christmas
by Clement Moore

Actually, it was originally called “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” but apparently that ruins the ending.

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

Santa Claus is Bishop Nicholas, who lived in the 4th century A.D. He was very rich, generous, and loving toward children. Often he gave to poor children by throwing gifts in through their windows. This was a problem when the windows were closed.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.

The average person gains 7 to 10 pounds during the holidays. Eat up.

And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

Quick survey: How many of your parents actually slept on the night before Christmas? I mean, toy assembly alone keeps them up until what? 1, 2 in the morning? And then the kids are up at 4? This is just perpetuating another vicious myth.

Where were we? Clatter. . . matter. . . flash. . . snow. . . You know all this. Mostly filler.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.

Fact: Our idea of St. Nick was actually created by the Coca-Cola company. Seriously. So you can thank them for Coke, Diet Coke, Diet Coke with Lime, and Santa Claus.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! On Donner and Blitzen!

Two thoughts on the reindeer: One, some people argue that they replaced Pagan gods. Two, this poem is the first time they were ever named. You’d think a poet could have done better.

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

Okay, assuming Santa is strictly visiting Christian children, he still has 300 million children to visit in one night. And if each child gets a 2-pound toy, then the sleigh has to carry over 321,000 tons plus Santa and his holiday weight gain. In order to get everywhere, Santa has to travel at 650 miles per second. 321,000 tons at 650 miles per second would create such enormous friction, Santa and his reindeer would burst into flames.

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.

why I wore pants to church

Maryn has now turned 14, and it is time to turn our attention to other issues. Or one other issue.

It is freezing.

Let me say that again.

Freezing.

When I suddenly decided (realized) I was moving to Chicago, everyone warned me about the cold. I listened, but I'm a tough Utah girl. I can take the cold. But here's the difference between Utah cold and Chicago cold (and yes, I'm aware that I should be more precise and compare city to city and state to state, but this is how I think. And I'm still not resigned to living in a state known as Illinois):

Utah Cold

Chicago Cold

See the difference? Look closely.

Utah cold has a car. Let me say that again. Utah cold has a Car.

I suddenly find myself in desparate need of coat, gloves, scarf, a second scarf to wrap around my head, and I'm still Cold. Which leads to why I wore pants to church yesterday.

If it's cold in jeans/trousers, it's even colder in a skirt. I've invested in tights (which I hate for various and obvious reasons), but with the snow, tights and heels seemed like a really bad idea yesterday. (Case in point: the week before I nearly did the splits on my 10-minute walk to the El. Luckily it was a narrow skirt, which provided some control.) So I decided I would put on my tights, but wear pants and boots until I got to church.

I'm so clever.

Until I got to the church bathroom, claimed the large stall, reached in my bag, pulled out my heels, reached in again, and

no skirt.

Right before I left for church, I had decided I wanted to wear a different skirt than I orignally planned. So I took the first skirt from my bag

and never put the second skirt in.

Maryn, I luff you

even though I have no idea what "luff" means. But you do, and I trust you and your vocabulary.

I hope you have an awesome party tonight and a wonderful birthday tomorrow. And tell Mom to give you your birthday present from me. Now.



Seriously. Go get your present. There's nothing else here.



Luff. LoL.

Except that.

the stylish stylings of Miss Maryn

True Story: When I need to know if an outfit is working, I ask Maryn. The girl's got style. Need proof?

This is M at girls camp. Who looks this good at girls camp? Answer: no one.

M at. . . I'm not sure. But she looks awesome, as always.

An impromptu modeling session with Seth and Sophie.

It takes skills to pull off head-to-toe glowstick accessories.

A local photog asked M to model for her. This is one of my favorites.
Stay tuned for more Maryn tomorrow!

previewing tomorrow

the stylish stylings of Miss Maryn

iMaryn

I come from a rather talented family. Seth sings (and plays the guitar and woos the women), Lauren plays the piano (and is SuperMom), Sven is pretty much a genius (a guitar-playing genius), Mom quilts (and sings and plays the piano), and Dad is the genius from whence Sven came. But I would argue (and I believe most of my family would agree), that Maryn might just be the most talented of all--a kind of uberTalent, if you will.

Exhibit A: Maryn sings. Most recently, she was in iHappy, a musical revue at her junior high school. I didn't get to go, which is iSad, but I've been told she rocked the house with her rendition of "My Favorite Things" from Sound of Music.

Exhibit B: Maryn plays the piano. And the guitar. And the clarinet. In fact, she was so good playing the clarinet (with minimal practice time, mind you), that her band teacher begged her to stay with band this year. (I believe she declined in favor of. . .

Exhibit C: Maryn speaks Mandarin Chinese. Please join me in excessive eyebrow lifting and exclamations that only a Mormon would make.

Exhibit D: Maryn designs clothes. Not that unusual for an almost-14-year-old girl. But how many 14-year-old girls have already had designs put into production? Seriously, folks. (She designed a dress and a sweater for this clothing line. Unfortunately, she wasn't given artistic control over production, and doesn't love the results, but still--.)

Exhibit E: Last, but not least, and certainly not all, Maryn is a particularly gifted aunt. I hate to admit it, but she is the Abby Baby's favorite aunt, as indicated by her Abby-name, "Quack-Quack," meaning "the funniest, nicest, most attentive, patient aunt in the world."

Happy Birthday, Quack-Quack.

courtesy of Th.

Just in case you don't scour the comments pages, here we find Anne Shirley explaining Twilight.

your regularly scheduled programming

SuperCoolMarynFact 2: Maryn has great taste in men. While the rest of the world was swooning over him

Maryn was more impressed by this man

That's right, Gilbert Blythe. And while she found him via the movies, my brilliant sister soon moved on to the books. He's just as attractive there.

(I can't wait to introduce her to

. . . in a couple of years.)

(an interruption, or "There is no end to existential crises.")

(I just declared it a week of Maryn, which it is, and then I scrolled through my blog, as I am wont to do. And I'm usually pleased with myself, with my writing, even when it is Too Much. But today I was sad, I am sad. An entire string of David Cook videos? Seriously? And only a video of the Weepies as Puppets? And then I blog-hopped about, reading about people who I know and people who I love and people who I wish I could be like. There is one person who is living the life I think I should be living. There is another who is living the life I want to be living. And I'm wondering if even though I moved to a new city, and wrote new poems, and even got into an MFA, if I'm actually living. This weekend was lovely, but it was a borrowed kind of lovely. I don't know who I am anymore. I don't know when I get to find out. I wonder if I should start with who I was, or if that would be counterproductive. I want to be excited to be me, but I have to figure out who that is first.)

a week of Maryn

On Saturday, December 6, my baby sister will turn 14. Finally. After a year of me telling everyone that she is 14. And I won't be there. So, in honor of this auspicious occasion, the world's first unmanned flying deskset will be hosting a week of Maryn (not to be confused with the month o'Edgy or the Anna holiday). There will be food, drinks, laughter, dancing, and a whole lot of Maryn. And possibly a countdown as in. . .

