the world's first unmanned flying desk set

in the year twentytwelve

2012-01-02T23:57:00.000-07:00

This is my 795th post. Since I started this blog in 2004 I have graduated three times. I have moved five times. Two siblings got married, two nieces and one nephew were born, and both brothers went on missions. I went to London twice. Lived in Provo, Bountiful, Chicago, and Evanston. Worked ten different jobs. Had fifteen roommates. (All numbers subject to my English-major inability to count.) We won't even begin to consider how many movies I've seen, how many books I've read, how many papers I've written, or how many times I've put my song-of-the-day on repeat to become white noise.

Maybe I should just be looking at the past year instead of the past seven. 2011, you were something else. Or you were just like every other year. I'm not sure yet. I think you have to put considerable distance between a time and yourself before you can start to understand what it meant. All that being said, I'm going to talk about now. 11:30 p.m., January 2, 2012.

I'm sitting in my new bedroom, which is in Provo. Good old awful Provo. For the first time in three years, I have a dresser. And for the first time in four years, I have roommates. (Real roommates. Not pay-the-rent roommates who live with their boyfriends.) I'm excited and terrified by the idea of living with people who are not family, who don't have to love me even when I'm me. I've spent the night figuring out what will make this room mine--a rug, a bedspread, a lamp. Rows of movies and a few strategically placed cake stands. A family photograph, a map of Chicago. So much of me, but I'm still not sure who is living in this room.

I want 2012 to be landmark year, but we always say that, don't we? We want this year to be the best year. But what will make it the best? That's what I can't answer just yet. I want to go to my Relief Society answers--which may or may not be what you think they are--but I don't think that's it. I don't think events are what make the year. Maybe it's people.

Here's the first landmark of the year--and maybe it came before the year officially started, but I don't care. Seth and I were sitting on the bed in "my" room at our family's home, trying to figure out his school schedule and online banking. Mom looked in on us as she passed by the door, and stopped, surprised at the sibling resemblance. All five of us have similar eyes, similar smiles--if you put us in a line up, we're definitely related--but I've never been told I look like Seth or that Seth looks like me. For whatever the reason, that was a connection I needed.

The next landmark, of course, was playing Mario Kart with Seth and Maryn. But that's a story for another time.

damn you, mr. darcy

2011-11-20T22:39:00.000-07:00

Is it (the blog) too cute? It might be. But I kind of love it. And I think the cuteness will offset the occasional cursing rather nicely.

I wonder how many times I've written this post.

I have a love/hate relationship with Jane Austen and her men. Darcy, Bingley, Edward Ferrars, Colonel Brandon, Edmund, Mr. Knightley, Captain Wentworth, and, of course, Alan Rickman, Hugh Grant, and Colin Firth. These men are not real. I know this, you know this, and we love them anyway.

I just checked, and the last time Mr. Darcy was referenced on my blog it was 2006. I'm not sure what happened there. Am I regressing? Maybe.

That last post (five years ago?!) was about how I tend to like imaginary men over real men. I have a new theory as of late: I approach all men as if they were imaginary. And by "all men," I mean "available men" or "unattached men" or something like that. The men who I should be considering or hoping that they consider me, they're not real. They're. . . they're Mr. Darcy.

There is a part of me that is insanely frustrated that this seems to be the eternal conversation on this blog. Or in my life. I spent Friday night (a) swooning over HHS's production of Aida, directed by my genius friend, and (b) apologizing to my (other genius) friend that I was talking about a boy. A boy who is a man who is not Mr. Darcy.

I wonder if all this is my real frustration. Because I have a long list of them right now. Maybe not that long. I'm tired of being alone, but the aforementioned genius friends have alleviated that to some degree. I kind of love my genius friends. I want more of them. I should just clone them, keep them in my linen closet.

So more genius friends. The other frustration is the (lack of) writing and sending writing out since I graduated. I know that there is an easy solution there, but I just haven't been able to produce anything I'm happy with since I left Chicago. I miss that more than Mr. Darcy. I want to write and I want people to read my writing and I want to be a writer. I'm not sure I can say I am one right now.

Oh, the self-doubt. I want to shake it off, go to work tomorrow without anything holding me back. I don't think that's going to happen. But at least I have a cute blog.

blogging and the beast

2011-11-06T22:59:00.000-07:00

Hello world. I haven't blogged in over a month, but I've been thinking a lot about blogging.

I had a professor who would ask me why I blogged. S/he thought it would take my attention away from my academic and creative writing. I tried to explain that blogging was a different kind of writing, that it's a way of sorting through ideas, that it's fun. The prof didn't get it at first, but a few years ago, s/he started blogging.

I started blogging in 2004. Seven years ago this month. Go team. I started because Kristen started, and Kristen started because Jeremy started. Nothing like peer pressure. But really it was about a conversation. For a few years, I was part of two groups of writers who all blogged. It was another way for us to create our community. There weren't a lot of other types of blogs out there yet--the only blogs I knew were "writer" blogs.

Now I follow over a dozen blogs. There are still writer blogs, but there are also art blogs and home blogs and wedding blogs and the all-powerful mommy blogs. It's not the same activity. My own blog went from being part of this small, almost exclusive, community, to a travel blog when I was in London, to a way of letting my family and friends know that I was still alive in Chicago.

All this just leads me to this (overwhelming) question of what this blog is now. Do I stay here? Do I start a new blog? Do I blog at all? I've toyed over the years with starting separate blogs for my not-so-secret wedding/event obsession. More recently I thought about a writing blog modeled after an exercise we used at NU that was usually successful. Or even a blog to chronicle my thoughts on religion, scripture, etc.

I'm not the same editorgirl who started this blog seven years ago. This blog is a record of how I've become who I've become. And I love it for that. But I don't know if I belong here anymore.

this is in my head

2011-09-28T23:48:00.000-06:00

"He looked like an angle mostly because the inside was so dark and it was sunny outside creating a shine behind him, like I would imagine an angle would look like coming out of heaven."

also

"The souls of my shoes started to melt." This student also "concurred a beast."

...........................................................................

Listening to Adele again. I know it's not healthy, but at least this time it's "Set Fire to the Rain," which is pretty much the best song I've listened to all day. It might be the only song I've listened to today.

.........................................................................

I was teaching today, with this exercise where students write questions down about the current assignment, but because I've usually already answered these questions ten times, I have the class answer as a "panel" of "experts." It's a good use of a class period, if only because it makes them realize that they know what they're doing--at least in theory. And it went well today. Very well, even. Until I completely lost it when a nice, unassuming student was answering a question. And by lost it, I mean that I laughed. Hysterically. Turned red. No reason, really. Just wild, lovely, manic laughter at the worst time possible.

At least I didn't swear at the kid.

.......................................................................

I've realized, once again, that I am a lonely person. The problem with being lonely is that you get bored, fast. I actually tried to watch "Extreme Couponing" today, but that might be what brought on the aforementioned hysterical laughter. So I need friends. Angles need not apply.

someone like you

2011-09-16T00:01:00.000-06:00

I've been listening to Adele. On repeat. Mostly track 11. Which is this song.

This cannot be healthy. In addition to messing with my emotional well being, it's preventing me from coming up with a solid lesson plan for tomorrow.

We're starting the "Problematizing a Significant Event" paper, which is UVU speak for the personal essay. This is the paper I live to teach, where I can bring up every crazy bit of creative writer in me.

I'm a little worried that the creative writer in me has left the building.

I love teaching. Want to do it for the rest of my life. But I'm missing the other parts of my life. I'm missing the other people in my life. I forget to turn off the teacher, and find myself on autopilot two hours after classes are over. And don't even get me started on the days I don't teach.

I'm missing talking about poetry and literature and language. The things I love, the things I want to be teaching. I'm trying to decide if it's worth one more run at PhD programs. Listening to this song makes me think that maybe rejection isn't a bad thing. Maybe it's beautiful. Maybe it's an invitation to try again.

Maybe it's rejection.

it's a Utah

2011-08-13T23:55:00.000-06:00

The view from my parents' front porch is ridiculous--and one of my favorite things in this world. It looks out over the Salt Lake Valley, which is always bright with lights. On either side are the mountains, and in the forefront are trees that break across the skyline. Tonight there was wind and I sat on the front porch steps, watching the trees bend in the wind, watching their silhouettes change the shape of the lights in front of me.

I wasn't meaning to write a metaphor, but it seems rather appropriate for what I've experienced in the six weeks I've been home. I've jokingly called it a Utah-induced coma--maybe not so jokingly. I love Utah. I love the view from the front porch. I love being home with my family, knowing where I am and who I am in relation to these people who love me even when I'm being me. I'm excited for Seth to come home and Lauren to come visit, and the world will feel complete. But then the wind will blow, and the shapes will change, and I'll need to decide what it is I'm looking at.

A few important things have happened in the past six weeks. I interviewed for (and was offered a job!) teaching English 1010 at Utah Valley University. I'll be there starting at 8 a.m. Monday, Wednesday, Friday. I am not a morning person, but I am a teacher, and I'll do anything to teach.

The next thing came out of the blue--or maybe not so out of the blue as it seems. I've been told to throw as many darts as possible, in the hope that one or two might stick. After many many many rejections (I should probably throw one more many in there), I found out that I'm a finalist for the 2011 Ruth Lilly Poetry Fellowship. Which is bigger than any other dart I could have thrown at this point in my career. I'll find out on Sept 1 if I'm one of five winners, but being a finalist is enough for tonight.

Don't laugh at the last thing, but I went on my first blind date. Maybe you should laugh. Maybe I should laugh. After an email from him, and an email from me that was designed to scare him, he suggested an evening I couldn't say no to. And I'm glad I didn't. It was a slow, comfortable date that led to another date, and maybe to another. Whatever it was, or is, it helped me get over some of my fears and anxiety about dating. At 28, it's about time.

Which reminds me of a short story, which will bring us full circle to my parents' front porch. A few weeks ago the doorbell rang. I was the only person around, so I slowly pulled myself away from the book I was reading and walked to the front door. I saw a little person looking in through the clouded glass. She backed away as I opened the door, and I saw two little girls, one nervously holding a note in her hands. She looked at me and asked if my husband was home. "My husband doesn't exist," I told her, "but my dad lives here. He's not home right now, but I can give him a message." She solemnly handed me the note and asked me to give it to my dad. I thanked her and started to close the door, but not before I saw her little sister lean over to her and ask, "Why doesn't her husband exist?"

path(s)

2011-06-21T22:12:00.000-06:00

O then, my beloved brethren, come unto the Lord, the Holy One. Remember that his paths are righteous. Behold, the way for man is narrow, but it lieth in a straight course before him, and the keeper of the gate is the Holy One of Israel; and he employeth no servant there; and there is none other way save it be by the gate; for he cannot be deceived, for the Lord God is his name. 2 Nephi 9:41

I don't usually write about church, or about scripture, or about spiritual things on this blog. I'm not sure why. Maybe because I don't talk about them very often. But this scripture has been stuck in my head since Sunday. They used it in Gospel Doctrine to talk about the straight and narrow way we must take to come to Christ. It was a good lesson, but there was a phrase that seemed more important to me, at least right now: Remember that his paths are righteous.

Paths. Plural. Multiple paths. There is only one way, but there are multiple paths. Because God has multiple children, individual children. He's not going to set us all down the same path. He's going to give us our own righteous path.

I just said good-bye to four of the most important people in my life, people that I didn't know three years ago. They're the four poets I've been in workshop with the most. Three years ago, I was still mad that I wasn't in a PhD program, mad that I was living in Chicago, mad that these poets weren't the poets I had worked with before. And now I can't imagine my life, my writing, without them. Tonight we sat in my apartment, ate pizza, talked, and read poetry. It was a perfect night--even with the humidity and the thunderstorm and the flickering lights and the sirens going past my window. It was a moment when you know that this was the path you were always meant to be on.

I've said it many times on this blog--I don't know what comes next. But I can see where I've been, and I know that my life has become amazing. I can only hope that this path continues forward.

a story in which I will use an inappropriate word two times

2011-06-13T21:15:00.001-06:00

now that that's out of my system: Anna, this story is for you.

I read Jane Eyre at least once a year. At least. And every time I brace myself when Rochester shows up, because I know that I'm about to fall hard for the bad-tempered, ill-favored perfect perfect man. (I do the same thing when Benedick opens his mouth in Much Ado. Which reminds me--how did no one tell me that this song was Much Ado in the most perfect way possible?)

So Jane Eyre. It was the last text of my "Large Romanticism" class. I read it, in the midst of writing my 15 page paper in less than 12 hours.

We sat in class, and we discussed Jane. We discussed Brocklehurst. We discussed Helen Burns. And then, finally, Rochester. And I'm silently swooning as the class begins the discussion--about how hard it is to like Rochester. Wait. What? And my face. . .

I'm not sure what my face was doing, but it prompted my professor to direct his attention on me as he said, "Rochester is a badass." Still not sure what my face was doing, but the professor asked, "Don't you agree?"

"Definitely," I said. And I was prepared to defend myself. But a few women in the class jumped in to discuss how Rochester isn't bad--he takes in Adele, he tries to save Bertha, etc, etc, etc--until I stop them.

I stop them. "Rochester isn't bad. He's a badass."

Silence.

And then a few heads nod. My professor looks at me, shakes his head. And then says, "That's all I was trying to say."

See you next year, Rochester.

this is.

2011-06-13T20:59:00.000-06:00

I was thinking about calling you, but then I decided I should just write. Fewer interruptions, clearer sentences.

Maybe not.

I'm feeling this crazy sense of loss right now. I have 17 days left in Chicago. I graduate on Friday, my parents and sister are visiting this weekend, there's a graduation brunch open house thing being planned. I have things to do, people to see. And I'm trying to pretend that it's not happening.

I got another rejection in the inbox today--this time for a journal that I've sent poetry to at least three times. And every time the editor makes a comment on how close my work is. Close but no cigar. Today's comment was "Interesting work and approach." (This is addition to "very interested, but not interested enough" sugar coated.) Part of me is so used to rejection. And part of me is so frustrated. And part of me is wondering if I just wasted three years of my life studying poetry.

Now you'll comment, say that I'm being ridiculous. But I'm not. I could have been working, could have been creating a future. I feel future-less right now. I want to publish, but I don't know what more I can do. And I want to teach, but it seems like every door and window is shut. And there are freelance and consulting opportunities, and I can get excited about those, but they're not enough for a life.

I've spent three years creating this life, and I'm walking away from it. And I can't explain it. I can't say that I have a plan, and I'm starting to wonder if I even have faith. I have fear. And this nervous sense that I'm not going to be good enough, ever.

It's this awful feeling, and it's not what I was going to write about. I was going to tell you how wonderful Chicago is, how lucky I am. How lucky I was. What do I do now? Where do I go from here?

. . . .

My last assignment to turn in was a cento. A cento is a poem created by using lines from other poems and poets--all the lines of this cento are from Susan Slaviero. It's a little more intense than what I usually write, but it's something--and I need something.

Cento

Naked, you are all hello, holograph.

Nothing especially miraculous.

This is something you might see

—these concrete constellations—

to simulate the stain of pomegranate.

to kiss the stump of your pretty neck.

In the right kind of shadow, she could be

starlike dents, a row of rivets.

This Madonna

bribed to cut out her mechanical heart.

