Today I am feeling too guilty to function. Of course, when I think logically about it, I shouldn't be guilty. But, as always, I'm getting ahead of myself.
On Friday I spent the day at home studying (after I taught at 9:00), waiting for the internet people to finish our connection. I ran back to campus at 4:00 to pick up Sister and on the ride back to the house I promised (between her phone calls with Mother and Fiance) that I would help clean the house and the car this weekend. When we got back to the house, I was dizzy from a headache, so I decided to lie down (Master Fob, if that's wrong you can remind me of the rules next time I see you) for a minute. The minute lasted about forty and I woke up to LadyJane (a friend you will all meet in the near future) calling me to decide what time we were going to dinner before the English GSA movie night (yes, I'm such a losernerd). I agreed on the time and then realized I had about 15 minutes to pull myself together and go. So I get up and walk to the bathroom, which Sister is furiously cleaning. I apologize for falling asleep and guiltly say, "I told you I would clean the bathroom." Sister breaks her icy silence to tell me that I leave hair everywhere (it's definitely not her or our two other roommates. . . especially the really long brown hairs. . . ). I apologize again with Sister reprimanding me for never cleaning. I don't bother to explain--again--that I do clean, not that she cares, and when LadyJane comes I gratefully escape out the door, with Sister still shooting icerays at me. . . and now LadyJane.
Poor LadyJane had to listen to me try to explain my normally more-than-gracious Sister's issues with me, convince me to shut up, and then listen some more. I was worried about coming home to the same fight--when my family gets upset, we don't really talk. We just freeze everyone else out. But when I came home, Sister had left a day early to Bountiful with Fiance.
I went up to Bountiful the next morning to basically sit around and prompt my father to tell me that I'm not a terrible person or SuperBitch or whatever. I explained that I had cleaned the kitchen multiple times, etc. and that I wasn't dumping all maintenance matters onto Sister. He understood, but his idea is that if you patiently wait long enough, the freeze will end. He doesn't understand that it just makes the next freeze that much worse.
By the end of the day, Sister was talking to me again, mostly because Mom and LittleSister came back from New York. They had gone primarily to see Wizard. LittleSis was super-excited to show us what they had bought for us in New York--and, I admit, so were we. Presents are always good. First out comes Sister's gifts: two necklace-earring sets and a bracelet. I'm watching and hoping that there is another bracelet for me--it's one of the heavy carved wood bracelets I've been trying to find for months, but can never find one I love in Provo. They all watch Sister try on a pair of earrings and slip on the bracelet before pulling out my gifts: a pashmina and a scarf. Those of you who know me well are thinking "Perfect! Eg lives for and in pashminas." And normally it would be perfect, excpet neither of them are in colors that I'm wearing much right now. Instead, as Mom quickly points out, they are colors that match my bridesmaid skirt.
I don't really know how to follow that. The only thing that really comes to mind is "Damn" over and over again. But that really doesn't say anything. My dad pointed out to me this weekend that my life is going to be very different from Sister's or, for that matter, Mom's. This isn't really coherent with what I've just been writing, but I need to get it out of my head and onto the screen. I don't want my life to be like my mom's or Sister's--not that there is anything wrong with their lives. Mine just seems to be heading in a very different direction. I can see myself with my PhD and my tenure track position and my publications and my conferences. But I don't see myself--or want to see myself--as an old maid. During my rather distracted dinner with LadyJane I tried to explain to her this feeling I have that the guy I have my eye on is too good for me. But in reality, there's always the suspicion that a guy isn't good enough for me. (This isn't the case with current guy. Current guy is amazing on about a million different levels and if I knew how to approach him, I would.) But that sounds wrong. It's the suspicion that my life is supposed to be a certain way and I need to find someone whose life is supposed to parallel mine, who is wanting the same things or similar things. And it's becoming harder and harder to believe I'll find someone like that--especially since it seems that men who are after the same things I'm after are also after a someone more like Sister.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Friday, October 21, 2005
best class ever
I'm not sure what happened today, but class was awesome. And it was only one part me. Actually, it was a big part me, and I will now explain that statement.
I've blogged before about the roles we play, and specifically about the roles I play. I act a certain way around certain people. I put on different personas, attitudes, vocabularies, etc. I talk about different parts of my life with different people--and feel awkward and guilty when I cross the boundaries I've set up. I am never really myself because I am never really completely me. This was part of the "Me in Monogamy" post. Showing all of me lets a person see, well, all of me and makes me vulnerable to the "slings and arrows of outrageous fortune" (apologies if I misquoted).
But today in class--I was still the teacher, but it was me being the teacher, if that makes sense. And if it doesn't, I don't know how else to say it.