"The Top Ten Reasons Maryn is Maryn"

or

"M.A.R.Y.N. is A.W.E.S.O.M.E."

Both are working titles.

Anyway, the point of today's post:

Maryn loves to share. Like sharing her favorite Bountiful cool spot, The Yogurt Stop. A serve yourself frozen yogurt mecca on the corner of 5th and Main. Maryn suggests the raspberry frozen yogurt with Oreos, or the Oreo frozen yogurt with Oreos. Or pretty much anything with Oreos. Just remember: frozen Swedish fish taste kind of funny.

Stayed tune for tomorrow, Twilight, and Gilbert Blythe.

(written on a Saturday)

I am a family person. I never thought of myself as such, but apparently I am. And I’m missing my family, actually counting the days when I get to return to Utah and family (and Anna and Danny and Christian and at least one afternoon of Will). Since I just celebrated a fairly embarrassing moment of self-discovery (see post on David Cook), I think I should celebrate this one, with a picture and some of the back-story that will never make it into analyses of my poetry (yes, I in fact do think about some poor fool writing papers on my poetry, and yes, I realize I need to publish for that to happen):

Abby has learned to say my name, or a version of my name. She learned this after I moved and I feel a little cheated. Or very cheated, take your pick. That, and missing Lauren, led to “Dear Sister,” a poem of letters and what can’t be in letters. I’m thinking there are a few more of these to follow, in one form or another.

Seth is at BYU, a fully-grown freshman. When I think of him, it’s most often the shake of his head he picked up when he had long hair and still does with short hair. I know he’s just months away from being one of the most amazing missionaries, but he’s still my baby brother. All this found its way to a still-untitled poem that wasn’t about him, but all of those boys (men?) like him. And him.

During the spring and summer at home, I had Maryn stories to tell. I miss telling those stories. They were funny and sweet and just a little doting (on my part). At the end of the summer, I asked Maryn to tell me stories. She still sends me emails with her stories, which thrill me. She’s living a life that is amazing and I love hearing about her life. Those stories belong in any number of poems and books and etc, but I wonder if Maryn will be the one to write them.

Confession

I am listening to David Cook by David Cook, the most recent American Idol. This is the first Idol CD I’ve purchased. Not sure how I feel about it—actually, I know just how I feel about it. I’m celebrating the fact that I called the entire competition when Cook sang “Hello” in the semifinal rounds. I admit to falling for little David Archuleta over the course of the competition (why the hell isn’t his name setting off my spell check?), but that one took time, and I still thought it was Cook’s competition. In celebration of that, and me (finally done licking my wounds when Ruben beat Clay—yes, I voted for Clay Aiken—in my defense, I was young and the boy can sing), here are my top three Cook performances, courtesy of sneaky YouTube peoples.

Hello


Always Be My Baby


Billie Jean


And his new single, “Light On,” which I actually like (or maybe I'm just glad that they’ve stopped making him sing “The Time of My Life”):

Light On


And, just because this is my blog and I can do what I like, David Archuleta singing “Apologize” with One Republic, which was brilliant. Charming little devil.

Apologize

I'm on my way

I know it's lame to just post a movie after over a month of not blogging, but I need to ease myself back into it. So, a real post will come soon. In the meantime, happiness is your favorite band (or one of them) as puppets:

and thus we see

I'm not sure why being out of Provo makes me think I don't have to blog as frequently. And then being out of Utah? Might as well just stick a fork in me. But seeing as how Provo and Utah are both very far away, and I won't be back until December, I'm going to attempt a new mindset and I'm going to attempt to blog.

I have been away from Utah for six days now, and in Chicago for even longer. Well, not longer, but it feels that way. I feel as though I've been here forever and ever and ever, but not in a good way. That being said, here is a reckoning of my days:

Wednesday (September 17): I (meaning my mother) finished packing that morning. I (meaning me) flew away on an airplane with absolutely no leg room but a very nice man who helped me lift my over-regulation (shh! it's a secret) weight carryon into the overhead compartment. Another nice man helped me retrieve the stupid thing when the flight landed and the fasten seatbelt light finally turned off. And then the real fun began. After waiting for twenty minutes at the baggage carousel where the flight attendents and all signs directed me, I concluded that my baggage wasn't coming and then began a run around trying to locate my baggage. (No, I didn't think to check this blog.) Eventually I was directed to the lost and found, where a very small woman attempted to help me with my very large bags. I was tired and frantic and smelly and frizzy when Emily and Joe found me, led me to their car, and drove me to my new apartment.

Thursday (September 18): I woke up remarkably early, considering. Managed to get dressed and find my way to the El, which I love. I caught the Red Line to the Purple Line, and arrived in Evanston. I'm told Evanston is beautiful. It was hot, humid, and there were a lot of freshmen as lost and confused as I was. But I managed to find the Student Center, get my ID, and make an appearance at the Institute picnic, where, I confess, I was mostly there for the food. I did find out about the young single adult branch, and returned to Chicago, where my roommate (flatmate, really) Monica was kind enough to drive me to Target (blessed place) for a few essentials (like something to put my clothes in). That night I was a brave little trooper and walked the two blocks to marvel at the neighborhood market, featuring food in at least seven languages (and Kinder Bueno!).

Friday (September 19): The day I actually discovered that the Market sells Kinder Bueno, but still. . . Caught the El again, this time to downtown Chicago, where my classes are this term. Found the building, the classroom, the bookstore, the books. I love the books. And then I dragged my insanely heavy bag down the street to the Museum of Contemporary Art, where Ferris Bueller was not filmed, but where there are a few beautiful and interesting things to be seen. It woke me up a little, which I need in current condition of permanent dazedness. I actually drafted a new poem (!) and spent the night working on some other ideas that I've been playing around with.

Saturday (September 20): Saturday was a special day because (1) I used both the El and the Metra to make my way out to Rolling Meadows and Emily and Joe, and (2) with Emily's guidance and assistance, I finally figured out how I could make it to church on Sunday. I also realized that Northwestern's intercampus shuttle bus thing has a stop right behind the El station--and it's free! Finally something is free!