This is a beautiful horror

when everything bleeds sepia.

are one two three

2011-05-29T23:27:00.000-06:00

apparently deb is a life coach.

this means nothing to you unless you work in the office, and if you work in the office, you shouldn't be reading my blog.

anyway, deb is a life coach. I found this out when she kept referring to the "other" coaches, and I finally asked what they were coaching. they were coaching life.

apparently life coaches go on retreats to places with mountains. a lot of people like to bond with me over mountains. there are no mountains in chicago or evanston, but there is a lake, which anyone will tell you is east. and when you point out that you're in a city of skyscapers, etc, they will tell you that the lake is east and if you can't see the lake, you can feel it. feel the lake.

in utah, you can see the mountains.

this was supposed to be about deb being a life coach and her brief moment of coaching me when I told her "I don't know" what comes next, "I don't know" why I'm moving back to utah, "I don't know" what I want. except I do know. I just don't know if I can get to it--

so deb, who I would hire as a life coach if I had any money, but that's the first problem, told me to journal. she said that you have to put those thoughts about what you want out into the universe (she was looking up, and nervous to say God in the workplace, but she kept giving me these looks, and then nodding to the heavens. or the people on the fourth floor).

I wanted to say "I'm a writer. what do you think I've been doing?" I wanted to say, "uh-huh, sure." I wanted to say "I blog! does that count." except then deb, the life coach, would know that I have a blog and we don't talk about it in the office.

so I am blogging, which is as close as it gets to journaling. I figure this way I at least know that my universe is listening. and I've (just) decided that I get three wishes to send out there, life coach, journal-style.

wish one: I want roots. I have my family in utah, but the past three years have shown me that I can live and adapt anywhere. now I want a place that is my place. I want to paint walls and hang pictures and secretly wish that emily henderson was going to come over to conduct a style diagnostic. (careful about that link--it's addicting.)

wish two: I want a job. I would like it to be teaching or writing, but I was putting together my chapbook and thinking I could do document design and editing and be pretty happy with life. I'm going to write and teach (as mentioned in an earlier post) regardless of the job I hold. I'd rather it not be in finance, and I don't think I can work at a university without being jealous of the faculty and students, but other than that--I think I'm open. anyone need a writer?

wish three: roots, job, I know what comes next. and it's the hardest thing to put out into the universe, or whatever this is. roots, job, relationship. I've had a lot of time to do what I wanted to do, and to process past experiences. there are a few things I'd like to figure out before I'm all-in, but I'm kind of planning on addressing a few of those this summer. mostly because I'm not sure I can write a 15-page paper without ice cream.

so there you are, deb, life coach, universe. I put it out there. now let's see what you've got.

can't go back now

2011-05-24T23:41:00.001-06:00

I am become far too familiar with rejections. (I like the phrase "I am become," but it doesn't belong on a blog, does it?)

After enough rejections, you become immune. It hurts for just a moment, your pride twitches, and then you shrug your shoulders and wait for the next one.

Today's hurt a little more than most. I had (once again) half-convinced myself that this was it--my future--and it wasn't. But then I had emailed Chris in the morning, before I knew it was going to hurt, and asked him for a blessing. I'm so glad they made one of my best friends my home teacher. And when he called to say he could come, I was home, prepared to wallow my way through the evening.

Instead, I had a beautiful blessing, a visit with Chris and President K, two of my favorite people in Evanston, another job application to complete, and a crazy-wonderful response when I tried to find references for editing/writing jobs.

I've been so focused on what I don't have, that I forget what I do have. And what I have is a lot. Not just food and a roof (in the form of the perfect studio apt), but friends and family who are ready to cheer me on. A manuscript that keeps growing, and that I'm so happy with.

I have two weeks left of classes, two weeks to live this life, and then there's another waiting for me. And it's scary and awful and I want to chain myself to my desk and refuse to leave my apartment. But then I think of all the possibilities. That's what I have right now. I want to finish my manuscript, I want to publish, I want to write. And the teaching will come. But tonight I realized that I'm always going to teach. I have to put the writing first. I have to put the words first. "In the beginning was the word." Everything else will follow.

it is finished, 1711.

2011-05-10T23:26:00.000-06:00

I have this poem, that I'm pretty happy with, that's about St. Paul's Cathedral in London. Actually, I have three poems about St. Paul's. And they are all called "Psalmist at St. Paul's" because for some reason no one likes the word peregrine.

But that's not what I came here to say.

The first St. Paul's poem is a bit of a history recitation. St. Paul's was built, destroyed, rinse, repeat, at least four times. The last time it was built they started in 1675, designed by Sir Christopher Wren. It's the St. Paul's that is still standing. After twenty-two years, they were able to hold services. In 1711, they (I'm not sure who they are) declared the structure complete. And ten years after that they were still adding statues of the apostles to the roof, etc.

The poem plays with this idea of what it means to be "finished," arguing in the end that St. Paul's can't be completely finished until people come and experience the building, all of the building. The first two times I was in London I went to St. Paul's. I took the tour. I marveled. I'm an excellent marvel-er. But the third time, I went up. To the Whispering Gallery, and then the Stone Gallery. And that was the first time I'd ever been to St. Paul's. From the Stone Gallery, you have a view of London that I would argue is better than the view of Paris from the Eiffel Tower. (I kind of hate the Eiffel Tower.)

Why am I telling you this now, four years after I climbed the steps of St. Paul's? Because this idea of finishing is very real tonight. I just put together the title page and table of contents for my thesis. It's done. And it's been done before--when I had written enough poems, when I revised those poems, when I compiled those poems, when I arranged the manuscript. And now it's finished again. And I still have a good twelve-or-so pages to write for it to be a full length manuscript.

I'm not sure a manuscript is ever finished. Because even if it's ever published, it won't be finished until it has a reader. And that journey will be completed every time a new reader comes to the poems. And then where do they go from there?

It's exciting to be at this point. I have a thesis. I'm going to graduate. But it's just as exciting--maybe even more exciting--to think about what comes next.

If you'll excuse me, I think I have a poem to write.

good night moon

2011-05-05T23:25:00.000-06:00

I don't know what to do with myself. The obvious answer is to go to bed. All I have wanted to do for the past week or two is go to bed. And now, tonight, when I could be in bed, I'm sitting on my bed (which is what you do in a studio apartment) not wanting to sleep. At all. Possibly ever.

The problem is, I don't want to do anything. I kind of want to work on the thesis. And I kind of want to watch an episode of Numb3rs. And I kind of want to. . . but no, not really.

I'm ready. Not to sleep. To move forward. I don't know what "forward" will be, but it's time. My thesis got the thumbs up from my professor yesterday, so all I need to do are some minor revisions. After that I need to finish my courses with a chapbook (!) and a 15-page paper on Ossian and Romantic literature. I like Ossian--I like all blind third-century fictitious bards. I just don't want to write a paper on him. But spending 15 pages with Wordsworth will make me jump.

So schoolwork, check. And work--well, I told them that I'm leaving. I had to submit a letter of resignation, which was odd. But on June 24, I'm saying good-bye to McCormick and co. And then sometime that next week, I'll drive off into the sunset to that great beehive in the west.

And then. I don't know. But let's not spoil this.

Maybe I do have some poet-ing in me tonight after all.

[P.S. Today was Claire's birthday. She's one and all smiles. I was trying to figure out how I would remember her birthday. I was reciting how Sam's is on the 24th of July and Abby's is burned into my memory, and Claire's was just a random day. And my co-worker looked at me for a minute, like she was waiting for me to catch on. I didn't, so she said, "You mean Cinco de Mayo?" Yeah, Claire. I won't forget.]

confession and announcement

2011-04-08T08:59:00.000-06:00

My birthday isn't until next week. My family is just awesome and impatient. But thank you for all the (early) wishes. I needed them.

And why I needed them: I didn't get in. Anywhere. I've been processing this for a few weeks now, and I should have told you (collective and individual) sooner, but I thought I'd have good news to offset the bad. And then I found out that I didn't get that job either.

So. I'm not sure what comes next. I'm open to suggestions. There's part of me that is relieved, that is thinking after a decade of college it's time for a break. And then there's the part of me telling that part to shut the hell up. And then the third part--maybe the best part--is angry and annoyed and is throwing as many poems at as many journals as I can to prove those PhD admission people very very wrong.

I'm telling you this today because I am on vacation. And I'm with my best friend, which means I can handle telling the rest of the world that somehow I'm back to not knowing what I'm doing after June 17. I know I have options, I'm just not sure what to do with those options. I'm not sure what I want to do with those options. But feel free to stayed tuned.

and sometime others will celebrate for you

2011-03-31T14:23:00.001-06:00

I have the best family.

sometimes you have to make your own celebration

2011-03-08T21:15:00.000-07:00

At the point in the waiting process, it feels like my mailbox is mocking me. I'm pretty sure it is. I know Utah sent out acceptances last week. Nothing. No thing. Nada.

Well, nothing from Utah. I did get something from my work benefits plan, my electricity bill, and some exciting mailers from a local dentist. Why he felt the need to send me three, I'll never know.

Ohio and Denver should start making offers this week or next, but those chances are slim.

I'm turning into a crazy person. And I don't like it. This isn't cool crazy. This is crazy crazy. Staring down the cell phone crazy. Checking the same three sites for acceptance updates over and over again. It was on the hour. Now it's every 15 minutes when I'm at work. I'm not sure what I'm going to do at work when this is all over.

I'm not sure what I'm going to do when this is all over. And I'm not sure what I'll be doing after June 17 (graduation). But I do know what I'm going to be doing in one month:

(do you want to guess?)

I'm going to make my way down to South Carolina to see Anna and Brooke and celebrate. Celebrate me getting old, Anna getting older, and anything else I feel like celebrating.

I think a paper chain is in order.

good things happened today

2011-03-03T21:51:00.002-07:00

There's a room on campus called (appropriately) the Great Room. It's a mini-dining hall. Decent food, excellent surroundings, and usually very quiet. I like to go there to write on my lunch break. Yesterday I needed to write. Too bad I had already committed my lunch to picking up a Very Large Book from my thesis advisor.

But I needed to write, and I felt that I should inform Thesis Advisor of my DENY from UIC, so I emailed him, begging forgiveness and asking if I could come today. And in the postscript, I included a note about the DENY. And yes, it has to be all in caps every time.

But this set the stage for good things to happen today.

Thesis Advisor couldn't meet me until 3:00 this afternoon. The walk from my office to his and back to my office is a decent fifteen minutes, give or take a cold wind. Add to that a few minutes for chatting, and I was going to be gone at least a half hour at the end of the day. My plan was to eat lunch at my desk to make room for the half hour, but that was thwarted when my boss and I got a table at Einsteins (a rare feat), so we stayed and chatted and used the hour.

On the way back from lunch, I mentioned (again) to Boss that I needed to pick up this Very Large Book at 3:00. And then I said I was thinking of not coming back to work, going home to check the mail, and maybe get up the nerve to call schools.

So at 3:00, I left work, and picked up my (wait for it) Very Large Book from Thesis Advisor, and talked with him a little about the remaining schools. This conversation began my good things. He told me he was surprised I had been DENY'd, he told me that I was going to graduate on time with a solid thesis, he told me that he feels my thesis could be the solid core of a solid book of poetry, and he called himself my mentor. This is not a man who says things lightly. And all this happened in time for me to catch the 3:30 bus home.

Except I didn't go home. I didn't check my mail, and I didn't call schools. I called Chris, who sometimes answers his phone, and today he did. After he gave me grief for not being at worked, I asked him what his plans for the afternoon were. His response: "Oh, I'm going to see a movie with you." And so we did. I got off at the next stop, walked over to his place, left the Very Large Book, and we made it to the 3:40 show. We were in a nearly empty theater, at matinee prices, and laughed our way through a thoroughly ridiculous show.

It was just what both of us needed.

So then I came home, checked the mail--and there was nothing. No emails while I was out either. But I'm not completely discouraged yet.

That will come next week.

I take it back

2011-02-28T20:44:00.000-07:00

I've told a few people that I just want to have an answer on grad apps, even if it's a bad answer. I lied. I don't want to know. Maybe ever. I want to live in a blissful state of "the admissions committee is so enthralled by my application they are unable to leave it to send me an acceptance." It's a nice place.

It's an awful place. But at least there is hope. A glimmer. Or a large chunk of "no chance in hell, but enjoy it while it lasts."

Am I being overdramatic? Maybe. But tonight was my first in what I'm almost positive will be a long list of "Deny." And this was the worst kind of deny. Not a letter (or I'll take an email) with a gentle but firm tone of "we had so many qualified applicants." I'd even take the "seriously? you thought you'd get in here? enjoy your inflated sense of self-worth, but enjoy it far away from our hallowed institution." This was a one-word update to my application status: Deny.

There's some catharsis in writing this post, so please, no sympathies. It's stupid and awful and part of me wants to curl up and cry, and the other part of me wants to write a poem so brilliant that they'll be physically ill when they realized they could have accepted me.

But I wouldn't want to go there anyway.*

*This is a lie.

and another thing

2011-02-24T23:56:00.000-07:00

I've been told it's normal to want to punch someone/thing when you're waiting to hear back on grad apps. At least, this is what Sven and I decided today in a burst of sibling affection (laced with violence).

It has been a month since I decided I could write anything here. There were several reasons, the biggest one being that my life was consumed with a surprise birthday party (which became parties) for a long-time reader (Hi Mom!), so I couldn't write about it here. And if I wasn't writing about cakes and invitations and fabric flowers, what was I going to write about?

Maybe those darn grad school apps. At this point, I just want to know. Even if it's bad news (especially if it's bad news). I want to move forward. I feel like I'm stuck in jail during a particularly tedious game of Monopoly and I can't roll the right combination of the dice. Eventually I'm going to have to pay my fine. . . oh wait. I already did that.

When I'm being completely honest with myself (which I rarely am), I just want to move back to Utah. I miss being close to family, and there are things I feel I should be in Utah for. I want to be there when Seth gets home. I want be around for Maryn's high school events. And I want to be in SLC so that I can nephew-sit. Because Sam is only the coolest kid ever.

But I can't justify hauling my life back to Utah without a job or grad school or something. I know my family would support me, but when do I get to start being an adult? Every once in a while, I get the faint whiff of adulthood, but then I walk back into my glorified-dorm-room of an apartment, or I listen to my friends talk about buying houses and raising children, or I eat another bowl of Cheerios for dinner (or better yet, half a box of Eggos because they're there), and I just can't handle it.

.

In other news, the most perfect staging of "As You Like It" ever. If I have to live in a world, can I live in that one? With poems hanging from trees and a man who realizes it's better to play the fool than be wise?

how do you do?

2011-01-25T19:17:00.000-07:00

Welcome to this week's edition of "Sarah tries to write a poem" or "What the hell, Ed?" Ed is my professor. He's amazing. And so are his assignments. I never know what he's going to throw at us at the end of class. And I never know what to write until I've written it. Hence the need to blog first, write later.

Last week's assignment was (supposed to be) a landscape or a still life. No people. So I started my poem with "I am not to let you in" and then wrote about an exhibit I saw at the V&A in 2002 and a bronze sculpture a professor once described to me. It was a Very Odd poem. And it worked. I'm not sure how. I kind of know how. But now. . .

The problem with writing a good poem one week, is that it's harder to write anything the next week. At least for me. Maybe there are other writers who just ride the "awesome" wave and keep writing. I freeze up. Hello, Freeze.