We talked about summary vs. analysis. I showed a clip from the "Mormon" Pride and Prejudice (when Elizabeth throws the hymnal at Collins) and then summarized it for the class. I pointed out that I didn't need to tell them what had happened because they had watched it themselves. So what should you tell people/your reader about the text? And they started to analyze the clip--the music, the camera angles, the details, etc. They did an excellent job. But what came next was even better. I had the desk speech from DPS, which made me excited just to be watching it, which I told the students. And then we watched it. I told them I wasn't going to summarize it again--they were spared that pain. And I also told them I had been thinking about saying "In addition to your essays I want to compose a poem of your own" but I didn't. What I did do was play the clip again. Students could--and did--call "Stop" when something happened they wanted to analyze. And the whole class got into the discussion. It was fantastic. I was so into it that I was surprised and sad when the bell rang.
Other things happened at the beginning of class, and during class, that allowed me to be me. I wish I could explain it better. No, that would take to long. Let me summarize.
I've blogged before about the roles we play, and specifically about the roles I play. I act a certain way around certain people. I put on different personas, attitudes, vocabularies, etc. I talk about different parts of my life with different people--and feel awkward and guilty when I cross the boundaries I've set up. I am never really myself because I am never really completely me. This was part of the "Me in Monogamy" post. Showing all of me lets a person see, well, all of me and makes me vulnerable to the "slings and arrows of outrageous fortune" (apologies if I misquoted).
But today in class--I was still the teacher, but it was me being the teacher, if that makes sense. And if it doesn't, I don't know how else to say it.
We talked about summary vs. analysis. I showed a clip from the "Mormon" Pride and Prejudice (when Elizabeth throws the hymnal at Collins) and then summarized it for the class. I pointed out that I didn't need to tell them what had happened because they had watched it themselves. So what should you tell people/your reader about the text? And they started to analyze the clip--the music, the camera angles, the details, etc. They did an excellent job. But what came next was even better. I had the desk speech from DPS, which made me excited just to be watching it, which I told the students. And then we watched it. I told them I wasn't going to summarize it again--they were spared that pain. And I also told them I had been thinking about saying "In addition to your essays I want to compose a poem of your own" but I didn't. What I did do was play the clip again. Students could--and did--call "Stop" when something happened they wanted to analyze. And the whole class got into the discussion. It was fantastic. I was so into it that I was surprised and sad when the bell rang.
Other things happened at the beginning of class, and during class, that allowed me to be me. I wish I could explain it better. No, that would take to long. Let me summarize.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
add vice
Yes, I'm supposed to be grading papers right now.
Yes, I have given one 'A.'
Yes, I have given two 'C's.
Yes, I've only graded three papers thus far.
Yes, I don't want to grade anymore.
Yes, I'm being clever.
Yes, I think he's a pompous ass.
Yes, I know that there's nothing I can do.
Yes, I known you know that I know that there's nothing I can do.
Yes, I'm thinking about someone new (who, for the record, is not the pompous ass or a pompous ass).
Yes, I know that it won't happen.
Yes, I know that it never happens.
Yes, I know that there wasn't a clear antecedent.
Yes, I know that despite there being no clear antecedent you still knew what "it" was referring to.
Yes, I have given one 'A.'
Yes, I have given two 'C's.
Yes, I've only graded three papers thus far.
Yes, I don't want to grade anymore.
Yes, I'm being clever.
Yes, I think he's a pompous ass.
Yes, I know that there's nothing I can do.
Yes, I known you know that I know that there's nothing I can do.
Yes, I'm thinking about someone new (who, for the record, is not the pompous ass or a pompous ass).
Yes, I know that it won't happen.
Yes, I know that it never happens.
Yes, I know that there wasn't a clear antecedent.
Yes, I know that despite there being no clear antecedent you still knew what "it" was referring to.
Not your normal chick
My role models in life: Beatrice (and Benedick) from Much Ado about Nothing. Valancy from The Blue Castle. Buddy from Franny and Zooey. Watts from Some Kind of Wonderful. The girl from "Short Skirt, Long Jacket."
Okay, so they're all fictional, but maybe you get the idea. I like attitude. I like quirkiness. I like people who defy gravity. . . I mean, convention. So when my friend reads me the beginning of his story and the wife of the main character seems like a ditz to me, I want to give her a bit of that attitude and, well, feminist-ness.
So I'm not your normal chick. I like that about myself. I like that I'm not actively searching for validation via men. Not that other girls are. But they are. I like that I know my limitations--and I ignore them. I like that I feel sexy with or without a man eyeing me. But there's another element to these characters who I listed as role models. They all, well, maybe not SSLJ girl, but the others aren't just a little odd and have more than a little attitude--they observe, they critique, they moderate. They are the story tellers. Some of them are the puppetmasters. Some simply have really, really great lines. I'd be happy with that.