Sunday (September 21): I left my apartment at 9:15 a.m. to walk a mile to the Metra stop for what I thought was a 10:32 train (I was giving myself time to get lost and to not get too sweaty). It was actually a 10:52 train, so I waited for at least an hour. Made it to Wilmette, and was given a ride from the train station to church by a girl who is going back to school for her MBA. Church was nice and normal and the people were friendly. That, and I realized that I'll probably be able to take the El into Evanston and then get a ride from there--no more walking a mile to Church! (Although it would make a great pseudo-missionary story.)

Sunday gets two paragraphs, because after the adventure that was church, I braced myself for the adventure that was "Going to Prof's House for Creative Writing Opening Social." Although, I didn't realize what kind of adventure it would be. The Addison stop, where her house is, is right next to Wrigley Stadium, where every Cub fan in the world was celebrating. (I have been informed that to survive this experience, I too must be a Cub fan.) Long story short, I asked the wrong person for directions and found myself a mile away from where I was supposed to be, in bad shoes, and thick thick fog. I called in the calvary (go Dad!), got turned around, and made it to the Prof's house for an evening of talking with mostly fiction and creative nonfiction writers. Not that I'm biased, but. . . I am. I really wanted a poet or two to talk back and forth with.

Which leads me to today, even though today is Tuesday and not yesterday (Monday). I have spent the past two days on the Chicago campus, online, trying to find a job. Because I must have one. The whole money thing, coupled with the whole Sarah-must-have-a-schedule thing. Class starts in a little over an hour and where I would usually be nervous (and mostly likely will reach that point), I just want it to start. I want to talk influences and ideas and language and poetry. Because that's why I'm here--or, at least, it's a starting point to why I'm here.

Note: This reckoning does not include the many phone calls home or the few phone calls to people in the area who are supposed to be in the know. I went easy on the anxiety, the doubt, the frustration, because. . . well. . . I'm hoping I reach a point where this move is a good memory and not a "I'm so glad that's over" memory. Right now, it's sixes which way it will go.

week week week week

Actually just "week." One week before I leave Utah. Or go to Chicago. Whichever way you want to look at it.
.
I have a place to live. And a roommate. And apparently a fondess for conjunctions.
.
Symposium on Poetics on Friday. Featuring Kim Johnson, Jay Hopler, Susan Howe, Lance Larsen, and Paisley Rekdal. In seating order, of course. And my favorite quotes. Ever.

Larsen: "All we can do is filch or fabricate [our poetics]. All lyric poems are one."

Howe: "my poetry operates cynically"

Hopler: "my poems tend to be smarter than I am"

Hopler quoting James Tate: "If you're not surprised by the poem, the reader's not surprised by the poem."

Johnson: The function of poetry is to "redeem the unrepresentable in the world".

Hopler: "the inevitable fall [down the page]"

Larsen/Johnson: The poem itself ought to be its own experience/world and follow its own rules. It casts a shadow on this world.

Hopler: Language has to be beautiful in a way the world cannot be.

Hopler: What a poem is about is the least interesting thing about a poem.

Johnson: When I start with those four words, I assume the poem is already there.

everything I know about Chicago I learned from Ferris Bueller*

So it's official: I'm moving to Chicago. All I have right now is a date--September 17--that I'll be there. No apartment, no housing--yet.

Classes start Sept 23. I'm taking a poetry workshop (yay!) and a seminar on teaching creative writing (double yay!). Just two this term, so that I can direct some energy towards figuring out this whole Utah-girl-in-the-city thing. (Please let it be like London with American accents!)

What I do know about Chicago: the El(evated Trains). I love love love mass transit. The Museum of Contemporary Art, right down the street from Northwestern's Chicago campus (I'll be at both campuses over the next few years, but both of my classes will be in Chicago this term). Oh, and AWP will be there in February. After all the sadness of not making it to NYC this year, they're bringing it to me.

I'm really excited. Really nervous--I'm hoping I have a place to stay by the time I get out there. But mostly the excited bit. And now I have to work on a (gasp!) new poem. Workshop, here I come!

*I feel this need to, at some point during my Chicago life, re-create FB's Day Off. Including this scene. Which means I need two of you to visit me. I will be accepting applications.

showing off

Since Alexis thought the back of the duck cake was cute, I thought I'd show the front. My genius sister Lauren not only made a duck, she made a shrugging duck. And we all know that shrugging is one of Abby's favorite show-offs.


This was my contribution: the duck quilt. There are rumors the child likes it, but I have yet to witness said affection. And no, I won't be making any more quilts.

Abby Turns One: Polaroided

The Abby Cake.

The Abby Duck.

The Abby Babies (cousins Kaitlin and Luke).

The Ung Family (Sam, Meghan, and Kaitlin).

I think I'm polaroid

feat. Maryn, Sophie, Seth

and yours truly, to your right.

northwestern

said yes.

you know that scene in Wedding Singer where George takes over the mic to sing "Do You Really Want to Hurt Me"? and then, when he's finished, Adam Sandler isn't there to take over, so George has no choice but to start over?

that's how this day feels. on repeat.

how many soundtracks does one life need?

The last playlist was from my iPod. The following is from my iTunes library.

I'm really bored and trying not to think too much.

Opening Credits: "White Christmas" sung by The Drifters
Waking Up: "If You Were Coming in the Fall" by Carla Bruni
First Day at School: "Lost!" by Coldplay
Falling in Love: "Oh Lately It's So Quiet" by OKGo
Losing Virginity: "Think Awhile" by Cary Brothers
Fight Song: "Death of an Interior Decorator" by Death Cab for Cutie
Breaking Up: "Chills" by Ben Lee
Prom: "Tinfoil Hats" by Rocky Votolato
Life: "Twenty-Four" by Switchfoot
Mental Breakdown: "Keep On Running" by The Spencer Davis Group
Driving: "I Do" by 98 Degrees
Flashback: "Kissing the Lipless" by The Shins
Getting Back Together: "Everybody Knows" by Leonard Cohen
Wedding: "Young Pilgrim" by The Shins
Birth of Child: "Let's Stay Together" by Al Green
Final Battle: "Have You Seen My Love?" by Barenaked Ladies
Death Scene: "How Can You Mend a Broken Heart?" by Al Green
Funeral: "If She Wants Me" by Belle & Sebastian
End Credits: "Piazza, New York Catcher" by Belle & Sebastian (from Juno soundtrack)

playlist for a lifetime

Everyone knows I love a playlist, so I stole this from Edgy.