Ed assigned us another landscape. This one he wanted us to research the subject, then write it. (see: C.S. Giscombe) I was fine with this idea until. . . well, until I actually started to write the poem. I have a landscape, I have the research, I just don't. . . no poem. Nada. Words words words. I should be writing a Wikipedia entry. Maybe I should just lineate a Wikipedia entry.

This is not helping. Must write poem. Must. . . stop saying must. And using ellipses.

See you on the other side.

two much, or let your light so shine

2011-01-17T23:43:00.000-07:00

Yep, I did that on purpose. Moving on.

I managed to overcommitt myself this week. I have no idea how a would-be hermit does that, but I was up bright and early Saturday morning to make the 1.5 hour trip to the Museum of Science and Industry (check that off my Chicago list), explore the Museum, head north again for 1.5 hours courtesy of the CTA, eat a sandwich, head slightly west to Palindrome Girl's birthday (happy #1!), then south again to see Charity. Not a metaphor. Over five hours on the CTA, many hours with many good people, and I was tired. So the next morning I went to church, came home determined to crash, and baked cupcakes instead for a dessert night hosted by Matt and Mike--or was it Mike and Matt?

Side note: Mike teaches Sunday School. He was trying to get the class started, but couldn't get people to stop talking. I was sitting near the front (gasp!) and he said something to me about it being impossible. So I offered to get class started for him. I'm pretty sure he didn't think I could do it, but I've got the Teacher Voice down. I got everyone's attention, introduced them to Quiet Coyote, and turned the class over to Mike. Who called on someone to offer the opening prayer, and suggested they pray for the Coyote.

All of this would be wonderful to the nth degree if I wasn't so tired (left out the "damn" for you, Maryn) and this cold wasn't making every inch of my body ache like the old woman that I am. It's a delightful cocktail of exhaustion and insomnia--hence the post at quarter to one in the a.m.

But don't cry for me Chicago, Salt Lake, or Seattle. I'm pretty sure that after winter comes spring, and after Monday comes Tuesday. At least, I hope that's how it works. Tomorrow is another day. Or today is another day. Might as well live it.

The Coyote and I will see you then.

rest

2011-01-09T22:09:00.000-07:00

Maybe it will be a Sunday thing. And by "it," I mean blogging. Naturally.

I was all excited to get back into the classroom. As student, not teacher. I still am. Even more excited that it's a workshop. I could listen to Ed Roberson talk all day and all night long. It's never scripted, always brilliant. He was the reason I chose to start NU in the fall instead of the winter--or at least the reason Reg gave me.

This is my third workshop with Ed. He has exactly one flaw. He wants poems on Sunday night. Regardless of what day of the week class is on (Wednesday), he wants poems on Sunday. Sunday is not a good poem-ing day for me. Neither is Saturday, Friday, and Thursday is a maybe. I need time to process and write the assignment. Because the great thing about Ed is that he always gives an assignment that's specific enough to keep conversation in class going, and broad enough that you can do whatever the hell you want and fulfill the assignment. The horrible thing about Ed is that he never knows what next week's assignment will be until Wednesday night. Which means you can't write Monday/Tuesday/Wednesday for class.

Do you see my dilemma?

The goal was actually to write last night, revise tonight, post in one hour to Blackboard. That was before I was asked to fill in for another RS teacher who apparently moved to Idaho. So I prepped a lesson. Or avoided prepping a lesson. Which is only slightly different from avoiding writing a poem. Different Aaron Sorkin series.

The assignment this week is to take inspiration from poems by Albert Mobilio and Terrance Hayes. I've read the poems and nothing is jumping. Except, as I say that, I doubt myself.

From Mobilio:
"denial is // a prisoner's / lyre"
"I'm solo, mesmerized" (both from "Circuit Breaks")

"On this sixth day of windshield strain / rise up without a word // Semi-private, semi-circling thoughts, / the season seaps beneath my hat // A head full of clauses"
"I want to be ready when the cry goes up" (from "Social Struggle")

"My night watch: night watches me"
"My headache passes overhead, / far along & thus we row" (from "Far as Mine Goes")

"Pretend if you can / that it's last August's fairground"
"I'm hearing her sway / in her best-dressed / evasion" (from "We Hold Our Heads High")

"The action just takes you"
"breakage is // a kind of bruise--the air / around me aches." (from "Swing Music")

"I've learned to read the way I write" (from "What the Great Ones Do")

And the best line, maybe of all:
"I'm stealing your poem because it's / almost, nearly entirely mine" (also from "What the Great Ones Do")

P.S. I'm also a fan of Hayes, and I really like Lighthead, which is what our reading came from. Just sayin'.

resolved

2011-01-02T01:13:00.000-07:00

I made a semi-conscious decision not to blog until the New Year. The original non-plan was actually to stay away from blogging during my Utah holiday and start up again when I hit Chicago on January 4, but a racing mind and a dose of painkillers that tend to keep me awake (and my first Diet Coke in weeks) have other plans for me.

I think I've said this before, but just in case: I hate New Year's Resolutions. In fact, I hate New Years period. Maybe it's just because the holiday is oversold on every movie ever made, but I've never really had a great or even a good New Year's Eve/New Year's Day. This year I took it to the extreme by forgetting that it was a holiday. I sat around in my pajamas, listened to my sister who had just returned from her in-laws in Alabama, and sometime near midnight I had another pomegranate 7-Up (diet). Happy New Years to me.

So the resolutions. It's just an excuse to make goals that you have no intention of following through on. Resolutions are meant to be broken. Smashed. Trashed. And other rhyming words. Says the cynic who blogs here.

I find myself facing an uncertain 2011. I spent the past few sleepless nights (cheers painkillers!) worrying about the lack of a plan and my complete lack of control over that plan, at least for the next few months.

No New Year's Resolutions. But some New Year's Mile Markers. It's like being on a long hike. You tell yourself you can only go as far as that tree. And when you get to the tree, you can only go as far as the next rise of the road. And when you get to that rise in the road. . . well, usually I take a long break there, and consider turning around. But for the sake of this analogy, we're going to pretend I'm a better hiker.

Mile marker one: Winter Quarter. Last workshop with Ed Roberson. First of my last four classes.

Mile marker two: Hearing back from schools on the PhD apps I sent off into the unknown last week. If it's good news, I should hear in March. If it's bad news. . .

Mile marker three: Spring Quarter. Last workshop with Simone Muench. Thesis with Mary Kinzie. Lit course that will have me reading all the books I usually read when I'm avoiding lit class reading, plus Paradise Lost.

Mile marker four: Graduate from Northwestern on June 17. Circle that on your calendars.

And after that. . . I don't know. In a glass half-full kind of mood, I'm planning road trips and a long summer before jumping back into school. In a glass completely-empty kind of mood, I'm sitting at a computer reviewing spreadsheets and wondering why I'm sitting at a computer. In both glasses, I get to see Seth in July or August, and then it's a blank.

Feel free to fill it in.

my kind of drama

2010-12-13T13:42:00.000-07:00

I was supposed to send off my first application of the season this morning. It's due on Wednesday. There's just one problem--I still don't have a statement of purpose.

I wrote one. It was pretty good, or at least good enough that my friend who reads essays for a living gave it the thumbs up to send to professors writing my letters. I knew it needed revision, but one professor wrote back. My statement was (is) too long, too wordy, and doesn't say enough about what I can offer--specifically. He actually said part of it was very strong--so I'll hang on to that paragraph and a few sentences.

You need a hook for these things, right? So I began with April, with sitting around a table or in my front room talking about poetry. The secret is that as much I liked April, that wasn't the switch that made me jump ship and call myself a writer.

I still don't call myself a writer. Who does that?

There was Gideon telling me in London that I had to decide what I wanted to do: creative writing or literature. And there was Susan introducing me as the poetry student trying to make up her mind between creative writing and literature. And there was me saying I could do both, but not really wanting to do both.

That's where I want this essay to go: that I said I could do both, and I have done both, and I've realized that there are ways to put creative writing and literature in conversation with each other. (That's the paragraph that I get to keep.) But how do I lead the readers to this conclusion?

Did I just answer my own question?

hi(gh) again

2010-11-30T23:12:00.000-07:00

This is just to say*

Thanksgiving was wonderful. The flights to and from Thanksgiving were not. I have decided I love traveling, hate flying. New plan: the train. No sudden change in cabin pressure.

I found an email in my inbox today from one of my letter writers for PhD apps asking for two or three of the poems I wrote for letter writer's course. The problem is that as much as I enjoyed letter writer's workshop, I had to spend the next quarter learning to write like me again. Which is to say that only one (revision) of the poems from that workshop had survived into my portfolio. So I just spent two hours revising a second poem to send letter writer.

The Dean I work for sat me down again to say that I should be considering my career trajectory, if I don't get into a PhD program. Or if I choose not to go. We're going to have a longer conversation in the next week to discuss this in depth.

I am sick and cold and my PhD applications are starting to feel like not-fun hallucinations. (I'm going to pretend that I've experienced fun hallucinations.)

Reg sat me down yesterday to discuss creating depth in my poetry. This was round two. I think he and I find depth in different places/ways. But he did have some interesting suggestions, which I will ponder like a good student, and then modify to suit my poetics. I did put two poems in direct conversation with each other with promising results. Promising results that will require at least two new poems--two poems that I'm excited by and have started in the midst of my agonizing revisions.

Work Holiday Parties begin this week. First up is the staff lunch on Friday. A nice/edible spread, and then we are "surprised" with the afternoon off to get Christmas shopping done. Too bad all of my Christmas shopping is already done. Too bad I'm going to go shopping anyway. I am an obedient employee.

*with apologies to William Carlos Williams

a friend for eg

2010-11-17T22:39:00.000-07:00

I really don't like the movie Must Love Dogs. Except for the parts with John Cusack and the parts with Diane Lane. But not the parts when they're together. It never makes sense to me. Except the scene when she runs out of the beauty parlor in the middle of a manicure/pedicure to talk to him and he's with another woman.

There is a point to all this. Early on in the movie, Diane Lane's character Sarah is told by her family that it's time that she stop being alone. One of her sisters says something like "Don't you have a friend for Sarah?" And Sarah's response is "A friend for Sarah. I sound like an episode of Little House on the Prairie."

I steal this line every once in a while. I wouldn't have to if people would just believe I have friends and a social life. Tonight I had a dinner with lots of friends. Or at least a few friends and a few acquaintences. But I think one could be a new friend, so. . . what was the point of all this? Mostly to say that sometimes I steal a line from a movie that no one else will ever recognize. It's not like it's Say Anything.

it's all about the disclaimer

2010-11-09T00:21:00.003-07:00

Disclaimer: This post is again about poetry and the PhD process. This is not about the events of Sunday, November 7. Those deserve a post all their own.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I don’t like writing about myself. Maybe that’s why I chose poetry over creative non-fiction, although when I started writing, I didn’t know what creative non-fiction was. I was nine, maybe ten. I couldn’t tell you why I was writing, just that I was. After a (short) lifetime spent reading, it seemed like a natural next step. As for poetry. . . who knows how that happened.

First collection: "I'm Friends with the Birds. Imagine That!" Illustrated. Sometime in elementary school, fourth or fifth grade. Rather dreadful. Probably tucked away in a box for safe keeping and memory lane.

The day my fifth grade teacher told us we were going to write poems in "free verse," which meant they couldn't rhyme. I couldn't imagine writing a poem that didn't rhyme and I told my friends that she couldn't do that to my poetry.

Memorizing "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" and being pretty damn sure it was about stopping by woods on a snowy evening. (Fourth grade)

The first time I found Milosz's anthology A Book of Luminous Things. I sat in the stacks of the library and read Szymborska's "Four o'clock in the morning." And I wanted to write like that.

Those were my beginnings. And then poetry became habit. I sat in the back of classrooms, writing long free verse poems down notebook pages. There weren't that many of us writing in junior high, in high school, so it was something about me that made me different. I was introduced to my first (only-ish) boyfriend because we both wrote poetry. Mine was better.

I made it to college, still thinking that I was special and ususual because I wrote poetry. But I learned pretty quickly that what I was writing wasn't very good poetry. (Insert humiliation when a professor had me share a poem with the class. . .) I don't like being not very good at things, and I decided I would make a better editor. I joined Inscape, spent one semester on the poetry staff, and then became poetry editor for over two years.

I couldn't stay away from poetry. It started with a lit class in contemporary poetry. Kim Johnson came to speak to the class about her poetry. I was fascinated, memorized her poem "Persephone," and read Leviathan with a Hook so many times that I could have recited the order of the poems. I signed up for Kim's workshop. And it was hard, and I wasn't very good, and I met Kristen. Kristen made me realize that poetry/writing can't be done in isolation, as much as we all admire Emily Dickinson.

Kristen joined Inscape, and then Kristen and I joined in a conversation facilitated by Kjerstin Evans, who named the conversation "April." When Kjerstin left Provo to serve a mission, I inherited April (must use that line in a poem sometime). Suddenly there were six of us who loved writing and language and poetry and it was okay if we weren't always good--we were writing together. There is nothing on this earth that feels as good as participating in that friendship/conversation.

Even with Inscape and April, I still wasn't ready to embrace the idea of "me as writer/poet" when I applied to the MA in English at BYU. My nickname was editorgirl and for good reason. I started the American literature track, with a thesis on contemporary American poetry. I found out that I loved teaching writing as much as I loved writing. And I used my thesis topic as an excuse to still take poetry workshops.

It was Kim who woke me up again. She gave a reading at BYU. It was awesome, naturally, and afterward Aaron, one of my April friends, asked me to introduce him to Kim. I wasn't sure if Kim would even know who I was. But she did and she signed that copy of Leviathan that I had memorized and asked me if I was going to take her creative writing theory class.

That theory class is the point everything else radiates from. My confidence as a writer. My realization that I am more engaged, happier, talking about how a text works than what a text means (although I think those conversations should be happening together). My decision to apply to PhD programs in creative writing. I was finally ready to claim that as my place.

If you've been around this blog much, you know what happens next. I apply to three schools, get waitlisted by one, and don't get in. I don't finish my thesis on time, don't get the teaching position because my thesis wasn't done, and somehow everything I had just achieved seemed to collapse around me. But I finish my thesis (thanks to Kim and Lance Larsen), and apply to PhD programs again. This time I doubled the number of schools to double my chances. And I got waitlisted twice and didn't get in to either. In an effort to regroup I retreat to Bountiful and a job as receptionist at my dad's law firm. And Kim emails me a link to a new MFA at Northwestern. I apply in July, get accepted in August, and move to Chicago in September.

I know that last paragraph doesn't seem like it's about poetry, but it's just as much a part of this as writing poems in the back of the classroom or the sonnet-kick I went on my sophomore year of college. Because for once I didn't give up when it seemed like I wasn't good enough. I've given up on a lot of things in my life--piano, voice, driving, dating, math. That community, of April, and then FOB, of Kim and Lance and Muhlestein and professors and friends and family who believed in me when I wasn't giving them any reason to believe in me--this is turning into a Hallmark card. But they kept me in the conversation, kept me writing.