I am happy with that.
Okay, so they're all fictional, but maybe you get the idea. I like attitude. I like quirkiness. I like people who defy gravity. . . I mean, convention. So when my friend reads me the beginning of his story and the wife of the main character seems like a ditz to me, I want to give her a bit of that attitude and, well, feminist-ness.
So I'm not your normal chick. I like that about myself. I like that I'm not actively searching for validation via men. Not that other girls are. But they are. I like that I know my limitations--and I ignore them. I like that I feel sexy with or without a man eyeing me. But there's another element to these characters who I listed as role models. They all, well, maybe not SSLJ girl, but the others aren't just a little odd and have more than a little attitude--they observe, they critique, they moderate. They are the story tellers. Some of them are the puppetmasters. Some simply have really, really great lines. I'd be happy with that.
I am happy with that.
I'm the Me in Monogamy
I've put up walls. I know this. In my mind, transparency is an evil to be avoided at all costs. And so I have. Avoided it at all costs, that is.
Part of it is that I like being the eccentric, mysterious intellectual. I can be a bit quirky, be addicted to my poetry and listen to the Shins and Death Cab and wear scarves. And I am this person. But the other part. . .
Part of it is that I'm terrified of getting hurt. Take down the walls, be a bit vulnerable, and people can leave you, ignore you, scratch you, beat you, etc. It's a very risky situation. So you (I when I say "you," I mean "I" or "me") put up walls. You avoid people situations. You become a recluse.
The thing is, I'm not that person. I'm not a recluse. I don't want to be alone. It's not just a romantic sense. I'm not sure how it happened, but somehow I've been presenting myself as shy, reticent, withdrawn, when that couldn't be further from who I am. Well, maybe it's a little bit of who I am when first met. But have more than enough personality and opinions.
Tonight I was more me than I have been lately. It was nice.
Part of it is that I like being the eccentric, mysterious intellectual. I can be a bit quirky, be addicted to my poetry and listen to the Shins and Death Cab and wear scarves. And I am this person. But the other part. . .
Part of it is that I'm terrified of getting hurt. Take down the walls, be a bit vulnerable, and people can leave you, ignore you, scratch you, beat you, etc. It's a very risky situation. So you (I when I say "you," I mean "I" or "me") put up walls. You avoid people situations. You become a recluse.
The thing is, I'm not that person. I'm not a recluse. I don't want to be alone. It's not just a romantic sense. I'm not sure how it happened, but somehow I've been presenting myself as shy, reticent, withdrawn, when that couldn't be further from who I am. Well, maybe it's a little bit of who I am when first met. But have more than enough personality and opinions.
Tonight I was more me than I have been lately. It was nice.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
(Maybe) the final post about eg's hair
In my contemporary lit theory class today, we were discussing "violence against the Other through the use of reductive labels"--the idea being that by applying a word to a person, you are reducing their ability to remove or disassociate himself/herself from that label. My professor used the example of "hispanic," but I had the following passage running through my head:
Lately I've been described as blonde, brown-haired, and red-haired. (I just threw the black-haired description in because I enjoyed the "exotic or morbid" moment.) Considering this, I'm just going to accept my hair as an attempt to escape stereotypes. Because despite the ambiguous color, my hair is fabulous. It's one of my favorite things about me. This "what color is my hair" is just another query in my recent inability to maintain my definition of myself. But all that is going to change. Tomorrow.
Common American stereotypes dictate that blond-haired people are less intelligent ("dumb blonde"), more fun loving, sexier, and more attractive. Brown-haired people are described sometimes as uninspiring, average and even "mousy." Redheads are vibrant, energetic, sometimes bold and even bossy. Black-haired Caucasians are wild and exotic or morbid. (Wissner-Gross, Elizabeth. Unbiased: Editing in a Diverse Society. 126.)
Lately I've been described as blonde, brown-haired, and red-haired. (I just threw the black-haired description in because I enjoyed the "exotic or morbid" moment.) Considering this, I'm just going to accept my hair as an attempt to escape stereotypes. Because despite the ambiguous color, my hair is fabulous. It's one of my favorite things about me. This "what color is my hair" is just another query in my recent inability to maintain my definition of myself. But all that is going to change. Tomorrow.
Monday, October 17, 2005
Soundtrack for a Movie
I started to ache when I started to think of you.
Wondering how long it would take before I step into something new.
There's so much I can fake.
There's only so much that I can prove.
Well, do it in a minute,
I could go play the fool for you.
New idea for a blog: my commentary interspersed with the lyrics of a song. This probably won't happen often, but tonight it will. As if you needed an explanation.