If your life was a movie, what would the soundtrack be?
1. Open your music library.
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don't lie and try to pretend you’re cool...just type it in, man!

• Opening Credits: "Alone Down There" by Modest Mouse
  
• Waking Up: "The Way I Am" by Ingrid Michaelson
  
• First Day at School: "It's Good to Be in Love" by Frou Frou
  
• Falling in Love: "Daisy Jane" by America
  
• Losing Virginity: "Act of the Apostle Part 2" by Belle & Sebastian
  
• Fight Song: "All You Need is Love" by The Beatles
  
• Breaking Up: "Speed Lab" by John Vanderslice
  
• Prom: "Me and My 424" by John Vanderslice
  
• Life: "Girl Can't Help It" by Journey
  
• Mental Breakdown: "Jenny was a Friend of Mine" by The Killers
  
• Driving: "A Minor Incident" by Badly Drawn Boy
  
• Flashback: "The Way You Look Tonight" by Michael Buble
  
• Getting Back Together: "Take Control" by Weezer
  
• Wedding: "If You're Gone" by Matchbox Twenty
  
• Birth of Child: "Love is No Big Truth" by The Kings of Convenience
  
• Final Battle: "It's My Life" by Bon Jovi
  
• Death Scene: "Coney Island" by Death Cab for Cutie
  
• Funeral Song: "To Be Myself Completely" by Belle and Sebastian
  
• End Credits: "Last Call" by Mae
  

the duck was a hit

more on the day of wedded bliss when I figure out which pics will continue to keep PDA on this blog . . . non-existent.

feist + sesame street = 4

day before a wedding

My coping mechanism (other than pure, unadultered cynicism): a playlist. I threw some songs together last night, and I'll fine tune the list later today, but here's what I'm thinking:

1. Fidelity, Regina Spektor
2. Where Does the Good Go, Tegan & Sara
3. Cath. . ., Death Cab for Cutie
4. Wuthering Heights, Pat Benatar
5. I'm a Broken Heart, The Bird & The Bee
6. Falling Slowly, Once (Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova)
7. Die Alone, Ingrid Michaelson
8. Out Loud, Dispatch
9. I Write Sins Not Tragedies, Panic at the Disco
10. Company Calls Epilogue, DCFC
11. These Photographs, Joshua Radin
12. Paperweight, Joshua Radin w/Schulyer Fisk
13. Chicago, Sufjan Stevens

Lucky 13. The list I put together last night is actually 76 songs. It includes a lot (a lot) of Death Cab and the Shins--not a big surprise--and a healthy representation of the rest of my iTunes library.

Suggestions? Questions? Comments?

Credits: K for intro'ing me to The Bird & The Bee, England and Lit for "Wuthering Heights," and TB for Radin's "These Photographs"

talk me out of myself

I can't sleep, can't turn off my head. Which isn't always a problem, but it is tonight because I have to be awake, showered, and out the door at 6 a.m. Hell hell hell.

So far I have tried taking a bath (which woke me up), reading magazines (bad idea), and listening to my iPod (really bad idea). Now there is so much in my head that I'm getting this off-kilter sense where everything has sped up around me except the voice in my head who is monologuing (and the voice isn't that great of a monologuer).

Thought one. The magazines were wedding magazines, of which I confess to owning a small stack. A stack which has increased in size since Sven announced he was engaged (except he didn't announce it--Mom told me to call him, and he told me in a very short conversation because he was at work). I've spent way too much time in these magazines, on wedding blogs, and just hearing about weddings lately. And the Wedding (Sven's, not mine) is on Thursday. This Thursday. Which just leads to another round of profanity.

Thought two. What is my brother doing, getting married? I kind of understood Lauren getting married--it was inevitable, and I like JessE (not a typo--Pixar boy's name is getting a Wall-E update). But Sven was supposed to come home from his mission and focus on school. Not focus on school and attaching himself to some chick. Which she's not just some chick. She's sharp and down-to-earth and cute and I like her. But why couldn't he stay single for a month? Two months? I mean, seriously. Seriously.

Thought three. Confession: During blog posts like this, I skip over to this post from someone I've never met. But it makes me happy and shuts down the pity party for one.

Thought four. You are invited to my pity party.

Thought five. There are a lot of things I'm ready to leave. More things I want to hold onto. But it's time. And realizing that it's time just makes me panic at the thought of not having an opportunity to leave.

Thought six. I cited Wordsworth in my statement. I don't particularly like Wordsworth.

Thought seven. I have to be awake in five hours.

In the immortal words of hmp, "Dammit."

I can't get over this

and I don't want to.

proof that even I can take a decent photo (when my subject is this cute)

I have a problem. Actually, I have many problems. But tonight, one giant one in particular that I have 24-ish hours to figure out, to some degree.

I'm a writer. Who has no idea what she's writing about.

Here's the thing: I'm sending one last application out into the void/abyss/hellhole. Only this one is for an MFA. I can't get by on my academic charm (of which I have many). It's the poetry first and foremost, and then how I talk about the poetry. Steve Tuttle warned me of this: I have to say what it is I write.

I don't know what I write.

I write about wings, because they began to represent Trent, and then (I think) they became something bigger than that one friend. They represent the people who leave, one way or another.

I write about backs (although I don't think any back poems made it into this writing sample) because I am acutely aware of my own back, my own pain, and because the shoulder blades suggest wings.

I write at and about and around art because I wish I were a painter--even if Dickinson and O'Hara argue against it. Because there can be an entire world in a canvas--something I think my poetry suggests is that a poem can't contain the world, can barely contain a piece of it.

Kim once said I write about relationships. And I was mildly annoyed with her. But she was right: every poem is creating the space between people. The space we can't cross. The space we try to cross. There is the speaker and there is the "you." And the "you" is god or a man or all men and all women.

Jordan asked who I wrote "First and Last Looks" for, because it must be a love poem. I didn't tell him that there wasn't anyone to love like that.

In "things incommon," I propose an artist's statement of sorts: "This poem//is autobiographical mostly it is honest it lets me love you on days//which never come you know love is [. . .]" I am writing what I know, what I don't know, and (most of all) what I want. I want art and life and wings of my own. I have lived in the same state, in the same place, for over two decades--just a few years in Texas to break up the years in Utah. I want a chance to experience something new, someone new. I don't want to sit in on neighborhood gossip and suddenly be approached by the mention of Michael, who was the original "you." Which means that there was, once, someone to love like that.