This will be the last time I apply to PhD programs. I've had an amazing two years at Northwestern, and I'm finishing a third that makes me so happy. After a rough start, our MFA poetry group is tight (although not named after a month) and I've added friends and professors to my community of writers. My poetry finally deserves those votes of confidence I've received over the years. I'm going to end my degree with a thesis that I'm proud of and with workshops with two of my favorite profs--Ed Roberson and Simone Muench. This is what I was looking for, and what I needed. I wasn't ready for a PhD three years ago. But I am now. I want to continue to build this community. I want to use my MA and my MFA to not just add to the conversation, but help direct the conversation. I love poetry and I want to talk about it.

I know that I might not get in. It's competitve and it's taken me a long time to get here. I still question myself. But I'm not sure you can be a good poet and not question yourself. If I don't get in, I still have my MFA. I can teach. I can write. I have my friends (maybe not after this long post) and I'll be okay.

But I still really really want in.

intense

2010-11-03T21:59:00.002-06:00

The thought of it actually makes me kind of sick. Can I really go through another round of this?

Not grad school. Grad school I'm good with. But the application process. . .

Four applications. Due December 15, January 1, January 15, and February 1. You need a degree just to navigate the sites to figure out how to apply.

You need writing samples (check), GRE scores (check), letters of recommendation (checking), money (check-ish), transcripts (.5 check). And you need a letter/statement of intent/purpose. No check yet, but it has to be done by the weekend for those letters of recommendation to happen.

That letter/statement kills me every time. I don't like writing about myself. I am awkward and nervous and scared they won't like me. I come across desperate. Please don't make me join the human race! Please let me stay in school forever!

It's not about school. I love learning, I love classes, but after a decade of a college education. . . there is no good way to end that sentence. I have grown old taking class after class. And I will keep taking class after class. There's no stopping me. I've actually considered another masters if the PhD doesn't happen again. So why the PhD?

I have an MA in literature. In June I'll have an MFA in creative writing. Each of those degrees teaches you do one thing very very well. (Read/talk lit, write/talk poetry, just in case you were wondering.) In lit courses you talk about "what it's about." In creative writing classes you talk about how that same lit works. What only happens in very rare classes (Kim Johnson, John Bennion, Mary Kinzie) is that you talk both about what it's about and how it works and how the craft and the criticism need each other. Kim's creative writing theory class got me thinking about this (what form is appropriate for what argument), Bennion's English lit courses presented it from a different angle (creative writing assignments in a lit course), and Kinzie just insists on speaking both languages at once. I first discovered it in my own work when I realized that the only theory/criticism that would work for my MA thesis was Grossman's Summa Lyrcia, which is on the craft of writing a lyric. And at NU, I come at texts from a new perspective that lit profs aren't expecting because I'm considering what the text says about the craft, and how the craft makes the argument. I have this crazy toolbox to talk about and teach literature and writing, specifically poetry, and I want to use all of that toolbox. And a PhD seems the best way to do this.

be my thrill

2010-10-30T23:41:00.000-06:00

Tonight I had to choose between this

and this

I should clarify. I wasn't going to fight club, I was going to the annual Halloween multi-stake dance as one of the Jane Austen Fight Club girls (or, alternatively, Relief Society Fight Club). And I wasn't going to be a Muppet. I was going to the Weepies concert.

It's probably not really a surprise that the Weepies concert won. I had bought my ticket in August, the venue is a five-minute walk from my apartment, and it was the Weepies.

They were awesome. Better than awesome. Best concert ever. Ever. I had paid for a reserved seat at a table in this tiny venue, so I was thisclose. My friend Dani came with because she's awesome. (Awesome being the appropriate adjective for such a night.) They sound just as good or maybe a little better live. And they're the cutest couple. That's right. I, cranky-pants McGee, just declared someone the cutest couple. Ever. And if you ever call me cranky-pants McGee, I'll hurt you.

There were two things I really loved tonight, other than the music. One was that there was just the right mix of performing songs and talking to the audience. Poets and other writers could learn a lesson from musicians, or at least these musicians. If the audience wanted to hear your poems, they could read them out loud. Of course there's the added benefit of hearing the poem the way the poet hears the poem, but really the audience wants a little more than they can get from just reading the book. They want to feel as if they know the poet, know the poem, a little more from the reading. And by "them," I mean "me." So listen up, poets of the world. Give me what I want.

The second thing I loved tonight was an example of the first thing. The Weepies are Deb Talan and Steve Tannen, and they're married. (This is important for the next part.) Steve shared the story behind the title track of their newest album, "Be My Thrill." They had a fight, and he was mad, and he wrote a song. He took it to Deb, and said, "This is an angry song," and played it for her. She listened, and then said, "That's not an angry song, it's a love song." She took his angry song and made it a love song. "And that's marriage, guys," said Steve.

I love this story. And I'm a little embarrased that I love it. If you're reading this blog, you probably know that I have a little minor obsession with marriage and weddings. (The stack of wedding magazines at the foot of my bed might dispute just how little that obsession is.) I've never felt that I had the right to think about relationships and marriage and love as much as I do--as much as I want those things, I'm not sure that I'm the type of person who has those in their life. But tonight's concert was about love and respect as much as it was about music (and making money from the second round of people crammed into that room). It was beautiful and fascinating and I have a new favorite song.

good morning

2010-10-29T22:37:00.000-06:00

sometimes I come home from work and I'm tired and I just want to not think. I watch an episode or two or three of a show that entertains and nothing else. I eat dinner, which is the most thinking I do for a few hours. I sequester myself in silence and artificial life. and then I slowly emerge from the break I've given myself. I want to do things, I want to talk to people, I want to be brilliant again. the only problem is that this usually happens close to the world's bedtime. I'm not going to pick up the phone. I lurk online--gmail, facebook--hoping someone will say hi. I never say hi first. because you might be just about to sign off.

.

I just realized that my iTunes, which has been shuffling for hours, has played "Elephant Love Medley" more than twice tonight. This can't be a good sign.

I didn't fall in a ditch

2010-10-26T22:24:00.000-06:00

My friend Lindsy taught GD this Sunday. She mentioned a "grateful" journal she kept on her mission, and that "I'm grateful I didn't fall in a ditch" was a frequent entry.

So.

I didn't fall in a ditch today. I did wait for the bus this morning for close to 40 minutes in crazy wind. I spent my morning prepping for a meeting that was cancelled. I was stranded hosting a going-away party for a man who didn't want a party. But there are things to be grateful for. When the bus came, it was close to empty which means I got to sit on the 10-minute ride to campus. The wind made everyone look a little disheveled today, so no one noticed that I didn't really get ready this morning. Prepping for the meeting led me to the solution to a problem that has been haunting me since July. And there was cake. Chocolate cake.

And I didn't fall in a ditch.

honestly

2010-10-10T22:02:00.000-06:00

I may have said that sometimes it's hard to go to church. While I was at church. Standing at the "pulpit".

"Pulpit" is in quotations because our branch has moved to an elementary school, so the pulpit is more a lectern-type stand in the auditorium. I find it oddly refreshing, although the missionaries seem a little weirded out by not being in a traditional building.

This is not what this post is about. And my last post, about being stuck, wasn't actually meant to be about work. It was meant to be about writing. This post too. I just get so distracted by everything--work, church, social situations--that writing becomes more and more difficult to concentrate on.

Right now I should be writing a poem. About red and names and maybe God, man's relationship to.

I just read the title of this post and remembered what I logged on to write about. Honesty. And about sometimes being too honest. Where do you draw the line? How much do you tell someone? In this case, there is a specific Someone who I told many things to and who repeatedly complimented me on my honesty, saying it was appreciated. But did that Someone deserve my honesty? And was I dishonest when I didn't tell this Someone Everything? (The caps are getting to be a bit Salinger-esque. Not really.)

I'm not saying that I would have lied to this person. Or to any person. I just don't seem to have that filter that stops me from oversharing--that's what I mean by too honest. How much of my personal experience do I need to share with people for them to feel that I'm being open and honest? Is honest even the right word to describe what I'm talking about? I'm not sure.

After I told this Someone somethings about myself, I realized that I had left something out--maybe subconsciously, but maybe a little on purpose. And I know I'm being vague here. Because right now I'm embarrassed about opening up that much to Someone who isn't a close friend or a therapist. But it's made me thing about what I choose to share and what I keep to myself.

You know what? I think I have a poem to write now. See you later.

Honestly.

is so completely stuck

2010-10-09T00:41:00.000-06:00

My life has been reduced to a series of Facebook status updates.

Editorgirl is having an "I hate numbers" kind of day.
New personal rule: no talking to engineers in elevators.
GRE word of the day: Help.
deciding just how nice I'm going to be today.

With the exception of the GRE, they're all about work. I've been overwhelmed lately, and nothing seems to work. I even tried to run away to Utah for a weekend--which was lovely--but I seem to be stuck in a land of numbers and policy and things that in my head really don't matter. Even though I know they do.

I keep trying to figure out what I'm doing, why I'm doing this job. I thought I was going to be writing or editing or teaching or something having to do with degrees in writing, editing, and reading. Instead I'm going line by line through expense reports, pounding the hell out of my 10-keypad.

I tell myself it's temporary. Actually, I tell everyone it's temporary. Nine months and I'll have masters degree number two, and maybe a spot at a PhD program. If that PhD doesn't happen this year, I'm going to start looking internally for a position that fits me better.

Does this sound like I'm not grateful? I am. I know how lucky I am to have a job, one with benefits, one that lets me eat while I study poetry. I like the people I work with, I like that I still get to work for the university, and it's really not all that bad. I'm just stuck right now. Not so much with work, but with everything else, and work is the easiest thing to point my finger at and say "See. I'm not crazy."

I am crazy. But you knew that was coming.

I'm not paying attention

2010-09-16T23:18:00.000-06:00

I've been trying to blog for the past week. I keep opening windows and closing windows, and writing sentences and deleting sentences. Sometimes just fragments.

"Fragments" is precisely what I'm experiencing right now. All of these pieces of my life, and I have this nagging feeling that they all fit together, they're all what my life really is right now, but I can't pull them together. I can't bring them into focus at the same time.

Exhibit A. Puzzle piece A. The graduate students are coming back to NU. I know that I'm a grad student, but really I'm not. I'm a staff member who is getting a graduate degree. My life is 9 to 5 work, and then, every once in a while, 7 to 9:30 pm poetry. And I'm happiest then, I'm who I am then, and yet--I'm good at my job. Good enough that I forget that I write poetry and I get pulled into the numbers. One of the new grad students in the branch asked me if I was bored during the summer break before classes started. I couldn't even process that--I work full time. Who has time to be bored?

I am so bored. I am impatient. I have one year left. One year to write my thesis and apply to PhD programs and graduate and go to another school. Be a real live grad student again. And in the meantime, until classes start and I can get that rush of writing and talking about writing and even a little bit of teaching, I am bored and distracted and not sure what to do with myself.

I met a very nice young man at church on Sunday. He's coming to NU for grad school. I told him that I'm a grad student, MFA poetry. He said, and I quote, "Good for you."

What the hell?

I'm annoyed with him, but I'm also annoyed with me. Because even after his condescension, I kept chatting and trying to be slightly charming. Because he was another grad student, because he was a real grad student. Because they are few and far between in the great Chicagoland. Because I knew once he met the other girls/women in the branch, I would just be "that other person in the branch at NU." Because I've come to expect invisibility from myself. Because I expect you not to see me. Because I'm convinced if you do, you won't like what you see.

I am giving it all up. This year is just a year. I'm going to write my thesis, I'm going to apply to grad school, I'm going to tough it out one more year. My great girl friends out here will continue to be great girl friends, but I'm all set. By this time next year, I'll be blogging from Denver or Ohio or Utah or. . . well, Chicago, if I decide on UIC. But this phase will be over and out.

Yeah, I don't believe me either.

2night

2010-09-12T23:16:00.000-06:00

I was this close to writing a very long post with TMPI: too much personal information.

Part of me still wants to write that post.

The rest of me just thinks you should listen to this song, on repeat:

Guess which part of me is winning?

It ain't over til

2010-09-08T00:03:00.000-06:00

It's over. And by "it," I of course mean the Proust class from. Not hell. Just Proust.

And by "over," I mean that I read every page (skimmed every page), wrote my 12-page paper, stayed awake through the last two-point-five hours of lecture, received my grade (it was shiny and A), and let my boss read the final product.

Let me repeat that last bit: My boss, or rather, my boss's boss, wanted to read my Proust paper. And she didn't stop asking. I kept trying to distract her with shiny objects and minor policy benders, but no luck. She wanted to read my paper. So I let her. And now, somehow, it all feels over.

Other thoughts in the "Feelings" category:

1. I took the pain killers tonight. The ones that work. Also the ones that keep me awake. I always forget about that part. And then I start blogging.

2. Using "the" unnecessarily makes me happy.

3. I'm missing my family more and more lately. I want nothing more than a night in Bountiful, eating Chuck Deli sandwiches, watching Sam scoot around the table, and Abby explain why she only has to eat three bites. And then I want to come back to Chicago.

4. This isn't a feeling, but a poem of mine won a contest. First prize. First prize was an espresso machine.

5. First prize is still wrapped in its box.

Maybe that's all for tonight, but you know what happens next. Once I start blogging, I can't stop myself. Or maybe I just won't stop myself.

PS. The Proust paper made the argument that Proust's narrator states that to experience and create art, the artist must be alone, separate from society--and yet, he refutes that argument with a six-volume novel populated by hundreds of characters, in which the artist only truly achieves something when he has come in contact with other people.

there are more important things than this post

2010-08-03T23:15:00.000-06:00

Is everyone else tired of my whining? Because I really don't mean to whine. I don't. Really.

Last night was kind of awesome. A group of poetry-peoples from my MFA program meet up every couple of weeks to workshop, and last night one of our profs (Simone Muench) and Hadara Bar-Nadav came with. (This is not the whining part.) It was awesome. It's always awesome, but hanging out with Hadara and Simone was awesome times four. Maybe five. I'm not very good with the math.

I made it home kind of late, and was giddy to boot, so I let myself sleep in a little this morning. I had mentioned I might come in late to my boss, who was cool with it. I got into work around 10:00, and by 10:20 (here comes the whining part) found out that my boss is leaving our office to work elsewhere in NU.

I do not handle change well at all. This particular change is going to be dreadful and painful and explained a whole lot of high emotions running around the office lately. My boss will no longer be my boss as of next Friday. Which is sad. On the other hand, by Saturday we'll probably be Facebook friends.

In addition to change, I don't handle bad news very well. I clam up and get serious. "Stoic," according to my boss later in the day when I finally broke down the wall a little to ask if we at least get cake some time next week.

The only truly good part about all of this is that I no longer feel guilty for applying to PhD programs this fall. I realized that a lot of my loyalty was to my boss, and not as much to the office. That, and I'm not sure I'll be as happy working for someone else. We got along really well--she understood where I was coming from, and we spoke the same language in terms of work. Not so much with the rest of the office.

We've now reached the part of the post where I've rambled myself out. I should have just written about Simone and Hadara and workshopping. Because that was happy.

adolescent me

2010-07-28T23:41:00.000-06:00

The thing is, I check your blogs every night. Some of them during the day. I'm waiting for pictures and for stories and I keep wondering why you're not posting more. And then I remember that I'm not posting more.

In the ongoing battle of EG v. the AC, I won last night, but I think that was more sheer exhaustion than anything else. I also suddenly feel justified in my struggle, as everyone else seems to be fighting the same battle. It's validating. Or something like that.