I like the idea of playing the fool for someone. . . at least, Shakespeare's fool. I've always been overly fond of Feste in Twelfth Night. He knows. He's there, and he knows. Everything. I want to be that person for someone. Someone who understands, but still makes you smile.
Lights, camera, action.
I think I'm going for it this time.
There's something you should listen to.
Could I take you for a car ride?
This is the soundtrack for our movie.
Would you tell me when we get to the best part?
I'll play it for you.
Oh no, I think I've lost this one.
Can we try again?
I've been meaning to write a post along with this song for a while. . . not quite in this way, but when I pulled up the lyrics I couldn't decide what to cut. But I didn't want miles of text and then more miles of text. I know not many love me enough to read to the end, but maybe there's a cool idea in here somewhere.
My life as a movie. The funny part is, right now I'm in the depressing montage scene, where they show you multiple crummy days with only a few seconds of anything really happening. And then things will pick up. I'll meet someone. He'll meet me. And then it will either be a Pretty in Pink or a Some Kind of Wonderful ending. Note: in PiP, I'd be Duckie. In SKoW, I'm Watts.
Well I'm a wreck.
I really can't explain it but I,
I hear the music when I look at you.
Orchestrating the song to accommodate the moment.
Well, I'm so in love with you.
I'm putting together a playlist to "accommodate the moment." This song is, of course, there. And some Death Cab, in honor of my missionary brother. Well, that and I'm currently listening to "I Will Follow You into the Dark" on repeat. I'm not sure why I'm so addicted.
Are you looking for an answer?
Because I could really use a friend tonight.
We can make this last forever.
We don't have to fear the sunlight.
Well I'm a wreck.
I really can't explain it but I,
I hear the music when I look at you.
Orchestrating the song to accommodate the moment.
Well, I'm so in love with...
Things eg has been told recently:
1. eg's hair is blonde and she should quit blogging about it.
2. eg worries too much.
3. eg needs to quit apologizing.
4. eg just actually might be a people person. . . if she ever met people.
5. eg blogs too damn much and needs to slow down. One blog every other week would be enough for everyone, thank you.
6. eg should do her homework.
7. eg should stop making lists.
8. eg can be replaced.
9. eg is not pretty.
10. eg needs to be assertive. and loud. loud and assertive.
I'll take a chance and steal away this movie moment.
I'm in deep whenever I'm with you.
I'm directing the scene that has you and me forever.
We'll I'm so in love with...
Guess what? I am so in love with you. Pity you don't know who you are.
Dog tags and gift certificates
I already attempted to blog this once and something went wrong, as something often tends to do. But I feel the need to share this diatribe. And, let's be honest, bury last night's rather confessional post.
So my little sister M is quite a reader. As in a terrifying devours everything in sight, especially if it has to do with princesses, dogs, or fairy tales, reader. Did I mention she's my favorite sibling?
Anyway, last spring I gave her Goose Girl by Shannon Hale. Hale is an LDS writer and had won an award for GG at the AML conference. Since then M has 1) continued to nag me to read GG and 2) become a big fan of Shannon Hale, who just happens to be coming to the English reading series. Being the super-cool older sister that I am, I thought it would be fun to bring M down to Provo that day to go to the reading and get her books signed. I even offered lunch and the new Shannon Hale book that M has yet to own. Bring out the trumpets, processional, etc. for best sister of the year.
There's just one snag. M was ecstatic about this idea until. . . well, I couldn't figure it out for a few weeks. I'd bring it up and she'd get quiet and start talking about dogs or her best friends or her math assignment--sometimes all three. Finally she explained to me last night that she realized she would have to miss school. I told her she could probably stand to miss one day of fifth grade, that it wouldn't effect her ability to get into a good college, etc., but she wasn't buying it. A little more prodding and she told me that her school has a rewards system this year for perfect attendance. Each month of perfect attendance earns you a dog tag. At the end of the year, there are rewards for those students who earned the most dog tags/went the whole year without missing a day of school.
I know attendance is important. I have an attendance policy in my class (I suck at enforcing it, but don't tell my students). I respect and adhere to attendance policies my professors have outlined. But one day? For your favorite author? And your supercool big sister? Give me a break. Let them live.
So my little sister M is quite a reader. As in a terrifying devours everything in sight, especially if it has to do with princesses, dogs, or fairy tales, reader. Did I mention she's my favorite sibling?
Anyway, last spring I gave her Goose Girl by Shannon Hale. Hale is an LDS writer and had won an award for GG at the AML conference. Since then M has 1) continued to nag me to read GG and 2) become a big fan of Shannon Hale, who just happens to be coming to the English reading series. Being the super-cool older sister that I am, I thought it would be fun to bring M down to Provo that day to go to the reading and get her books signed. I even offered lunch and the new Shannon Hale book that M has yet to own. Bring out the trumpets, processional, etc. for best sister of the year.