That's what my poetry is about: the Other and trying to connect with the Other, trying to establish relationships. It's about remembering those who don't always want to be remembered, or who the speaker doesn't want to remember. "Memory is a verb is is an action is an abstract withdrawn functioning of function of the chair holding folding dropping and fall, fall, fall. Forget to stand I forget to walk forget to experience the morning and everything falls with him with you and you all fly away golden godlike."

But this is too honest, in my mind, for a statement of purpose: Dear Sirs and Madams of the Admissions Board: I need to leave Utah. I need new ideas to write about. I need a chance to live outside of these relationships.

And yet. . . I don't think I will ever let go, even when "you" do.

total eclipse

I am totally, completely, head over heels for this blog. I keep coming back to make sure it really is this perfect.
.

That being said,

I haven't been able to keep my head on straight today. It's full of poetries and Andrew Bird (I'm going to that concert) and self-doubts and people coming home and people not coming home.

As for home, apparently it is 5:00 and time to leave the office.

.

I want to live in this song.

.

dilemma

Thursday: Free Andrew Bird concert.

Thursday: Barbeque at my parents' home in honor of Stephen and Ashton's marriage.

a poem

They rise, halo’d
by the light and their own
wings. They rise

in joy and the sound
of more than one breath

breathing in.

We watch, lifting our
arms, our bodies, moving
to flight.

They all rise, holy
in the light and rising.

I have been buying book after book of poetry, for inspiration.

I forgot that inspiration comes from other spaces.

things I am not

It's not pink. It's not green. I don't even know if it's me, but after a week or so of dreading even visiting my blog, we're going to try this.

.

My brain is so tense right now. I'm overwhelmed by all the things that I'm not: trendy, artsy, indie, thin, published, sleeping, in school. It's the last one that hurts the most right now. The only time I really feel 100% eg is when I'm with K--when I can put everything in my head out there, and be understood.

Understand.

.

In other, and more important, news, it's finally out:

sugar coma

I couldn't do the pink.

This is a work in progress.

Comment accordingly.

me in pictures

Created with Flickr and Mosaic Maker. . . (I borrowed this from my cousin, who borrowed it from someone else, etc.)

1. first name; 2. favorite food; 3. high school; 4. favorite color; 5. celebrity crush; 6. favorite drink; 7. dream vacation; 8. favorite dessert; 9. when I grow up; 10. what you love most; 11. one word to describe you; 12. your online nym

1. Sad little bird....for Sarah, 2. my supper tonight: insalata caprese, 3. Lottie Moon, 4. I s o l a t e d, 5. Stijn, 6. C'mon!, add a note,, wich one's your favorite?!, 7. In the Neighborhood, 8. my chocolate fantasy !, 9. Day 106 - I am a librarian, 10. "Norouz" is coming!..., 11. OH NO!, 12. Let me see you shake your tail feathers....

in joy / intellectual communities / in two parts

Just returned from celebrating the birth of my favorite K. She's not actually old until Sunday, but I convinced her we should wine and dine tonight. We found ourselves at Sushi in Joy, then at Target for pomegranate ice cream, and finally in front of K's TV watching some movie with Hugh Jackman. Considering how much of the night was exactly what I needed after a crazy work week, I'm not sure if I should be allowed to count it as the celebration of K. Although the cute server at inJoy did give (both of) us free ice cream.

.

I've meant to post this week in response to last Friday's post and the comments it generated. Well, that post and AA's chat comment to me about my need for intellectual communities.

I didn't mean to imply that April or FOB or Poetasters were dead to me. I live for emails and blog posts and IMs and the occasional visit, like the one I just wrote about. K keeps me on my toes aesthetically; Ginsberg offers careful consideration of what I'm doing in my writing which almost always leads to stronger drafts and new poems; Anna and Brooke are two of my best cheerleaders; TB will let me bitch about how pathetic I am without making me believe it; Theric pushes me to send out my writing; etc., etc., etc. There is no end to the support I have in writing, and in my life. The only drawback is that you (collectively and individually) are not here. We don't meet once a week to discuss, in person, what we're working on. I miss that. I miss the back and forth that those writing groups allowed me. And I miss having people I can sit down with to talk about line breaks or narrative structure or. . .

I'm not sure how much longer either of us can read this post. I just wanted to let you all know how much I appreciate who you are and what you have been and are in my life--writing and otherwise.

P.S. Ginsberg: I'm giving myself five more years.

plural / validation

That night . . . I try again to work on the self-portrait. I position the easel in my symbolically-cluttered apartment just so, . . . , trying to get the angle of my head right. There's something in my eyes when I look at them in the mirror, what is that? Not doubt. More like insecurity. I want to convey an expression of what it's like to be twenty-eight, knowing you're a grown-up but wondering what you're supposed to be when you grow up. I want to capture what it looks like when you start to realize you have to let go of your dreams. I want the pain of my own artistic yearning to appear there, on the canvas.

As I paint, I lose myself in the joy of the work. Later, I'm overcome by an old familiar feeling of faint hope, that maybe I'm capturing something there on the canvas, some essence of what's in my mind's eye. Is this what Jeffrey meant, about meeting God? God, is that you?

In the cold light of morning, of course, there's another old familiar feeling. Dread. What I imagined as a kind of questioning look is more like a primitive muddle of ugly brown paint, in the vague shape of an eyeball.

from Lulu Meets God and Doubts Him

.

I am always reciting James Dewey's reading quote--something about how poets are failed musicians or failed painters. I would add failed dancer. There's something validating in that thought; then again, I somehow find validation in James Dewey, the way he carried himself, the way he presented his thoughts, the way he approached what he did, does. And of course, there's the fact that you can't separate one name from the other: James Dewey.

This is not a post about James Dewey.

I was considering the similarities between the art forms, between the frustrations the art forms present the artist. I was relating with this book which will end with Mia finding herself as an artist as well as falling in love, and I suddenly won't want to believe in a fictional contemporary painting titled Lulu Meets God and Doubts Him, although I writhe in envy over the title.

.

The poem I posted last night, and then pulled. . . I don't know what it is. I'm not sure what I'm doing anymore. I don't have the sounding boards in place anymore, not the immediacy of weekly validation and applause and critique. I guess I need to emerge from my new basement room and find a writing group. I just know how much I commit myself to those groups. We talked about how there could never be april again, and there can't. But there were Fob and Poetasters. As I write this, it's what I've been missing. I have no idea how to find one, or if there is such a thing in Bountiful.

.