Yesterday I was so tired, I fell asleep at lunch. While reading Proust and eating a hot dog. I wish I were exaggerating. After work, I headed to the library to do some more reading, and fell asleep again. At least this time I wasn't risking a mustard stain. But I had class from 7:00 to 9:30, the prof lectures like he's running out of time from the word "Go," and I needed to take notes for a friend who wasn't there. Solution: Rockstar. Pounded. Class was this odd hallucination of Proust and memory and time and friends and this sensation that I should be falling asleep, but I wasn't. Luckily that feeling wore off around 1:00 a.m. and I was able to crash.

This is why I live alone.

I'm actually really loving my Proust class. The prof lectures like a mad man, but a mad man who has Very Interesting Things to Say. And the reading is a lot (like too much a lot, and that's saying a lot coming from me), but beautiful in places and ways that you don't expect. Most of the themes are things I'm interested in reading and writing about--art, time, memory. But I realized yesterday that what it's really about, at least the books we've read so far, is adolescence. That age of obsession and confusion and pages and pages of nothing much that will somehow inform our adulthood. What's interesting about this, is that adolescence wasn't really a solid concept when this was written. People went from child to young (wo)man, not from child to teen to young adult. (To single and alone in an apartment full of cats.)

Sitting in class, talking about how we remember things, how we perceive time, how we manipulate our memories, and how real "truth" comes in the unbidden, unmanipulated memory--well, it drags me back to adolescence. To high school, to the first time I realized I had friends in high school. To the boys I watched in high school. (Proust is also all about the relationships--or the wanting of relationships.) High school wasn't easy, but I think part of the point is that adolescence isn't easy. That this time of obsession with ourselves, with others, is necessary to reach some stage of stability in our lives.

Wow. That got kind of serious. I promise I won't do that again.

Also: I won a $20 gift card to Borders in the McC staff raffle today. I'm thinking I'll get something frivolous. Thoughts?

Ding!

2010-07-27T00:14:00.000-06:00

Of course it's one in the morning. Why wouldn't it be? And of course I'm awake. Sleeping is for people who, well, sleep.

That was profound. I'm profound a lot these days. Must be all the late nights. That or the cheese. And the Pop-Tarts.

Here's the thing: it's hot. It's hot, so I turn on the AC unit securely fastened in my window. And that huffs and puffs and blows cold air all night. Yay for cold air. But then--and here's the tricky part--the huffing and puffing keeps me awake. So I turn off the AC. And I fall asleep for a little while. But an hour or so later, and I wake up hot and icky and uncomfortable.

I feel guilty for complaining about this. I'm grateful for my apartment, grateful that I get to live [just north of] Chicago, grateful for that AC unit. But I haven't had a good night's sleep in over a week. I'm starting to look like one of the more disturbing Addams family members. Maybe the fat little boy in the striped shirt. Or the hand. No body, just a hand. He was my favorite.

Here's to round two of EG v. the AC. I'll tell you in the morning who won.

let's write something happy

2010-07-18T23:25:00.000-06:00

I am sitting on my bed. This would not be worrisome, except I am singing. Les Mis. "On My Own," "A Little Fall of Rain." Stop me when I get to "Stars."

I have not been productive this weekend. I have sat on my bed and sang my entire repetoire. I also did my laundry, but that was a sweaty mess. Not my laundry, but me.

Why is this happy? Because someday I'll get to tell these stories with half a smile on my face. Probably in a RS lesson, but any telling is good.

cold, cold iron*

2010-07-11T21:01:00.000-06:00

Thursday night something happened. The stars aligned, Hulu offered up some inspiration (it happens), and I suddenly knew that I was brilliant and ready to write. But by the time I reached this conclusion, it was almost 2 in the morning and I needed to sleep so that I could go to work the next day. I considered calling in sick, but since Monday had been a holiday, I wanted to put in a solid day of work.

And of course I was too distracted to really work. But I did an excellent job of pretending. (I actually was quite productive while still thinking about the poems I was going to write after work.)

But after work came, and since it was Friday, there was Nevins. I love Nevins. Most of the time. But I was still aching to write. I was zoned out and in my own world most of the time I was with my friends. I couldn't explain to Powers why I wasn't all the way there, but this was it: I wanted to be working, writing.

After Nevins I ran to B&N for a new notebook. I took the bus home. And by the time I got home,

it was gone. Not the desire to write, but whatever fire had been burning in my head--it was gone.

I keep trying to re-create Thursday night, to put that fire back into my head, to put together the pieces. Instead, I'm bouncing back and forth between almost-inspired and definite depresssion. I'm not going to let myself crash, but I'm so close. So close.

I want to write, dammit. Where did it go?

*Thoreau said that writing after the inspiration is gone is like ironing with a cold iron. Just in case you were wondering.

shake it off

2010-07-09T09:04:00.000-06:00

You probably won't believe--I'm not sure I believe me--but somehow writing that last post got all those awkward needy feelings out of my system. I'm good to go, at least until the next hormonal up-surge.

In the meantime, I'm finding myself desperate to write and create and art. Art is a verb, people. At least, it is now. I'm at work, looking at numbers, and I just want to be curled up in front of a painting at the Art Institute. Or the Tate Modern. Let's go to London, friends.

I sent some of the poems I've been working on to one of the poetry profs in my program. (This post brought to you by the letter P.) She was enthusiastic about the work I've been doing this past quarter--and so am I. It's something new and very very--well, me. It's the kind of poetry I want to write, at least right now, not some pale imitation of someone else's work. It's all mine. It's a good feeling.

So this is detox. I want to write. I want to talk with people about writing and art and excitement.

Won't you be my people?

per the wedding dress

2010-07-08T20:36:00.001-06:00

It's back. My wedding obsession. And, by vicious relation, relationship obsession. This is not healthy. I'll be the first to admit. Guilty as crazy. But right now I'm also listening to music and thinking about how brilliant the soundtrack of my pre-wedding party will be and how I'll know how to stop the DIY projects before my wedding looks like a craft fair instead of, well, a wedding.

This has got to stop.

Song: "Addicted to Love" covered by Florence + the Machine

Maryn sent me a video of five EFY guys singing "God Save the Queen." They're reportedly British. I kind of hope they're from Idaho. Just because.

I think I miss those days, when guys were possibilities and adorable. I know that's nice and vague of me to say "I think," but I don't really remember those days (that's right, I'm very very old). I hope Maryn makes the best of them.

noun, noun, noun

2010-07-07T23:46:00.000-06:00

I kind of want a tattoo.

Don't worry, Mom, because I also want to build cakes and buy a wedding dress.

Damn you, TLC.

Funny story: I just typed "weeding dress." Freud would be so proud.

Dear Mom, if I ever get a wedding dress, I promise to weed in it. The front hill, just for you. (No I won't. But I'll clean the house to avoid the weeding. Just like old times.)

I've been wondering about growing up. When exactly is this supposed to happen?

Happy 2nd of July!

2010-07-02T21:01:00.000-06:00

Sure the 4th of July is the birthday of America, but the 2nd of July is the birthday of two of the most important people in my life: Stephen and Lauren (aka, Stephanie and Larry. . . those names are sticking).

Lauren is the most amazing mother.

And Stephen. . . if the doctor thing doesn't work out, there's always modeling for toothpaste ads.

I love you both. Happy birthday!

i dream of books

2010-07-01T15:57:00.003-06:00

I had to post this, just so that I won't misplace it. Ever. It's that cool.

Now someone just tell me who this "J. Crew" is, and it will all be good.

in which I ask too many questions

2010-06-30T23:55:00.000-06:00

I second guess myself. A lot. Maybe too much. Maybe not enough. But there are certain things that are set in stone. The PhD is one of them.

The PhD is usually one of them. I will apply at least one more time to PhD programs. With any luck, cliches will come true and the third time will be the charm.

Three times. I've never failed three times. I only had to take my driving test twice. Everything else, once was enough. And now I feel like I'm setting world records. I'm the only person I know who keeps putting herself through this gauntlet.

And yes, I am being a little dramatic.

This isn't the problem (my history of failed PhD apps or my tendency toward the dramatic). Today my boss mentioned that a job would be opening up in the school I work for. She joked that I should take it. I knew she was joking, I joked back, and I went on with my day. But I couldn't shake the idea of this job.

This job would require a sizable committment. I'm not even sure I'd be qualified for this job. But what about other jobs like it? Jobs that would keep me employed at a steadily increasing salary over the next five years, instead of teaching comp classes while paying yet another university to give me a piece of paper saying that I'm qualified to write poetry.

Poetry. The world doesn't really need more poetry.

I could write poetry while holding another job. A job that pays. A job that would pay for poetry.

I'm writing this, and I'm thinking that I'm crazy. I'm just not sure if the craziness is me doubting my PhD plans, or thinking I should grow-up and get a real job.

Maybe the worst part of my current job is that I'm good at it. That I know I could keep being good in other admin positions. That I could still work at a university, just not as a professor. That I could grow up and join the rest of the world in growing up. There is nothing like school and a studio apartment to make you feel as though your adulthood has been postponed indefinitely.

So: job or school? And what if I send out my applications, and they make the decision for me? What do I do then?

san juan by proxy

2010-06-24T21:49:00.000-06:00

So before San Juan I got a new little toy: a Fujifilm Instax Mini. Basically a polaroid-style camera with credit card sized pictures. I'm kind of in love. I brought a bunch of film to San Juan, and well--had fun with it.

I like to take pictures of my food. And then tear its little heads off.

and then we went to san juan

2010-06-24T21:20:00.002-06:00

san juan family portraits

2010-06-24T21:07:00.002-06:00

No, not that San Juan. San Juan Island, Washington. State. Where it's cold. And where my family would spend every vacation if we could. (Maybe every other vacation. Got to get Europe in there sometime.)

Hmm. I guess this doesn't really show you want San Juan looks like. Or why go to San Juan. I guess that means I'll need to post more pictures. Dang.

success is a hard word to spell

2010-06-03T22:56:00.000-06:00

Here's what happened today: two men set up the window AC unit in my apartment, and I ate a really good hamburger. With feta.

Here's what's happened every other day: this summer will be divided into pre-AC and post-AC. I'm predicting post-AC will be like unto the garden of Eden, only with clothes. Pre-AC was dreadful, painful, and sweaty. And IL hasn't really experienced summer yet. But there were nights when I had my (small) fan aimed directly at me, while I slept on ice packs. Ice packs, people. They're not feather pillows, that's for sure.

In other, non-AC news, the spring quarter is ending. On Tuesday I presented my completed essay on books. I'm working to compress the Quicktime file so that I can post it here and you can all finally find out the one sentence in Gatsby that puts me in my happy place. (It's a rather small happy place.) I got some good feedback on my essaying. Perhaps my favorite moment was when my prof told me he didn't expect "a poet to come screaming out of nowhere." I kind of like to think of my writing as screaming out of nowhere.

I have one final school-related task in front of me. Or at least one immediate school-related task. I need to pull together my portfolio for workshop. Roberson (or EdR, as he signs his emails) gives the best assignment for the last poem we workshop in class: write the poem you haven't written yet. Meaning, look at the poems you have written, and see what's missing. This was more obvious for me because I'm currently working on a project, and I can see the holes. For Tuesday, I wrote a poem titled "Song." I know there are at least five or six other poems that need to be written to round this project out. Maybe more. But they're there. The next one will be called "Essay."

I'm sorry I haven't been posting. I've been thinking about posting, but I'm discovering that Kim was right when she asked me why I blogged, if it took up writing energy. It does, when you're actually writing--when it's more than a hobby. It hurts to blog sometimes, as if you're letting go of words you might need later on.

But that's not right. Maybe it was when I was thinking so much about essay, but the blog is good for me. It's good for me to connect with people.

Hello, people.

books (an essay in progress)

2010-05-24T13:02:00.000-06:00

I'm not sure where this is going. I'm not sure where I want it to go. But it must go somewhere. So I'm looking to my best readers to tell me, of all things, why we read. And, of course, buy books. (Note: This is a video essay, which is why it's sparse on the concrete, physical details you all crave.)

.
on books

When I moved to Chicago, I brought five books with me. Maybe it was seven. Maybe ten. Maybe I shouldn’t count the books about Chicago I brought to Chicago.

Two days after I moved to Chicago, I bought two books—sequels to the book I had read on the plane. The same book I read again the first night in Chicago.

I bought books for class.

I bought books that I already owned in Utah. Books that I didn’t feel comfortable without. One book that I never owned, but checked out from the library at least twice a year. Books that were strictly guilty pleasure reading.

Maybe every book is a guilty pleasure.

Thin volumes of poetry. More substantial anthologies, all of them with the same poets, the same poems.

The three books by Anne Carson that I bought at a reading, and one I had brought from home. When I asked her to sign all four, she wrote “For Sarah, respectfully,” four times. She never looked at me.

The biography of Virginia Woolf by Hermione Lee I bought at a store where they sell books by the pound.

Three copies of The Great Gatsby. I’m not overly fond of The Great Gatsby, except for a single line:

sleep isn't on the agenda

2010-05-02T01:00:00.000-06:00

I should be exhausted. And I am. But I'm not sleeping.

It might have something to do with the sirens that blew past my building 20 minutes ago, but that's just silly. Silly sirens.

Today was quite lovely: errands, schoolwork, laundry, grocery shopping. The kind of Saturday where you get things checked off your list and ready for the coming week.

Last Saturday was not that kind of Saturday.

Actually, last week was not that kind of week. The last two weeks. When did my life get to be so busy?

I have back-to-back classes again, this time Tuesday/Wednesday. And Tuesday's class is the most homework I've done in the MFA. It's awesome, I love it, it's killing me homework.

So Tuesday and Wednesday are always done for. (Wednesday wouldn't be so bad, except that it's in Chicago, which means an hour bus ride. An hour each way.)

Two weeks ago Monday I left work sick, got some medicine, took a nap, and went back to campus to finish a homework assignment for Tuesday. Tuesday class. Wednesday class. Thursday I left work early to meet up with my more-than-adorable cousin Kimber at the Art Institute. I dragged her around the building before sending her off to a show and myself off to do laundry. Friday night I had dinner with my work friends, and then my favorite work friend (and the only one who also lives in Evanston) and I went to see The Losers. Our review: hot men and explosions. Go team.

Saturday was actually a very good day. I begged a ride to the eight-stake YSA activity, which is something I never do, but I did do this time (I meant that sentence to read awkwardly) because MTA Kimber was performing with her vocal group from BYU-I and I wanted to cheer her on. She was awesome, the dancing (my dancing) was awkward, and the night ended with one of the most perfect moments of my life--Kimber did some dragging of her own to get her group to sing "Scarborough Fair" to me and a few friends (and the rest of the YSA-ers who were still around) after the concert/dance. Kimber's pretty cool for a cousin.

The night actually had two endings--the amazing singing, and then some punchy-it's-too-late entertainment at White Castle. My branch headed over to the chain so that two 19 year-olds could say that they had been there. (And one 29 year-old.) I wish I had been filming, because we thought we were pretty funny.

Sunday was church, and then more homework. On campus. Because Tuesday is evil.

(More sirens, if you're wondering.)

Monday night might have been the best time I've had in Chicago. It's hard to follow up Kimber's visit, but two of my MFA friends and I got to teach an undergrad advanced poetry workshop. It was awesome. I love teaching, so much. I know it's where I'm headed, but I wish I could get there a little faster. Oh well. We were brilliant. Hell, I was brilliant. The classroom is my stage and I owned. But enough of my modesty.