There's just one snag. M was ecstatic about this idea until. . . well, I couldn't figure it out for a few weeks. I'd bring it up and she'd get quiet and start talking about dogs or her best friends or her math assignment--sometimes all three. Finally she explained to me last night that she realized she would have to miss school. I told her she could probably stand to miss one day of fifth grade, that it wouldn't effect her ability to get into a good college, etc., but she wasn't buying it. A little more prodding and she told me that her school has a rewards system this year for perfect attendance. Each month of perfect attendance earns you a dog tag. At the end of the year, there are rewards for those students who earned the most dog tags/went the whole year without missing a day of school.
I know attendance is important. I have an attendance policy in my class (I suck at enforcing it, but don't tell my students). I respect and adhere to attendance policies my professors have outlined. But one day? For your favorite author? And your supercool big sister? Give me a break. Let them live.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
myths
My favorite song tonight. . .
I am debating. . .
I'm not sure what to write.
If Heaven and Hell decide
that they're both satisfied
illuminate the "No"s on their vacancy signs
("I Will Follow You into the Dark" DCFC)
There are a dozen really good posts swimming around my head right now. I just don't know where to start. Perhaps with the image of a back. . . I've become minorly obsessed with backs lately. The not-quite rectangle, the flat expanse, the rise of shoulder blades where if you ever had wings, that's where they'd connect. It's not a dangerous obsession. I'm not going around checking out people's backs; I'm just suddenly aware of their geography. Except I've been working on a poem that compares the back to the sky. The night sky with stars. And the myths inherent in them.
I'm too scared to let my guard down. Because if you let your guard down, you can get hurt. It's like a song on repeat in my head. Someone, who I hope won't mind if I refer to him as a good friend, pointed out that I have the habit of offering a piece of personal information and then retreating, changing the subject, backing off, etc. (My words not his). He said it was endearing, but I have a feeling endearing meant maddening. But I'm reaching the point where I need to let my guard down or it's going to suffocate me. And I think I'm starting to with the aforementioned friend, but I worry too much, analyze too much, and then panic and shut down.
I'm sorry if reading this blog feels as if you are reading a catalogue of neuroses. (That's another problem. I apologize too much.) I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. For everything. For nothing. For being 22 and acting older. For being 22 and acting younger. For not knowing what color my hair is. For caring what color my hair is. For thinking about guys. For not thinking about guys. For being me. For not being me. For not knowing who "me" is. For knowing who only a part of "me" is and thinking that if you met her, you'd never speak to me again. For only letting you know a facade. For not having a good facade. For. . . For. . . For. . .
I am debating. . .
I'm not sure what to write.
If Heaven and Hell decide
that they're both satisfied
illuminate the "No"s on their vacancy signs
("I Will Follow You into the Dark" DCFC)
There are a dozen really good posts swimming around my head right now. I just don't know where to start. Perhaps with the image of a back. . . I've become minorly obsessed with backs lately. The not-quite rectangle, the flat expanse, the rise of shoulder blades where if you ever had wings, that's where they'd connect. It's not a dangerous obsession. I'm not going around checking out people's backs; I'm just suddenly aware of their geography. Except I've been working on a poem that compares the back to the sky. The night sky with stars. And the myths inherent in them.
I'm too scared to let my guard down. Because if you let your guard down, you can get hurt. It's like a song on repeat in my head. Someone, who I hope won't mind if I refer to him as a good friend, pointed out that I have the habit of offering a piece of personal information and then retreating, changing the subject, backing off, etc. (My words not his). He said it was endearing, but I have a feeling endearing meant maddening. But I'm reaching the point where I need to let my guard down or it's going to suffocate me. And I think I'm starting to with the aforementioned friend, but I worry too much, analyze too much, and then panic and shut down.
I'm sorry if reading this blog feels as if you are reading a catalogue of neuroses. (That's another problem. I apologize too much.) I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. For everything. For nothing. For being 22 and acting older. For being 22 and acting younger. For not knowing what color my hair is. For caring what color my hair is. For thinking about guys. For not thinking about guys. For being me. For not being me. For not knowing who "me" is. For knowing who only a part of "me" is and thinking that if you met her, you'd never speak to me again. For only letting you know a facade. For not having a good facade. For. . . For. . . For. . .
Saturday, October 15, 2005
Cat lady is one word away from cat woman
I love having crazy brilliant (or brilliant, crazy) friends who say things like this to me. This one is courtesy of Kapka. (No comment on whether she is crazy brilliant or brilliant, crazy).