I keep trying to explain what it is that happens for me in a writing group. I can't do it without a trip to Hallmark, so I'll leave it alone. But at least I know what I need.

cranky

usually i love the days when nothing is really happening at work--just a few things to attend to here and there. today i'm going batty. batty and cranky. within the first twenty minutes here i had dropped my portable-phone-i-have-to-carry-whenever-i-leave-my-desk, not once or twice but three times, and never on carpet; ran into the recycling bin, almost tipping it and myself over; and dropped a tray of water bottles twice. Half an hour later, I had a bloody nose--a bloody nose that still isn't completely gone.

First half of the day down. I'm not sure I'll survive the rest.

And yes, I realize I went from no-caps to caps, but that's the kind of day it's been.

head.ache

Makeover

I know it's, as mlh put it, p*nk, but it was time for a change. And I just happened to find this template, complete with the Plath quote. Still not a huge fan of Plath, but I like the quote. I'll continue editing and adding back in links, etc., when I have time, and eventually I'll have the deskset of my dreams.

P.S. Did no one notice that the old deskset was also pink? I tried to find one in a different color, but no real luck. Maybe I'll keep looking. . . but this one is so pretty. . .

smart(e) cart(e)

So true to form, I am blogging the beginning and end of my vacation. This is the end.


1. In a fit of annoyance, I buy The Bell Jar, a book I have avoided up to this point in my life. Me reading a book about a depressed, suicidal writer (does not equal) anything good. I'm surprisingly taken with Plath's prose--mostly the way she doesn't signal "I'm about to enter a poetic turn of phrase to describe my madness." She just does it, moving back and forth with a straight-forwardness that defines her madness. I didn't finish it until we got home (on Saturday), but there are some interesting ideas there. That, and now I can say that I've read it.

2. My family has a thing for aquariums, and so, instead of visiting Disneyland or LegoLand, we went to the Aquarium of the Pacific, which isn't as big as it thinks it is, but is still very very cool. Seth and I both have a thing for otters; Lauren got to introduce Abby to all sorts of creepy looking creatures; and I got some cool shots of crystal jellyfish. . . there's something really bizarre and cool and terrifying about jellyfish.

3. In a moment of family bonding, I carted Seth from the parking lot of the airport to the curb where the rest of the family (and massive amounts of luggage) were being delivered. This involved crossing a few streets, as well as the rental car lot. Quite possibly the best moment of the vacation.


4. Returned to Utah, Bountiful, and waking up at 6:15 a.m. I hate 6:15 a.m. But I'm reading Lulu Meets God and Doubts Him (which is, unfortunately, not nearly as cool as the title suggests), and bracing myself for an onslaught of theorists as my favorite professor attempts once again to teach me theory.

the more we get together

the crazier I'll be.

Jenkins Family Vacation 2008

Newport Beach, CA

We're here for the next week. Sea, sand, sky. Everything you need for a great week. (Well, sea, sand, sky, and H&M, which is close enough for at least one good shopping trip.) Here are a few pics of Day One. Please to note the cute bow on Abby's cute head, courtesy of my genius of a cousin Meghan and her new business. (What product placement?)

the essential "get rejected" thing

is what Tolkien Boy calls it.

I have been sending out poems (!), courtesy of a job that leaves me with a little free time here and there. Today I got another rejection, but with a promising note that the editor really liked "Garden of the Musee Rodin." It makes me feel one step closer.

I gave up on lunch

I am accutely aware that I am trying to Accomplish something.

This past week I have made lists and more lists and bought books (and more books). I don't think I'm one step closer to where I should be. And what I have done, wasn't part of the Plan.

I taught a six/seven-year-old Primary class on Sunday. I thought I was getting four or five kids, and was crossing my fingers for only one hell-raiser--although, sans hell-raiser, it's two very dull hours.

What I got was seven kids, all of them hyper in their own (mostly) fantastic way. My favorite moment came at the beginning of the lesson when, after I had told them who my brother and sister are, one boy started a mutiny by shouting, "You can't teach us! You're just a teenager!" I explained that I wasn't a teenager, that I was (am) 25. Their response? "But you're not married! You can't teach us anything!"

My response: "Well, I guess I could go find you an old married lady who didn't bring you treats today to be your teacher."

If only all problems could be solved with token chocolate.

Prepare yourself

HarvCube

VISPO

It's 2:37 a.m.

and why aren't you awake with me? What happened to all of my late-night IMing friends, people I could talk to when I needed to say things like

• I'm avoiding Provo. Because Provo makes me feel inadequate. And gives me anxiety attacks. And yet, I miss it.
• I am deeply disappointed in myself
• but I'm not giving up yet.
• I hate talking about Sven's wedding, but I'll talk about anyone else's, and in my head, I'm planning my own.
• I come home from work ready to sleep the night away. I'm not sure at what point I wake up for the rest of the night. It's different every day.
• Apparently File Boy has attitude. It makes work more bearable.
• Did I spell that right?
• I went with Marz tonight to an improv show. When I called out Say Anything, the oldest improvers and the host were thrilled. Everyone else in the room, audience included, were confused. It was a sad day in the city of Bountiful.
• This internet connection is pretty terrible, plus my computer is jumpy, which means
• I'm signing off.

Report

Reading: Lyric Postmodernism. An anthology of contemporary poets chosen by Reginald Sheperd, but a different approach to anthology, since Sheperd limited the number of poets his chose, which lets them present lots of poems, as well as longer poems (something Sheperd argues is a prominent trend in contemporary lyric, courtesy of the sectioned poem). So far I've read the intro and the essays and poetry offerings of Bruce Beasley, Martine Bellen, and Brenda Hillman (I skipped ahead). The following are my favorite lines from their essays (I'm going to send you after their poetry yourself--go, go!):

Beasley: "If a poem is a place of extremity--emotional, linguistic, spiritual--no gloss is going to assimilate its monstrous body--phoneme, syllable, image, chant, word." (Toward a Poetics of Monstrosity)

Bellen: "The way lines of poetry slip past one another. Rooms connected by elongated 'U's or zigzagging corridors and natural sounds linger in negative space--rooms we open in to. Rooms that speak a foreign language. Rooms that write a different language than they speak." (Time Travel and Poetry)

Hillman: "The spiritual life of a poet is dialectical, full of unresolved struggle that is simultaneously terrifying & pleasurable." (Seam Poetics)

If I dared, I would type out all of Hillman for you. Brilliant brilliant brilliant. I'm looking at the MFA program she teaches at. . . which leads me to part 2 of the report.