And that brings us back to Do--I mean, Tuesday and Wednesday. Thursday was the first free night I'd had in two weeks, and I spent it doing nothing. No thing. Maybe dishes.

Maybe.

um. . .

2010-04-30T13:18:00.000-06:00

How is this not the best thing you have ever seen?

It is.

Link.

dear world

2010-04-21T09:32:00.000-06:00

I am not sad, nor shy, nor serious. (I am, however, resisting the urge to quote Much Ado.)

I am just very very overwhelmed. And yes, I know that that was redundant.

I'll see you on the other side of this:

don't you fret

2010-04-20T22:45:00.001-06:00

My head is way too full tonight. I have poems to write and a movie remix to figure out. And I have tonight to figure out the poem, and a week to figure out the remix, and of course my mind is working in reverse.

I was reciting Les Mis to myself last night. Not the whole book, and not the musical. Just the part where Eponine dies (oh--SPOILER ALERT) in Marius's arms because she just stepped in front of a bullet that should have killed him (MAJOR SPOILER ALERT) and before she dies she says something to the effect of "You know, I think I was a little bit in love with you."

Maybe I've just rewritten Les Mis. I haven't read it since I was in tenth grade. But I like that idea.

I think I was a little bit in love with you.

How many men could I say this to? I mean, I'd have to be dying in their arms to get up the nerve, but there is a handful of men this would apply to.

Am I making this up?

Not just the quote from Les Mis*, but the handful of men. Have I ever been a little bit in love with anyone? I want to say yes**. And I think I can claim yes now,

but will there be a day when I brush aside those "loves" for something much more real? And by saying this, am I suggesting Eponine's love wasn't real? (Do not debate this--I love Eponine. I love her broken hand and her desparate eyes and her worry that even now he doesn't see her.)

I have a poem to write.

--------------------------------------------
*I found it: “Et puis, tenez, monsieur Marius, je crois que j’étais un peu amoureuse de vous.”

Translation: “You know, Monsieur Marius, I think I was a little bit in love with you."

** I know, I edited this. But that line was too sad. And it made my mother worry. I try to avoid that.

definitionally

2010-04-19T00:10:00.000-06:00

Remember how I said I was going to quit posting late at night?

Today I taught a lesson for RS. It was okay. The brilliant opening I had ready was less brilliant once I heard the words coming out of my mouth. But at least it was entertaining. And I think I tied it in eventually.

The opening used the idea that names mean something. I'm always a little shocked that people don't know what their names mean--your name is a word. It means something more than "Hey you." It has a definition, an etymology.

Editorgirl, if you're wondering, means a girl who edits.

I should have said "surprised" instead of "shocked." I'm shocked when someone's bleeding. I'm surprised when someone doesn't know what their name means. Especially the Biblical names. The second counselor asked me after the lesson if his name was in my book. His name is Joseph.

This whole idea of naming/names, definition of, has been showing up in my poetry lately. A lot. Almost as much as the wings of 2005 (to 2009). But I like it. Other poetry recurrences: I keep using the title "Elegy." I'm still thinking of using my chapbook title as my thesis title (Inadvertent Elegies), so maybe this all makes sense.

Maybe.

I'm looking forward to the day when I can tell Abby that her middle name came from a TV show and not the Bible.

Also, I'm naming my first daughter after my grandmothers. Consider this dibs, Sven and Lauren. And Maryn, if you care yet.

and now a word about sisters

2010-04-17T20:53:00.001-06:00

. . .

2010-04-16T21:44:00.000-06:00

I hope Lauren doesn't mind me stealing this pic from her blog, but this just might be my favorite picture of Abby ever. I tried to make it my wallpaper, but that's just too much personality for one little old laptop.

In other Lauren-Jesse-Abby-Baby news, Jesse (aka, my genius brother-in-law) just got a super-mega-awesome internship in Seattle with Microsoft Games. I'm a little sad that they'll be even farther away from me, but I think maybe it's time these little duckies spread their wings. . . that metaphor was better in my head.

other words that begin with Q

2010-04-16T15:18:00.000-06:00

I am feeling chatty. I'm still at work, and there's no one to talk to right now. They've either left for the day, or they actually have something that must be done before 5:00.

I have done all my must-be-dones and so feel okay about the blogging.

I also feel (all these dang feelings) that I should qualify what I wrote last night, what I write every time I'm spewing loneliness onto this blog. Most of the time--not every time, but most of the time--I choose to be lonely. And then 11:00 pm or midnight hits and I'm lonely and bored, which is a bad combination. So I turn to you, my dear little blog world.

This week was pretty awesome. And pretty crazy. On Monday night, I used my webcam for a birthday celebration with my family. I had presents to unwrap, Abby helped me blow up some balloons, and there was singing.

Tuesday night I had class (video essay awesome class) and then webcam'd (there has to be a verb for this) with Sven and Ashton.

Wednesday I actually had the evening I always thought I'd have once I was in an MFA program in a cool city like Chicago--a few MFA friends and I hit a poetry reading, then retreated to Uptown for some food and music and talking. I got home late and was thoroughly happy.

So by last night, I was ready for some down time. And it was a little lonely. And there was a lot of Hulu. And some ice cream. Maybe some cold cereal. But it wasn't a bad thing. I like having time to myself, time to think and not think, time to unwind.

Still doesn't mean I want to be a cat lady.

deal?

2010-04-15T23:10:00.001-06:00

I live with a list in my head of what I should be doing. For example, right now, I should be going to bed. But I'm not. Just in case you missed that.

Maybe I should have started this way: I have a list in my head of things I should be doing, and a list to counter all those things I should be doing. I should be going to bed, but I'm going to blog or stalk you on facebook. I should be revising poems, but I'm going to watch the series finale of Ugly Betty, and then Top Chef Masters, and then catch up on Lost.

It's amazing how much time I lose on Hulu, just because I'd rather not think. Not thinking for 40 minutes always multiplies into more until--well, until it's time to go to bed.

My lists suggest that I am a productive, and possibly organized, person. I am not. My productivity comes in very short bursts, and usually require human, if not divine, intervention. I need to commit to someone that I will do something before it's actually done. And I actually have to believe that commitment.

I suspect that I'm not the only person who suffers from this mentality. Or is easily distracted--because right there I was just as happy to start quoting Much Ado as continue this conversation.

But. Here's the thing. I know I've been writing a lot about being lonely. And I still am. Part of me is convinced that I need other people around, if only to get me to turn off Hulu and turn to my notebooks--or anything else. Anything else. I quite worried that I'll turn into a cat lady, without the cats (because they are creepy).

Let's make a deal. Don't let me turn into a cat lady. I promise to do the same for you.

I got a camera for my birthday

2010-04-11T22:09:00.001-06:00

and by camera, I mean a nice camera. After it came with me to a few Church events, a friend in the branch asked if I would take her engagement pictures. I explained that a good camera does not necessarily mean a good photographer, or even a good picture-taker. She explained that they didn't have money to hire a good photographer. (She didn't --she just asked if I'd at least try.) So yesterday we met up at Millennium Park in Chicago to try to take some pictures. I wish we'd waited about an hour for the sun to start going down, but they are busy busy people.

So this is me, trying. Well, trying-ish.

I feel the need to add that there were more engage-y looking pictures, but I'll leave them for Clark and Shelly to display elsewhere. These were a few of my favorites. I know I'm not even close to the genius that is Maryn, but I wouldn't mind practicing some more. (It wasn't until the end of the "shoot," that I asked them, "Is this how you would normally sit?" And they both said no, rearranged themselves, and they finally looked like Clark and Shelly.)

my friend [my computer]

2010-04-06T23:13:00.000-06:00

I have at least half a dozen emails that need to be written. Which is why I'm writing here.

An old friend made an appearance in the comments section of this blog. I suspect he'd prefer to remain anonymous, and I'll give him that (hence my own personal code name for him and another friend), but he made me realize something kind of important. Or really important. Maybe even Very Important.

I went to London in 2001, 2005, and 2007. Each experience was defining for me in some important way. 2001 was the longest I had ever gone without seeing my family. 2005 was when I realized I wanted to teach, and that life isn't a tourist mecca (that might require another post). And 2007. It happened. I made some really good friends. And it was the beginning of the hardest two years of my life.

So three trips to London, all during spring quarters. Which means I have spent a total of six months of my (soon-to-be) twenty-seven years in London. I'm not a numbers person (I just play one during the day), but I'm pretty sure that's a relatively small amount of time.

That isn't to say that short/small periods of time aren't significant in our lives. Or at least my life. But they also are never the whole picture.

So [my computer]. I tend to ignore my time at BYU. Which is foolish. Because despite the way that it ended (nothing shameful, unless you're a prideful academic-wannabe, which I am), there were some really great things that I loved about BYU. And [my computer], along with the man who gave them the nickname, were one of the best parts, some of the best mentors a young writer could have. I was a lucky girl to work with them.

And then, there was this one day, when [my computer] told the story of Chicken George. And then later he sent me speed dating and told me I reminded him of Starbuck. And I thought Starbuck was a man and that [] was weird. So I made him say the opening prayer.

The end.

when will I feel

2010-04-05T19:53:00.001-06:00

It's raining, which means I can do one of two things. I can tell you about the events of my day, which were, admittedly, uneventful. Or I can tell you about how much I love the rain, how alive I feel watching it through an open window, how I'll dance with or without you.

No U2 reference intended.

I would run outside right now, but I have to work in the morning and I know that just being in the rain will wake me up to a point that sleep will become impossible tonight. I'll write feverishly, acknowleding the rain drying on my skin and tangled in my hair, and then it will be morning. I will have to dress appropriately, put on mascara, and sit at my desk typing number after number after number.

I know all these numbers. I know what they mean. I know what they do. They are not as interesting as the rain.

Maybe I should write, feverishly, of course. Last night I woke up at 2:00 in the morning, completely frustrated with a memory I couldn't answer. I couldn't remember a roommate's last name. I ran through every other roommate, without a hitch (maidens only--I'm completely lost when it comes to married names). I finally Googled.

Dear roommate. I couldn't remember your last name, but I knew your first, your employment, your current city. I googled you. Hello roommate.

It's not just raining. It's thunder and lightning and the kind of rain you turn the lights off to watch. The kind of rain you watch in silence, and, if there is another person in the room, you hope they understand the silence. I've been lucky enough to have friends who understand the silence.

Tonight I'm sitting away from my window, the lamp is on, and I'm listening to my iTunes on shuffle. Ingrid Michaelson's "Masochist," then Jack Black covering Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get It On" (from High Fidelity), and now Feist's "Let It Die." Which is the song I was going to start with, so it must be meant to be. It sounds like rain.

When I was looking for the song on YouTube, there was video after video of girls wearing glasses, embracing their guitars, singing this song.

I am not one of them.

since I don't really know you

2010-04-04T00:49:00.001-06:00

I am resisting the late-night-diet-coke-induced-insomia-driven urge to email someone I don't really know. I'm resisiting the urge by blogging for the whole world to see.

Should there be another hyphen in that sentence?

A few years ago, I remember telling friends that I would never want to be in a relationship with another poet. No doubt another diet-coke-fueled rant, but let's ignore that small detail. Why would I say this? And why am I thinking about it tonight?

Saturdays are lonely days for me. Every once in a while I make plans and follow through with them, but for the most part, I'm left to my own devices. Which is laundry, movies, school reading, non-school reading, and talking to myself. These are the days when it is easiest to think life would be easier if I had someone to talk to. And since none of you are here with me in Evanston, and I don't want to show any favoritism, that someone becomes a tall-ish intelligent man. From there, I spin other characteristics, to suit that day's fancy. The one thing that never changes is his intelligence.

So that email. I was going to send it to a similarly academically-driven young man to ask him--What the hell is wrong with academically-driven young men?

Not really. But you get the gist of it.

At BYU, there were far more of these menfolk to observe and, occasionally, to crush on. In Chicago, they seem to be in short supply, at least in the groups I find myself in. And because I'm academic, and he's academic, people inevitably point us in each other's directions. We have a nice talk, exchange stories, compare battle wounds. And then, inevitably, he wanders off in the general direction of a Very Cute Girl. I am many things, but a VCG is not one of them.

So here's what I'm wondering. Do they feel the same way I used to? Is there an unwritten rule that there should only be one academic in a relationship? Nevermind that one of my favorite couples is two of the smartest people I've ever heard of. (That's right--Marie and Pierre Curie.) Actually, I can think of multiple academic couples that fit this bill, which leads me to one conclusion:

Boys are stupid.

Note: These thoughts in no way invalidate this post. It's just Saturday talking. Also, I would totally date a poet. Essayist. Maybe a novelist. Maybe.

surprised?

2010-04-01T23:38:00.000-06:00

No, this is not my version of April Fools. I really did decide to change things up, again with the help of yummylolly.com (who also designed my last background). I loved the black and white, but the circles were starting to give me vertigo.

Along with the new design, I considered a name change. This blog started out as "Bitter Diatribes are Redundant." Or something like that. It was a long time ago--2004. I think it was during and after my second trip to London (2005) that I tried to find a new name/identity. And I landed on "the world's first unmanned flying deskset." After five years, surely I've changed. (And I really like the sound of "a snail named patient.")

But, well, I'm not patient, really. I went back to the source.

This is what it's all about for me. Not the parents forgetting my birthday (which is coming up. . . I'm old). Not the teenage angst (like I said, I'm old). But the idea of the world handing you the same tools and you finding, shall we say, new uses for them. New perspectives.

That, and I really like flying.

a snail named patient*

2010-04-01T22:58:00.001-06:00

I had so many blog posts running through my head today that I chose to write none of them. Foolish, I know. But since that was the trope of the day, maybe I can tip my hat to it and move on tomorrow.

Work has been really hard the past few weeks. Not so much hard-difficult as hard-frustrating. It reached its peak yesterday/today when my long weekend in St. Louis got canceled, every idiot with an invoice over a year old decided to crawl out from under their desks, and. . . well, I try not to write about work here, at least not in more specifics. Part of it is that I don't want someone from work finding my evil rants online, and part of it is that I'm hoping that in a few years, this will all seem like a very odd dream. Not a bad one, but an odd one.

So St. Louis. And I know Anna and Brooke wander over here from time to time, so I hope they don't mind that I'm writing about this. We were supposed to crash the ACA/PCA conference in St. Louis this weekend. I found train tickets for $48 round trip, and I was going to take two days off work (today and tomorrow). B got sick--really sick--and without her, the trip didn't make much sense. My tickets were refundable, and I was literally going to just crash B and Anna's panels, so I'm not out any money--in fact, this means that I'll have more vacation days later in the year--but I was so ready for a break. The past few weeks--the past few months--have been long and cringe-worthy. I debated just taking a day off, but I'm worried that I'll need that day off in the near future for class work, so I'm holding on to it. Plus I found out that we're closing the offices a few hours early for Good Friday tomorrow. 3:00 p.m. is death lately, so I'm going to skip my way out of that building and into the sunshine.