For several weekends my sister L has been going up north with her fiance for wedding planning and bonding time with my mother. . . those are actually the same thing. Which leaves me alone in a very big house. I've tried a few strategies--going to movies, sampling every Provo/Orem fast food joint's fare, going to the library, bookstore, grocery store--but mostly I sit in my house, with the blinds drawn, reading/studying/grading. I'm not going to lie; it's a pretty lonely/depressing existence some weekends. And I'm not really a round-up-the-gang-for-some-good-times kind of girl. So I'll do something with friends Friday night, do the aforementioned on Saturday day, which usually runs into Saturday night, and then go to church by myself on Sunday. The past few weekends have ended with me curled up on my bed around 8:00 on Saturday, clothes and lights still on, waiting for 10:00 to come so that I don't feel like a total idiot for going to bed. Then L comes home on Sunday and I pretend like the weekend was fine.
The scary part (and Kapka's quote) comes from a discussion with my father today. L and fiance will move into the basement after they get married and while I am assuming that L will continue driving to campus with me, that's about it for regular interaction (I hope). I was hoping one of my friends would be able to move into L's room, but friend is worried about selling her contract and insulting her current roommates. Which I understand. But I've been panicked about having a roommate who can't stand me and vice versa. It's happened in the past. Anyway, conversation with father today ended with him saying that I can find a roommate when I want and I don't have to find one by January. Which does take some stress away. But I don't want to be alone. I'm beginning to be terrified of being alone. Another friend's solution was to get married in January or at least by the end of next semester too, but seeing as how I don't date, that's not going to happen. So my options are to find a roommate, find new drugs that make me think I'm not alone, or get some cats. I'm allergic to cats.
For several weekends my sister L has been going up north with her fiance for wedding planning and bonding time with my mother. . . those are actually the same thing. Which leaves me alone in a very big house. I've tried a few strategies--going to movies, sampling every Provo/Orem fast food joint's fare, going to the library, bookstore, grocery store--but mostly I sit in my house, with the blinds drawn, reading/studying/grading. I'm not going to lie; it's a pretty lonely/depressing existence some weekends. And I'm not really a round-up-the-gang-for-some-good-times kind of girl. So I'll do something with friends Friday night, do the aforementioned on Saturday day, which usually runs into Saturday night, and then go to church by myself on Sunday. The past few weekends have ended with me curled up on my bed around 8:00 on Saturday, clothes and lights still on, waiting for 10:00 to come so that I don't feel like a total idiot for going to bed. Then L comes home on Sunday and I pretend like the weekend was fine.
The scary part (and Kapka's quote) comes from a discussion with my father today. L and fiance will move into the basement after they get married and while I am assuming that L will continue driving to campus with me, that's about it for regular interaction (I hope). I was hoping one of my friends would be able to move into L's room, but friend is worried about selling her contract and insulting her current roommates. Which I understand. But I've been panicked about having a roommate who can't stand me and vice versa. It's happened in the past. Anyway, conversation with father today ended with him saying that I can find a roommate when I want and I don't have to find one by January. Which does take some stress away. But I don't want to be alone. I'm beginning to be terrified of being alone. Another friend's solution was to get married in January or at least by the end of next semester too, but seeing as how I don't date, that's not going to happen. So my options are to find a roommate, find new drugs that make me think I'm not alone, or get some cats. I'm allergic to cats.
Friday, October 14, 2005
exhaustive
I decided on the title for this post before I decided what this post would be about. Actually, I still don't know what this post will be about. The life and times of PepperGirl, possibly. Or just an itemized list of what I'm thinking right now. Hurray for multitasking.
1. I know everyone is tired of hearing about it, but the identity crisis based on hair color continues with someone asking me yesterday after class "Eg, what color is your hair anyway?" My students continued the thread today with one of them commenting, "Don't worry, Eg. We know you're a blonde at heart." Apparently I'm ambiguous at heart. . . and at the roots.
2. I brought doughnuts to my students today. Doughnuts and chocolate milke (and 1% which no one touched). Is it pretentious to spell it "doughnuts"? Oh well. I am pretentious. Just because I like the word "pretentious." And the words "quixotic" and "hyperbolic." But I was talking about doughnuts and how I brought them to my students and how if anyone asked I said it was a lesson on being on time--those who got there first got first choice of a wide variety of doughnuts--but really it was because I have good students who are attentive and do their homework and are just fun people to spend three hours with each week, plus at least 22 more hours thinking about (22 hours includes office hours, 610, grading, class prep, and those creepy dreams where I show up to class prepared but then realize that it's a massive section of Biology 100).
3. In five minutes I'm going to stop typing to go see Trapped by the Mormons with about two dozen people who I adore. And that was an example of hyperbole, class.