PhD prep: I'm hitting this as hard as possible this year. It's May and I'm researching schools and studying for the GRE--the general GRE. My goal is to get my verbal score off the charts. Or at least the top of the chart. (For the record, it's not that bad right now. I just want to add some sparkle.) I invested in Kaplan's vocab cards--I could make my own, but I'm too lazy. And I'm scared by some of the words I thought I knew that I just plain don't. Those are the hardest to learn, because I can't seem to erase 25 years of misguided vocab. I've now created a GRE word of the day, so that I can have it show up every time I check my blog. (Which AA tells me I need to stop doing and just get Google Reader already.)

As for the rest of your suggestions:

Movies: I downloaded the AFI 100 list. And then watched Iron Man, Transporter, National Treasure 2, and Ronin. I like my list.

Writing: Ginsberg provided a nice jumpstart back into some poetry this week with his comments. I'm reworking what was once "Litany" (it's currently untitled because titles are not my friends) and "on love." Both apparently need more plant life. . .

Hip-Hop/R&B album: In the works. Missing the Fobees and their unique input.

Magazines: Picked up Poetry and Poets & Writers. Thought about Cosmo or Glamour, but who really has time for that?

Books: Why did no one tell me Mark Strand's Man and Camel was in paperback? It's on my nightstand. And it still has the ugliest cover ever.

And I added my own idea to the list: Sleep. Which I'm about to do.

this writing life

For the past week I have been considering the purpose of this blog. I'm not the same editorgirl I was when I began three years ago to toss ideas into cyberspace, into the net of a few friends who were at similar places in their lives. Those friends changed, I changed, and in a way my blog reflected that, but more in absences and diatribes than in any of those first posts. Note: This is not to say that you should read those first posts. They're nothing groundbreaking, although they seemed, and were, important at their inception.

I still feel the need to toss around ideas in a no-pressure space, but at the same time, I'm tired of the constant navel-gazing deskset-for-one mode. It's beginning to read like my journal from high school--I only write when I need to emote. I'm also not at a place in my life where I want to be posting regular updates about where I am and what I'm doing. I'm in Utah working at a law firm. That covers it. No need for a daily report on what time the mail came or what Old Man Mayor said before leaving yet another message for his attorney (yesterday, when I said I would deliver the message, it was "God bless you, my angel").

What I do need right now is a place to conduct what I like to think of as "The Self-Education of Sarah Jenkins." In exile from academia, I know I'm at risk of losing that part of myself. I didn't realize how quickly it could leave me until today when I curled against the arm of the couch at work (after hours, waiting for Dad to finish up) and began reading the intro to Lyric Postmodernisms. I could feel myself processing and considering Shepard's account of the contemporary lyric, understanding his project and how this anthology proposed to present itself. This is what I want to be doing, this is what I am going to do, with or without a PhD program, with or without a syllabus guiding me. Over the next year, or however long it is, this blog is going to be a place for me to write about writing, to see what and how other poets are writing, and to make some progress in figuring out exactly what I want to do as a writer--that is a question I still haven't answered. Part of me wants to say that I'll take on Kim Johnson's final paper again and write about my poetic project. And maybe I will. Maybe now I'll finally be able to figure out what I'm trying to accomplish when I write. And I will take any and all suggestions as to reading material, writing prompts, etc. I know that there aren't many reading this blog anymore, but I trust those who are and I invite/beg you to stay with me this year. It's time for me to finally stand on my own.

And now you can make your joke about the girl who's living with her parents again.

I'm starting this cliche out backwards.

Chick flicks teach us that there are two categories of responses for single women when faced with a wedding: jump in almost to the point of obsession, or bitch--again to the point of obsession. The origin of these actions is, of course, the fact that the woman is tired of being single.



I've tried both approaches. When L got engaged, my family assumed that I'd choose option B (B for bitching), and so I was left alone in glorious single bitterness. Now that Sven is engaged, they've somehow forgotten the lessons learned only a few years ago--keep this editorgirl away from all wedding details, and everything will work out fine. Oddly enough, my grumpiness is no longer chalked up to being single. I have to keep reminding the family (okay, my parents) that I like Sven's betrothed. Who apparently needs a 'nym. She's not Mary Poppins (sigh of relief). She's more. . . should we stick with Disney? Hmm. Actually (moment of inspiration), the girl is reportedly a fan of Audrey Hepburn, so for now she's Miss Doolittle. (There's that thrill of a very complicated inside joke there, which maybe one day I'll share.)



So Sven and Miss Doolittle are getting married at the end of July. And I bounce back and forth between participation and annoyance. But the scales are tipping as not one, but two of my best friends from high school are also taking the marital plunge this summer. I would like to point out, these are my last two high school best (girl) friends who are single with me. And for them, I am putting on the happy face. Hell, for them, I am putting on bridal showers. But I don't know how much of this I can deal with before I crack.



I want the wedding. The wedding, which will hopefully come with a marriage, a boy, and, yes, one hell of a dress. In the meantime, I'm just going to keep watching 27 Dresses because not only is it my life, but James Marsden is adorable (if you're into smart, cynical, indoor guys--which I am). And then I'll watch a whole bunch of action films because there is nothing like a few dozen explosions to clear this wedding crap from my mind.

I have no idea what to title this post

Poetry month is over. The logo has evaporated into air, into thin air. But something better has taken its place: Poets on the Deskset. Links to poets I admire (and there will be more than two of them) who are publishing today. Not that there aren't brilliant dead poets, but what's more exciting than right now? (I choose to ignore the death stare I'm getting from Renaissance Girl.)

And in a final guesture of love and goodwill towards all poetry, here are a few books I'm opening the wallet for in the near future (because that's always so hard for me):

Corinna A-Maying the Apocalypse by Darcie Dennigan

Lyric Postmodernism: An Anthology of Contemporary Innovative Poetries edited by Reginald Shepard

and prepare to pre-order A Metaphorical God by Kimberly Johnson.

after the rant cometh the poetry

. . . maybe I just needed to get that out of my system. . .

.

Conversation

1.
We lean back in our
mismatched armchairs,
which don’t match

anything except the day
you were born, which
I hesitate to tell you

was only twenty-five
days ago, which was
the first day of summer.

2.
You identify this
as the solstice, the
only day we can meet

the sun,

3.
which has left
your window, but you
tell me not to look

directly to its light.
You will guide me,
promise, turning me

east.