Classes started this week, and spring quarter is going to be both awesome and deadly. I'm taking a poetry workshop that is focusing on ecological/nature writing and a video essay class, where we'll actually put together video essays. I've always like the idea of combining language/writing with other media--my favorite films at Final Cut were always the films that were centered around poetry--and I'm excited to learn this way of "writing." It's a new-er form, one that I think could set me apart from other PhD applicants, if I can learn to do it well. And I think I can.
___________________________________________________

*Lauren told me the best story today. I gave Abby a board book last year about "feelings." One of the feelings is "patient." The picture shows a duck or a goose watching a snail on its way to who knows where. Today Lauren took Abby to buy a new shirt, and being the awesome mom that she is, let Abby pick the shirt. Abby chose a pink shirt with a snail on it, because the snail is patient.

(I suspect the snail-love is also genetic. Lauren used to catch snails in the garden, and then create "snail hotels" out of bricks. Each snail got its own room. Seriously.)

'warded

2010-03-27T21:56:00.001-06:00

Apparently there are other flying objects in the blogosphere (unmanned and otherwise). And one of them landed on my blog this past week. Haleyknitz, who blogs The Life (and Lies) of an Inanimate Object. She didn't say if she liked Neon Trees' "Animal," but she did say she liked me. In fact, she gave me a blog "award."

Now, the apron makes me a little nervous. Nervous, but still flattered. Thank you, Haleyknitz, for stopping by.

There was a list of questions that came with this award, that I believe are meant to be answered in one word. And we all know how I love lists. Here it goes.

Your Cell Phone? beat up (pretend that's hyphenated)

Your Hair? short
Your Mother? quilt-y
Your Father? smart
Your Favorite Food? steak
Your Dream Last Night? twisted
Your Favorite Drink? Diet Coke
Your Dream/Goal? Phd, Mrs on the side
What Room Are You In? it's a studio apartment. . .
Your Hobby? craftiness
Your Fear? stairs
Where Do You Want To Be In Six Years? PhD
Where Were You Last Night? CTA
Something That You're Not? patient
Muffins? poppyseed
Wish List Item? speakers
Where Did You Grow Up? Utah
Last Thing You Did? watch Man v. Food
What Are You Wearing? pjs
Your TV? Hulu and Netflix
Your Pets? Sophie
Friends? family
Your Life? good
Your Mood? wouldn't you like to know
Missing Someone? always
Vehicle? feet, CTA
Something You Aren't Wearing? socks
Your Favorite Store? bookstore (any bookstore)
Your Favorite Color? depends on the day
When Was The Last Time You Laughed? tonight
Last Time You Cried? after I laughed
Your Best Friend? Anna
One Place You Go To Over And Over Again? church
Facebook? right now
Favorite Place To Eat? Nevins

my friend Josh

2010-03-25T22:19:00.002-06:00

I see a theme developing here. Hmm. . .

So when I'm home alone, I keep tucking bobbypins into my bangs (to keep my bangs out of my face). The result is Barbara Walters-ish, Hilary Clinton-ish, I'm too young to die-ish.

This was not the point of this post.

Josh and I were 19 together, but more importantly, we were 19 in London together. If you think that sounds like the beginning of a Jack Weyland novel, well, it probably is. Maybe I should write it. But not this time.

Eight years ago, I was 19 and in London for the first time. I love London. Love London. Will always love London. Am scheming ways to have someone pay for me to go back to London.

Again, not the point.

Josh and I took a stroll down memory lane. Except it was with Josh, who always stops to dance and sing on random street corners. And in the process of tripping down time, we came up with the name of another guy on the study abroad. We were chatting on Facebook, so once we figured out the last name, we both looked him up and found a photo album labeled "London 2002." I tabbed through the photos, not suprised to not see my face in any of them--Unnamed Male and I didn't hang out, except at the dining table in my flat where I quizzed him on what a [something] major was doing on a study abroad with a bunch of theatre and English majors.

Photo album. I was happy just idenitifying the places, when Josh asked if that was us in a picture in front of a castle. I had already passed the picture, so I went back. And it was very clearly Josh--because in my mind, Josh is 19, and, well, there were only four guys on the trip. But I couldn't decide if it was me. I'm pretty sure I was 19 once, but was that me at 19?

I studied the picture for a while. And I'm honestly still not sure. As much as I love London, as at home as I feel in that city, that trip feels foreign now. Except

I've been remembering things lately, stories from that trip. There are a few stories I always tell--reading Shakespeare aloud, Kimball insisting that the only thing worth indulging in was food, seeing Ion performed in a black box theater--but there are smaller stories, and, more importantly, real people that I connected with a long time ago.

I friended Unnamed Guy, with a note that said, "We went to London together eight years ago."

Unnamed Guy wrote back.

a picture of Josh and me, 19 and in London

my friend Jim

2010-03-23T15:22:00.003-06:00

My friend Jim has excellent taste. In everything. Books, movies, clothes, music. Everything that matters.

Jim has a blog, which is one place I turn for cultural enlightenment. And when Jim tells me to listen, I obey. And when something Jim says is this good, I pass it on.

Thanks Jim.

this won't make sense. but you didn't come here for that.

2010-03-18T23:04:00.003-06:00

I've always thought of myself as a sad person. Not depressed--although I've definitely been there--but sad. Not happy. I can't, well, for lack of a better word, spaz out in uncontrolled joy the way Lauren or Anna can. And sometimes I want to.

I was so excited yesterday to hear Stephen got into med school. So happy that I started crying as I walked down the street. So happy that I started thinking about what this would mean for him and his little family. And then, because I'm selfish, I thought about what this would mean for the extended families. And then

Well, you saw what happened. I started worrying that Stephen will successfully enter and complete med school, while I'm waiting to get into a PhD program. And suddenly--or not so suddenly--I'm worried that I'll die alone, without a PhD to keep me warm at night.

People talk to me as though I have this figured out. BA, MA, MFA, Chicago. And I really want to scream, "This wasn't the plan." And then whisper "Dammit," just for the drama.

If I'm being honest, a graduate degree was never the plan. I thought I'd get married by the time I wrapped up my BA. And this isn't why I'm sad--that's just who I am--I'm actually pretty satisfied with my single state of existence, even though everyone tells me I shouldn't be. But how else would I have been able to veer so completely off-track and still be headed forward?

I keep trying to erase this post, because it's not coming out the way I meant it to. I'm not sure what I meant, but this sure as hell isn't it.

Here's the thing: On Valentine's Day, I was in stake conference, listening to talks about love and commitment. And while the entire stake went googly-eyed sitting around me, I realized that I can't worry about that marriage relationship right now. It's distracting from what I want to do right now, what I'm supposed to do right now, which is write. Write, dammit. Since Feb 14, I've been more satisfied with my life than I ever have been before. (Some of that might be because I discovered TNT's Leverage, but I'm chalking most of it up to this realization.)

So the sadness. It's not really sadness. It's being serious and a little shy and probably too invested in this world I'm trying to create for myself. I used to be so ready to take on the world. And now I feel like I've been disappointed enough, I've taken my dose of humility, and I know that rushing the world doesn't mean that you'll meet the life you were expecting. You have to meet the world halfway--which means both of you have to move.

.

Joshua Radin just sang, "I should know who I am by now." Funny. I was just thinking the same thing.

from The World to Come, Dara Horn

2010-03-18T21:35:00.002-06:00

Remember the story you learned as a child: When the hour arrives for us to proceed to the next world, there will be two bridges to it, one made of iron and one made of paper. [. . .] The wicked will run to the iron bridge, but it will collapse under their weight. The righteous will cross the paper bridge, and it will support them all. Paper is the only eternal bridge. Your purpose as a writer is to achieve one task, and one task only: to build a paper bridge to the world to come. (84)

words are hard

2010-03-18T13:46:00.002-06:00

and I'm distracted.

and I'm at work. But I've had a hard time focusing since, oh, 8:45 a.m. when I got on the bus to go to work. Work starts at 8:30 a.m. (Don't worry, they're flexible).

The news: Sven will beat me to Dr. Jenkins. Or, my brother is smarter than your brother. Or, Sven got into the U's med program. Placing bets on how long before someone buys him one of those baseball hats that are half-Y, half-U.

I already fulfilled my promise to buy him this when he got into med school. The power of positive thinking.

Prior to this news (which I got in bits and pieces last night from various family members), I was already aiming for the U's PhD program in Lit and Creative Writing. Third time's the charm, right?

Right?

Anyway. Before I do that, I have to take the GRE again. Not the GRE Lit (which I killed). The GRE GRE. I've already abandoned all hope where math is concerned. Two grad degrees in English don't really facilitate math skills (said the "accounting specialist"). But the verbal. I did okay last time. This time, well, I want to kill. So now I'm reviewing analogies and antonyms and sentence completions (doesn't scan, but oh my). And super-sizing my already-healthy grasp of the English language.

I have learned one thing:

words are hard.

Forget multiple choice. I'm going to go write me a poem.*

*After I return to my regularly scheduled job. Spreadsheets, here I come!

happy endings

2010-03-09T22:28:00.002-07:00

I like them. I know I'm supposed to relish the tortured artist, this world imperfect is kind of vibe, but (right now) I just can't do it.

I want a happy ending.

I've watched a few movies recently that promised to be artistically inspiring. I suppose they were. In fact, I'm positive that for most people they were.

I just wanted my happy ending.

This is the point in the conversation where I usually yell at Lauren for not appreciating a story line or a narrative arc or a performance or. When I tell my students that "I didn't like it" isn't a valid response to a conclusion. You have to speak in paragraphs, people. You have to say why you didn't like it.

There are no happy endings.

Aislin had that written on her wedding cake: "There are no happy endings, because nothing ever ends." Luckily, these movies ended. Unluckily, they didn't end happily. I've taken to watching a TV show with a fairly satisfying contained arc each episode with love and hugs and do-good-ness abounding. Happy.

But artistically unsatisfying.

I know this isn't fair. I don't write happy poems. I don't want to write happy poems. But I also don't believe that my poems are leaving people hanging. Especially when they're expecting a happy ending.

I shouldn't expect a happy ending.

Lower my expectations. That's the answer. Or watch movies where everything ends happily for the good and not happily for the bad.

Who decides good and bad? Or happy and unhappy, for that matter?

Unhappy: killing off the main character for no apparent reason just because the movie is over.

Really unhappy: giving that character an unnecessary head wound.

No head wounds in my poetry. I'm safe for now. And off to finish the night with something trivial. Which isn't happy, but probably also won't end.

things we need to talk about

2010-03-06T16:54:00.003-07:00

I have been putting this off.

See, there are stories I can tell you. About losing my keys and finding them in the fridge. About the worst haircut, and how it resulted in the best haircut and a conversation about how all art needs a solid foundation before you trash it (she was talking about hair, I was talking about poetry). About recording poetry for my workshop, and the shock of hearing yourself reading your poetry. About the greater shock of my prof putting the damn thing on repeat.

About the branch president signing up on Facebook and friending everyone and the serious pause I gave, because I refuse to change what I post.

About five really good poems this quarter that I now need to find homes for.

About some of the greatest friends in the world sending me the greatest mail in the world. Real mail. Remember what that looks like?

About the candy bar that will change your life. And not just when you go up a few dress sizes.

About the sheer madness of working with numbers when you don't like numbers but everyone thinks you must like numbers. Also, your boss calling you "Mom."

About the weird shift from first to second person in this post.

About the weird shift from first to second person in my poetry.

About needing answer several emails, which have been put off with this blog post.

About giving up Diet Coke for Lent, until I remembered that I'm not Catholic (and the waitress brought me my weekly Diet Coke before I could tell her no--and then I refused to give it back).

Really I should be writing right now. Not a blog post. But actual real-live letters. Or better yet, real-live poems.

Or maybe I should just take a walk.

hair

2010-02-27T15:44:00.002-07:00

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

2010-02-22T21:45:00.005-07:00

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

2010-02-08T20:52:00.007-07:00

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)*

2010-02-05T23:13:00.002-07:00

"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.

Don't freak out

2010-01-27T21:49:00.001-07:00

but tonight I'm kind of happy.

At least, I think this is what happy feels like.

I missed post 700

2010-01-25T22:52:00.002-07:00

I have the genius talent for missing big moments. I don't realize them until they pass, and then I dwell. I am an excellent dwell-er.

This weekend I quoted That Thing You Do! on Facebook. A few friends started quoting along with me, and I've since been singing "Mr. Downtown" to myself. At work, which is always awkward.

That Thing You Do! was a milestone for me. It came out in 1996, when I was thirteen. It was the first time I went to a movie with a friend without parental supervision. It was a sign that my parents trusted me. And it was about the time I started realizing that "cute" wasn't just an adjective for babies. Hello, Guy Patterson.

I've been putting all this together in my head, and I realized that I use movies a lot as my mile markers. Here's a few more:

Dead Poets Society. High school. Attention: It's a sign when your teenage daughter watches this movie every day after school. In the dark. But, hey, maybe she'll carpe diem.

Say Anything. First year of college. "I gave her my heart and she gave me a pen." "If you guys know so much about women, what are you doing at a Gas'n'Sip on a Friday night, with no women anywhere?" ("Choice, man.")

About a Boy. I saw this right after I returned from London the first time. It cemented that experience (and my love for Hugh Grant).

Grosse Pointe Blank. I know it's rated R. I'm not saying you should see it. But it was a defining movie for me moving from undergrad to grad school.

This post serves to name my movie milestones, but it's also a warning: You get me in a room with these movies, and I will quote. I can't help myself.

What are your movie mile markers?

eg hates. oh dear.

2010-01-20T21:10:00.003-07:00

You know those people who say all you need to do to have a good day is decide to have a good day?

Yeah. I hate them too.

So this morning I woke up thinking, "Today is going to be a good day." It kind of freaked me out. And the day wasn't. Not so much. It was like every other day. But it wasn't as bad as the other days. Somehow everything didn't seem quite so bad. . .

Okay. I still hate them.

. . .

P.S. I know I kind of cheated last night. I really do love you. Other things I love: rain. long emails. short emails. London. chocolate. Diet Coke. unlineated poetry. Raise your hand if any of these things come as a surprise.

guess what

2010-01-19T23:24:00.002-07:00

I love you.

That is all.

enforcing gender stereotypes.

2010-01-18T23:16:00.005-07:00

I think after a really long, really boring, really frustrating day, it can be hard to love. But I made a promise, and I'm going to keep it, dammit. (I love the word "dammit," dammit.)

So. What do I love? Well, I'm a girl, so I must love

puppies.

and kittens.

okay, not so much with the kittens.

but babies. I do love babies. At least, these babies.

All pictures from Flickr, excepting, of course, Samuel and Abby (which I took--take that, world.)

I love to see the temple

2010-01-17T19:45:00.004-07:00

I honestly didn't think this is where I'd be going with these posts, but this is what came to mind this morning, and it's sticking.

This is the temple that's in my hometown, Bountiful, Utah. Lauren was married to Jesse here, and Stephen to Ashton. It's where I did my first baptisms for dead. It's also one of the places I spent a lot of time thinking about my future--although, I did it from the outside, either walking the perimeter or walking the grounds. It's one of those places you just feel drawn to. . . and here "you" is obviously "me".

This is the temple where I live right now, Chicago. It's actually about an hour north of Chicago, but that's okay. It was the first temple to be built in the Midwest after the Saints made the trek to Utah. They left the Midwest in 1846; the Chicago Temple was built in 1985.

If I'm allowed a "favorite" temple, this might be it: London. It's also outside of London, but the grounds are beautiful and peaceful and, again, it's one of the places I've spent a lot of time praying and thinking about my future.