4. Today was another great day for the English reading series. Brian Doyle, an essayist and apparent genius, read. I was toying with the idea of not going, but JeffT convinced me and I'm glad I went. His prose was like poetry. . . do the two have to be exclusive?. . . but he also regards writing as prayer, a religious act. Which is a rarity in writers I think. I bought his book and began reading it. I'm startled every time there is a profession of faith. Startled and pleased. It also made me think about my resistance to writing prose, particularly the personal essay I still owe Gideon from spring. I never feel like myself when I'm writing in that voice. . . it's kind of a "oh, this is me toned down so I don't scare my nonexistent reader." Reading Doyle makes me wonder if I can find a balance between my polished academic writing and my confessional-narrative-don't-know-the-right-word poetry. I'm actually kind of excited to find out. Maybe I'll start by posting some things here. Warning, though, they'll most likely be about London. I heart London. I don't think I've ever hearted anything before, but it seems appropriate here.
The clock has struck 6:00. I'm off. And yes, the movie doesn't start until 7:00. But the doors open at 6:30 and I'm anal about this kind of thing. Consider it endearing.
1. I know everyone is tired of hearing about it, but the identity crisis based on hair color continues with someone asking me yesterday after class "Eg, what color is your hair anyway?" My students continued the thread today with one of them commenting, "Don't worry, Eg. We know you're a blonde at heart." Apparently I'm ambiguous at heart. . . and at the roots.
2. I brought doughnuts to my students today. Doughnuts and chocolate milke (and 1% which no one touched). Is it pretentious to spell it "doughnuts"? Oh well. I am pretentious. Just because I like the word "pretentious." And the words "quixotic" and "hyperbolic." But I was talking about doughnuts and how I brought them to my students and how if anyone asked I said it was a lesson on being on time--those who got there first got first choice of a wide variety of doughnuts--but really it was because I have good students who are attentive and do their homework and are just fun people to spend three hours with each week, plus at least 22 more hours thinking about (22 hours includes office hours, 610, grading, class prep, and those creepy dreams where I show up to class prepared but then realize that it's a massive section of Biology 100).
3. In five minutes I'm going to stop typing to go see Trapped by the Mormons with about two dozen people who I adore. And that was an example of hyperbole, class.
4. Today was another great day for the English reading series. Brian Doyle, an essayist and apparent genius, read. I was toying with the idea of not going, but JeffT convinced me and I'm glad I went. His prose was like poetry. . . do the two have to be exclusive?. . . but he also regards writing as prayer, a religious act. Which is a rarity in writers I think. I bought his book and began reading it. I'm startled every time there is a profession of faith. Startled and pleased. It also made me think about my resistance to writing prose, particularly the personal essay I still owe Gideon from spring. I never feel like myself when I'm writing in that voice. . . it's kind of a "oh, this is me toned down so I don't scare my nonexistent reader." Reading Doyle makes me wonder if I can find a balance between my polished academic writing and my confessional-narrative-don't-know-the-right-word poetry. I'm actually kind of excited to find out. Maybe I'll start by posting some things here. Warning, though, they'll most likely be about London. I heart London. I don't think I've ever hearted anything before, but it seems appropriate here.
The clock has struck 6:00. I'm off. And yes, the movie doesn't start until 7:00. But the doors open at 6:30 and I'm anal about this kind of thing. Consider it endearing.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
explicate
He would tell me
"When there is shadow,
there has to be light"
then curve and pinch his
fingers together, two fingers
in the air flashing a peace sign.
The lights out, he would
turn on a lamp
and together we'd watch the rabbit
hop away.
"When there is shadow,
there has to be light"
then curve and pinch his
fingers together, two fingers
in the air flashing a peace sign.
The lights out, he would
turn on a lamp
and together we'd watch the rabbit
hop away.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
"Serious" writer
Tonight was an inscape night, which requires me to make a fool of myself for at least fifteen minutes as we talk about general information. Tonight's agenda was as follows:
1. Where the hell is Mary?
2. Submission forms
3. Party next week
4. Repeat everything I just said for the dozen people who came in late, including Mary.
5. Brainstorm some ideas for advertising
We hit a snag with #5. No one had any ideas. I was pretty tired and pretty annoyed that no one wanted to offer any ideas. . . or even say something. Say anything. Say Anything. John Cusack. "I gave her my heart and she gave me a. . ." Sorry. Back on task.
Someone mentioned funny random sayings, like "Life is futile." But no one was feeling random. So I had the staff do a rushwrite on their life philosophies. I got some pretty funny/random stuff. But one guy didn't want to do it. He was being ornery about it. And not just silently refusing. No, he was vocalizing how ridiculous it all was.
