hair

There's a whole post that goes with this picture, but for now, let's just say "I got them all cut."

K is for cupcake

I have been getting some requests (read: the parents) to post. Hello, parents.

The secret is, life has been going pretty well. I've had some major breakthroughs the past few weeks, both in my writing and in my. . . emotional well-being? Sure, why not. But the real breakthrough, came from K, the queen of cupcakes. Tonight, I finally tried my hand at heaven (aka, Oreo Cookie Cupcakes).

I'm certain K's looked better, because she is the master. And I wimped out and didn't use the Double Stuff Oreos or make my own frosting. But what I did make wasn't half bad.

Behold the Cupcake.

I ran out of batter. . . but consider it a play-by-play.

you remind me

HOME: PART 1
I write a lot about home. Mostly Utah-home, homesickness-home, that kind of home. But I've been working to make my little apt feel more like home. It's not done yet, but here's the view of my room.








HOME: PART 2
When I write about home, it's usually a place. But there's that other kind of home--when you run into something you know so well, you are home. I ran into this last night. Hearing Lance read his poetry, it's something I learned to listen to at BYU. It's another kind of home.

let me in your window (oh, oh, oh, oh)*

"This wind has thorns. The sky colorless. . . " One of my favorite opening lines to a poem ("My Persephone," Kim Johnson). Only tonight this wind is thornless, but it's howling, the way the wind is supposed to howl in horror movies and Edgar Allen Poe stories. And it's keeping me awake.

Genesis, Exorcist, Leviathan, Do-the-right-thing. (Psych)

I wrote a poem last week, or I kind of wrote a poem. One option for class annotations is an imitation of the poet we're reading (the other options are cantos and traditional annotations). I wrote a poem, that I enjoyed writing, but the rhythms weren't mine. That's the point of the exercise--to experience new ways of creating a poem.

This damn wind.

Anyway, the poem. It's my poem, and it isn't my poem. And while I've been thinking about it, my professor mentioned in an email that this particular piece was her favorite of my work (and yes, she knows it's an imitation.)

The train interrupts the wind, and I'm glad. Now I'm hoping for a police siren. I haven't heard one tonight.

What does this mean? I've already established in my brain that I don't have to please my professors. But I was also interested in this new voice/rhythm/thought for poetry, and now it's her "favorite." So do I figure out what's mine in this poem? Or do I just spend my life churning out cheap imitations of other poets?

Note: an imitation is not an easy thing. It requires excessive thought and discipline and seeing the poem as something other than the subject of the poem--does that make sense? It's like looking at the brushstrokes in a painting rather than the whole picture, and copying the brushstrokes without painting the same picture.

Not an easy thing, this wind.