I love the Mt. Timp Temple too. It's identical to the Bountiful Temple, except for the accent coloring. And it's where I received my endowment (because Bountiful was closed and Mt. Timp is closer to Lehi and Provo).

EG fun fact: When I was growing up, one of my favorite movies was The Mountain of the Lord, about the forty years it took to build the Salt Lake Temple. Forty years, people. That's love.

No More Than Reason: eg loves Much Ado

2010-01-16T23:22:00.001-07:00

I know this comes as a shock to exactly none of you, at least not those of you who know me. But this is where this idea started, that I could be happy in my memories, and so this is where I begin.

The first time I saw Much Ado it was on PBS. My dad got me out of bed one night to come watch. I was in love--with the language, the acting, the story. I'm still in love.

That was in the early 90s. Ten years later, in 2002, in London, I was in a Shakespeare class. After a rather sad run through of Antony and Cleopatra, my friend and I decided to read Twelfth Night out loud, the way it was meant to be. (Well, it was meant to be acted out by a large group of male actors, not two 19-year-old girls, but close enough.) By the time our class reached Much Ado about Nothing, we had a full ensemble for our reading. And I got to read Beatrice.

We sat in the commons room of our ground floor flat. I hope I'm remembering this right, because I'm remembering sitting on a fairly wide window sill, my feet on a chair or a table, leaning against my knees and reading Beatrice while Cameron read Benedick, Josh read Claudio, Amber read Hero, and Aislin read the Prince. There were enough people to fill the room, and enough people to fill the parts. It was one of those perfect days. I sometimes desperately wish that I had a picture--there was bright blue thin carpet, and blue armchairs, and that window sill was perhaps the best window sill I've ever had the opportunity to sit on.

I've never seen a production that matches us reading in that room. If I ever have a chance to relive a time of my life, that day just might be it.

.

Bonus Love: ABBA. I was looking for the trailer for Much Ado, and found this. Please join me in rolling your eyes. Rolling your eyes and dancing like a mad man.

sigh no more, lady

2010-01-15T08:27:00.004-07:00

Not what I would usually post. But at some point, I need to quit moaning and move forward--two things I'm not always the best at.

This week was a weird one. I taught a lesson on Sunday that was good, but not great. Monday I hung out with a friend, which was wonderful, and then. And then I crashed. Which I wasn't ready for--usually I can stop the train wreck. But instead I let myself spin out of control, just thinking and overthinking. And then I let myself blog. . .

So the change. After a few days of dwelling on missing where I was three or four years ago, I decided maybe it might be a good idea to say hi to those people and things I loved then.

I have a good life here in Chicago. I'm happy I'm here. I'm really happy that I'm writing poetry, when I'm writing poetry. I do miss all those people and all those things we used to do and talk about--but I forget that they're not gone, they're just a little more spread out.

There's a blogging trend that I kind of like, that I'm going to try copying for a week. It's an "editorgirl loves" kind of feature. Usually this refers to other posts on other blogs, but in this case, it's just me, in my apartment, letting myself remember and this time be happy in remembering.

I'm hoping to start tonight. See you then.

*artwork found on Typcut.

and we'll watch Christmas TV

2010-01-13T18:37:00.004-07:00

I have now listened to "Christmas TV" by Slow Club seventeen times. And I'm thinking of all the Christmas TV I missed this Christmas. I'm pretty sure I passed out during Christmas Vacation, which has never happened before. I didn't watch Garfield or Claymation or Muppets. What was I doing all Christmas?

Maybe this.

I call them Seth Heads. Now whenever I miss my missionary brother, it's like he's right there. Just sometimes he's much smaller.

I may have also stepped in as singer for the awesome Rock Band Narwhal. But there's really no proof of that.

20 times.

01.11.10

2010-01-11T21:51:00.005-07:00

maybe if I just type I'll have something to say.

maybe not.

. . .

if I were smart, I'd leave it at that. But I want to talk, dammit. And I'm not going to apologize for that dammit. Or the lack of caps at the beginning of this post.

I'm spending too much time alone. Which is sad and stupid because I have an awesome apartment that begs for a party.

I used to throw wonderful parties.

Where the hell am I? Where the hell are you?

. . .

Once upon a time, a friend wondered where I was. So he put it at the top of the agenda: "Where the hell is Sarah?" It was an inside joke that is now a really important memory.

That friend taught me what it means to be an artist. Those friends taught me.

Dear Friend. I miss being your friend, and I miss being an artist with you. Editorgirl. Sarah.

twenty ten

2010-01-10T22:15:00.002-07:00

Yep. I'm one of those people. Two-thousand-ten just sounds wrong.

If I was one of those people (read: the rest of the world) who made resolutions when the calendar changed to 2010 (your choice of pronunciation), I wouldn't be blogging right now. I would be writing letters. On pretty paper. Possibly thank you letters, but most likely just letters.

But I'm not one of those people. I'm the person who just pulled herself out of a too-hot bath to tell you that I'm not one of those people.

Do you see where I'm going with this?

I just watched the final episode of season two of Chuck, to prepare myself for the awesomeness of season three (which I don't get to watch until tomorrow because I don't have TV, just Hulu). There was this song playing. I found it, iTunes'd it, and have listened to it 7 times according to the counter. I'm heading in for number 8 once I publish this post.

white night

2010-01-09T22:07:00.002-07:00

I keep opening a new post page to write about Christmas. And Christmas this year was awesome--it totally deserves a blog devoted just to it. But I keep hesitating.

Part of it is that everyone who really cares why Christmas was awesome was there. Christmas 2009 will go down in the history books as the year of Seth Heads and Chicago (the band, not the musical) sing-alongs and zipper flowers and the coolest hedgehog ever. It was as close to a perfect Christmas as we could get with Seth in New Zealand--and he made his appearances.

But I'm wondering what purpose this blog is serving now. I started it a long time ago as part of a conversation. But that conversation has moved on in other directions and sometimes I just feel like I'm talking to myself.

Here's what I care about. Poetry, education, my family, my faith, my friends. John Cusack (some priorities never change.)

So what do I do? Do I stay here, editorgirl talking to myself in circles? Or do I look for a new blog and a new name and a new place to be me? I thought by now I would know who that is, but I really don't. I had a 2-in-the-morning moment this week when I realized that I turn 27 in a few months. I never thought I'd be here.

A new blog might be coming. But, for now, it's nice to see you.

chilly in Chicago

2009-12-21T07:37:00.002-07:00

The SIL (sister-in-law Ashton) has been teaching Abby where "Sarah lives" on a map. I'm not sure of all the details, because I've yet to see this party trick, but apparently I live in "chilly Chicago." Which isn't too far from the truth. In honor of Abby's new found talent, I give you two chilly Chicago stories--so chilly it's taken almost two weeks for me to write them down.

Story the first.

I bought some pants during my Thanksgiving shopping spree. (This isn't the chilly part.) They were perfectly lovely pants, I just never wanted to wear them. So I decided that I needed food more than I needed pants I was never going to wear. The problem is--or was--that the closest store isn't all that close. But I figured out that if I left from work, I could take a bus to the mall and then walk about a mile.

Which I did. In a snowstorm.

And not just any snowstorm. The kind that isn't so much snow as slush. With a good old Chicago wind to back it up (never mind that by this point I was in Skokie--it's the same evil wind).

I made it to the store, completely soaked, walked in, promised not to touch anything, and returned the pants. I then re-bundled and walked back out to face the storm. Sometime during this process, I realized that my hat was a nasty, sodden mess that I didn't want to put back on my head and that my scarf was too thin to be any help in this weather. There was an Old Navy across the street, so I braved the wind and the slush and the cars (don't worry, I used a crosswalk), and headed in to buy a cute, but affordable scarf and hat.

As I was walking in, a nice man held the door for me, but gave me an odd look. So did the woman who greeted me inside the store with sale details. And then the woman stacking t-shirts. I knew I was wet, but I had just come in from the slushstorm. I grabbed a scarf and was debating over hats when I turned to look in a mirror. And then looked again.

At some point during my journey, my eye makeup had decided to take a trip down my face. Both cheeks were streaked with mascara--and not a single line. A huge, maybe-she-means-it, stylized streak.

Too bad I didn't take a picture.

I cleaned up my face, purchased my scarf and hat, and returned to the storm to wait for the bus home.

Story the second.

Last year, my apartment was freezing. Sleep-in-multiple-layers, maybe-it's-warmer-outside freezing. The only warm room in the apartment was the bedroom my roommate never used. So I would go and stand there sometimes before going to bed.

This year, my apartment was freezing. I had asked my landlord about the heating situation, and he told me it was in good shape. The heat in the hallway confirmed this. So why was my apartment an icebox?

Two days after my shopping adventure, I woke up and could feel a draft. I sleep next to my not-in-use fireplace, so I thought maybe it was coming from there. Wrong answer. Then I checked the heat in the kitchen--it was on; the bathroom--not on; the front room/bedroom--on. And there, huddled over the heater, I felt the draft, coming from over my head.

My window was open. Not wide open, but open. Open enough to freeze my apartment.

So, being the genius that I am, I closed the window. Now there are nights when my apartment is almost too hot.

But just almost.

Christmas music (not sung by Muppets)

2009-12-10T14:18:00.002-07:00

I'm starting to get into Christmas mode. Kind of. Not really. But I like to pretend. Call me the Grinch who loved Christmas.

Okay then.

What I do love is crazy awesome Christmas music. The problem is, I've been bored with my usuals this Christmas. Even with my beloved Muppets (and Sufjan and Ingrid Michaelson and. . . just to prove that I do have taste beyond an eight year old).

So when 21st and Ivy started posting their Yuletide Downloads yesterday, I was more than happy to accept their suggestions of brilliant local musicians (local if you're in Utah, not local for me--stupid Chicago). Coming up are my talented-at-too-many-things friends Laura and Jim and their band Electron Deception, but the current offerings are pretty happy too.

Maybe happy is the wrong word.

Maryn, sister dear, these are for you. Happy belated birthday.

Christmas shopping: check

2009-12-08T23:57:00.001-07:00

Stephen is getting a nice yellow pebble. Maryn gave it to me last year, and Seth gave it to Maryn the year before that.

l love all the pregnant women in my life

2009-12-07T16:07:00.001-07:00

but I love this just a little bit more.

why do you let me stay here?

2009-12-03T18:46:00.004-07:00

I could probably dig around this blog and find a post identical to this one at the end of every semester (BYU)/quarter (Northwestern). In the grand old tradition of being me, I have postponed the inevitable writing of the final paper to the day before the paper is due.

This quarter I thought I'd get creative. I thought I'd be clever. I thought, "What the hell. I have sick days. Nothing makes me as sick as writing a 20-page paper. One whole day to revel in poetic license."

Or one whole day to actually be sick.

That's right. This morning, my preferred "sick day," my body took me seriously. I spent the majority of the day actually sick. Actually sick, and not writing.

Which leaves us at 7:49 p.m. with no paper. It's due at 9:00 p.m. tomorrow. The good news is. . . well, the good news is that I've never not finished a paper before.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I think there's some Diet Coke and a reference book with my name on them.

This time tomorrow night, I predict the following:

pretty much the coolest thing ever

2009-12-02T14:43:00.003-07:00

I frequently stop myself from letting my love for wedding details run rampant on this blog, but I just saw this at A Cup of Jo. If I ever get weddinged to someone who can read, this is definitely a possibility.

it was the most wonderful time of the year

2009-12-01T12:22:00.005-07:00

I feel as though I've spent the past week blogging, even though it's been almost a week. A whole week. Bad Sarah. But I just had the best Thanksgiving of my life, so I should blog it.

Blogging.

.

Sometime in September I realized that I would have two days off for Thanksgiving, right up against a weekend, which meant four days of no work and no school. Peasants rejoice. And then, genius that I am, I hatched a plan to visit that paradise of paradises, South Carolina. Which is the land of poodles, gamecocks, and Anna Bennion and Brooke Grant. The three of us haven't been together since PCA/ACA in San Francisco in April 2008. That's over a year, for those of you who are trying to do the math. Sad days.

So Brooke and Anna decided that I could crash their happy world in South Carolina, where Anna is a PhD candidate because she's awesome and Brooke teaches her brains out because she is also awesome. I bought my ticket in September, which was a mistake, because then I had two months of wishing I were in South Carolina.

Last Wednesday, I left my apartment at 4:00 o'clock in the morning (also the title of one of my favorite poems, Szymborska), checked my ridiculous suitcase ($20, stupid airlines), and did my best zombie impersonation (can one impersonate a zombie? are they technically people?) at O'Hare until my flight boarded and I could sleep. Which I did, for about an hour and a half. The plane landed in North Carolina, I found my suitcase, and Anna and Brooke found me. What followed can only be told in epic poetry and 1,000-word photographs (cue Joshua Radin, "These Photographs").

Our Thanksgiving feast: homemade tortillas, salsa, guacamole (which I can never spell), Calypso rice, and Diet Coke. Oh, and Diet Pepsi for Brooke, who has gone to the dark side.

On Friday, we avoided the Black Friday madness and went to Charleston. Here are Brooke and Anna, looking out upon the myriad harbor. . . love that song. Love these girls more.

Anna and I attempt to absorb some history. . .

I like to think of this as my "inspired by Abby smile." Not as cute on a 26 year old.

We made our first trip to a Columbia hot spot on Friday too--Cupcake. So I took a picture. Cupcakes deserve pictures.

They were so good, Anna and I bought seven more the next night. One didn't survive before the pictures happened. (Black bottom cupcake with cream cheese frosting. RIP.)

On Wednesday, Brooke and Anna made a stop at Disneyland--I mean, IKEA. They found the right style of table, but not in the right color (black). In my charming, sarcastic manner, I suggested that they modge podge the table top. Which is what they did. With pages from Mrs. Dalloway and Persuasion and Northanger Abbey. Maryn would be so proud.

That's the end of my story. We saw a few (dozen) movies, ate a few (dozen) more meals, and on Sunday I had to return to Chicago. Sigh. (Please note: I am not trying to seduce the camera. I was trying to keep from blinking drunkenly every time Brooke took a picture.)

spent and overspent

2009-11-25T21:38:00.002-07:00

Last night, after class, I stopped at Jewel for a few last minute necessities (mascara, if you must know, and cash for the cab). On the walk home I lectured myself on two things: 1) I was going to pack, shower, and go to bed by midnight at the latest. And 2) While on my fabulous vacation, I was going to keep spending to a minimum.

In terms of my first lecture, I showered, packed, and made it to bed by 12:30 a.m. Which didn't really make any sense when my alarm went off at 3:00 a.m. I managed to stay in bed until 3:27 a.m., and still meet my 4:00 a.m. cab.

As for lecture the second, I arrived in Charlotte, North Carolina at 9:30 a.m. (their time). It is now 11:43 p.m. (also their time). Since I met up with Brooke and Anna, we have been shoe shopping, gone to brunch, spent a significant amount of time at a very nice mall, hit IKEA and Trader Joe's, had sushi (so good, so worth it), and spent an hour grocery shopping.

So much for lecture number two.

But (and this is for the mother and father reading this and shaking their heads), BUT: we are staying in tomorrow, touring Charleston on Friday, hanging out in Columbia on Saturday, and I fly home Sunday. How much more damage can I do?

Don't answer that.

I know I should post about my life, but really, this is so much better

2009-11-24T14:00:00.001-07:00