4.
To the right is your
first chance to know
the moon, but you are

looking for me.

not unhappy

My mother and I keep getting in fights about how I'm not happy, but the truth is, I'm not unhappy. I'm just not content. I like my job, I like the people I work with, I like living with my family (we'll see how long that lasts), but everything I am is itching to be me again. And it's not a matter of being in school, although I want that. It's discussing words and language and poetry and getting excited about it all. It's hard to not have april or fob or grad school as outlets for the conversations going on in my head. It's hard to not have writing be first on my to-do list everyday. And it's hard letting go of that life. I'm making steps--I told the firm that I'd like to work there for at least a year, so I'm committed there. And it seems as though it's the right thing to do. Money, sleep, etc. These are good things. But they're not a life, at least not the life I thought I was headed towards.

It's not just the writing, although as I write that, it's all about the writing. K is coming back to Utah for summer, which is one thought that keeps me going on days like today. But at the same time, I'm facing my brother's July wedding. I like the girl, I like him, I'm happy for them. At least, I'm not unhappy for them. But it's drawing attention to the fact that I'm alone, which is another thing I'm just not dealing with well now. Coming home after work is coming home to a family that is used to life without me--I join in, but I'm not really necessary. I'm just here. I need to find whatever purpose is left for me--with or without grad school and close friends and writing.

And in writing that, I'm not sure how I'm going to do this. How I'm going to live this life.

Also

I am not going to walk on Friday. . . for many reasons. . . but mostly because I'm going to be here instead.

at the end of the day

The mail is posted and out. The checks are all deposited. The conference rooms are straightened. My feet hurt like Hades' three-headed-dog was using them for a chew toy.

Normal day.

I take it back. . .

well, not all of it.

The no-wallowing bit, though. That I'm taking back. Even though today I did get an hour to submit to journals. Now I can just sit back and wait for the rejection.

working 8 to 5

How the hell was Dolly getting away with 9 to 5? No one works 9 to 5. You start at dawn and keep going through the best part of the day.

This is what I have learned about real life and being a grown up. A grown up who's moved back in with her parents, but still. No more late night runs to Sonic (because Bountiful doesn't have one) or T-shirt shopping runs. I have to dress like a grown up. For the record, I am not a dress-pant kind of girl.

To be more explicit, I have moved home to Bountiful and begun working as a receptionist (full time, 8 to 5) at the law firm where my dad is a partner. Which is not the only reason why I got the job. My MA in English also has nothing to do with it. My MA in English has nothing to do with anything.

Speaking of advanced degrees, it looks like this year was a bust on the PhDs, despite the wait listing. Most programs had their primary offers accepted, and since I wasn't on that golden primary ticket list, I'm, well, a receptionist. And yes, right now I am feeling sorry for myself. Even though I love my job, which comes with all the Diet Coke I can drink, I want to be writing poetry and talking about poetry and basically living my life the way I thought I was going to get to live it. And there's nothing poetic about that line.

This is going to be my last spewing forth of self-pity. This does not mean the blog will die. There are many work stories to be told already. . . have I told you the therapist story?

guilty pleasures

I'm not a good cook, but I love watching reality cooking shows, namely Hell's Kitchen and Top Chef. I especially like watching while I'm eating something particularly cheap and tacky (from these chefs' points of view). At the same time, I like considering the challenges, even if I could never pull of anything.

But last night's Top Chef was totally up my alley: choose your favorite movie and make a course inspired by that film. Apparently chefs don't watch movies. I kind of want to kick them and send over my own list. My top five?

5. Better Off Dead: Use the "French" dinner scene, where Ricky's mom gets blown up. Only real French food. No "Franch" bread, fries, or dressing.

4. Hairspray: Queen Latifah and co. sing and dance with Southern dishes.

3. Ocean's Eleven: Every time you see Brad Pitt in the film, he's eating stuff you'd buy from a street vendor. Upscale that and go.

2. The most recent As You Like It: Take a classic English dish and spin it Asian.

1. Chocolat: Hello.

My favorites from the episode were Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (pure imagination), Il Postino (rustic Italian), and A Christmas Story. The last one, neither really knew anything about the film, including the title. But they knew there was a scene where the family had duck for Christmas, and they ran with it.

BirThesisGraduPoetry Day.

If you're reading this, you're invited to my last Provo party to celebrate my (25th) birthday, (successful) thesis defense, (eventual) graduation, and (of course) National Poetry Month.

April 11, 2008

6:00 p.m.

(call me if you're not sure where)

Someday I hope to be Mrs. Fahrenheit

Kapka used to say "Someday I want to be Mrs. Goodbar." This comment has led to her receiving more Mr. Goodbars over the course of our friendship than she could ever eat. Lately, K's Gmail Chat line is "Someday I want to be Mrs. Nerdy Rad." Again, not a real person--just the tagline for those guys who manage to be just nerdy enough to be attractive.

That's really not the point of this post.

Over the past few months I've been, well, wedding-happy. Flipping through wedding mags in the grocery store, surfing the web, saving pictures of announcements and dresses and rings. (And since this isn't pcaaca, no "oh my!" needed.) I was rather annoyed with myself, but when [Friend] told me she was marriage inclined, sans man, too, somehow I found my craze justified. Since then, I've amped up my obsession to colors and flowers and music (you may now say "oh my!").

I'm not ashamed. I'm annoyed. I want to think that I'm "better" than all this marriage/wedding stuff. Or, if I were to be completely honest, I'd like to continue thinking that I'm not ready for all this stuff. I've gotten used to being the older single sister--times three now that Sven and Seth are attached to girls. We're placing bets that Sven will get married before 2009. Part of me thinks "Good for him." And part of me is screaming "What the hell?!?"

There is only one cure for this: bring on the PhD. Please, somebody, let me in so I can go back to the books.

I was about to sleep when I thought "I should work on that poem." So I worked on that poem, and a few others, and then started looking at different websites listing responses from creative writing programs, and it is now 2:30 a.m. What the hell is wrong with me?

Don't answer that.

I get high with a little help from my friends

San Francisco. Exactly the breath of fresh air I needed. Anna, Brooke, Danny, Will (no 'nyms today--too complicated). Books. People willing to talk about books. Professors in the hot tub (okay, that was amazingly awkward). I loved San Fran, but really the high was my friends. I almost started crying on the way to the airport. But enough tears. Here are the highlights I caught on film:

City Lights Bookstore, where Brooke, Bethany, Kati, and I snapped up four copies of Poetry as Insurgent Art by Ferlenghetti. Signed copies. I was geeking out.

Along the Embarcadero. Brooke and Anna totally smoking hot, as always (even when it's too cold to function).

Anna posing for J Crew.

Group shot!

Will (who apparently never keeps his eyes open in a picture) and Danny.

Anna and Brooke at Buca's.

Diet Pepsi. . . hmm.

Three people not posing. Thanks Cutchins.