Later, after I came up with some posters from the rushwrites and had printed them to the room where OrneryGuy was working, I overheard him commenting on the posters. "Creative writers are too silly. They need to be serious." Maybe he was just making a general statement, but he's had this attitude ever since he joined staff. He doesn't like the way we run things; he doesn't like the way I run things. He has this holier-than-eg attitude--his ideas are much better, his poetry is much more profound, he can't comment on that because he's read the poem before.
Okay, looking at that maybe I'm overreacting. But it's hard enough for me to take charge of my peers and have things run smoothly without OrneryGuy challenging me at every turn. It makes me miss HMP, who would flip you off but then actually contribute. Or Matt, my favorite inscaper ever, who was flat out smarter than I was, but who was still respectful.
And I am a "serious" writer. Maybe none of it shows up here. Maybe I act a little bit crazy during inscape. Maybe I do eat too much candy. But at least I share.
AND if creative writers were all like OrneryGuy, we'd be a dying breed. Because we'd go around depressing everybody. And no one would marry us. And we can't marry each other because. . . why can't we marry each other? Maybe we should. Who wants dibs on OrneryGuy?
1. Where the hell is Mary?
2. Submission forms
3. Party next week
4. Repeat everything I just said for the dozen people who came in late, including Mary.
5. Brainstorm some ideas for advertising
We hit a snag with #5. No one had any ideas. I was pretty tired and pretty annoyed that no one wanted to offer any ideas. . . or even say something. Say anything. Say Anything. John Cusack. "I gave her my heart and she gave me a. . ." Sorry. Back on task.
Someone mentioned funny random sayings, like "Life is futile." But no one was feeling random. So I had the staff do a rushwrite on their life philosophies. I got some pretty funny/random stuff. But one guy didn't want to do it. He was being ornery about it. And not just silently refusing. No, he was vocalizing how ridiculous it all was.
Later, after I came up with some posters from the rushwrites and had printed them to the room where OrneryGuy was working, I overheard him commenting on the posters. "Creative writers are too silly. They need to be serious." Maybe he was just making a general statement, but he's had this attitude ever since he joined staff. He doesn't like the way we run things; he doesn't like the way I run things. He has this holier-than-eg attitude--his ideas are much better, his poetry is much more profound, he can't comment on that because he's read the poem before.
Okay, looking at that maybe I'm overreacting. But it's hard enough for me to take charge of my peers and have things run smoothly without OrneryGuy challenging me at every turn. It makes me miss HMP, who would flip you off but then actually contribute. Or Matt, my favorite inscaper ever, who was flat out smarter than I was, but who was still respectful.
And I am a "serious" writer. Maybe none of it shows up here. Maybe I act a little bit crazy during inscape. Maybe I do eat too much candy. But at least I share.
AND if creative writers were all like OrneryGuy, we'd be a dying breed. Because we'd go around depressing everybody. And no one would marry us. And we can't marry each other because. . . why can't we marry each other? Maybe we should. Who wants dibs on OrneryGuy?
All writed out: DC Review
I'd like to write something really beautiful and profound here, but I'm all writed out at the moment. I just wrote a Divine Comedy review. I'm bracing myself for the feedback at divinecomedy.net, but I thought I'd share it with you. Feel free to agree or disagree. Or just apathy. Apathy is good.
Disclaimer: I wrote this before reading everyone else’s comments, so my apologies if I overlap/step on toes/whatever.
Divine Comedy review
The beginning of a new school year means new Divine Comedy members, but this year it seemed like almost an entire new cast, with only four returning cast members—and one of those, Taylor, has less than a year’s credit to her name. It was with nervous anticipation—okay, actually wild and crazy excitement—that the crowds waited outside 151 TNRB on October 7 and 8, 2005 to see Divine Comedy: The Next Generation.
For those of us who have followed DC through the years, we weren’t disappointed. DC offered up a brilliant show with a cast to match. Perhaps the best surprises of the night were Mary and Taylor, two returning cast members who have matured as performers. Both had their scene-stealing moments: Mary with her “Communist Rhetoric” and Taylor as Charly in “Charly and the Chocolate Factory.”
Each of the new cast members brought their own style and talent to the show, creating a new dynamic for DC. It was refreshing to see the “straight man” role that was often Peyton’s, being filled by Hillary. That being said, I would like to see Hillary a bit—what’s the word?—louder at times. Trevor seems to have a darker sensibility that may or may not play well for date-happy DC goers. Jono was entertaining to watch in “Bourne EFY” and as one half of the Oompa-Loompa singing sensation. Paul’s “Spiritual Crocodile Hunters” was a good idea, but I would have liked to see the sketch taken a step further—I’m also excited to see what else Paul can do on stage. Matt is another new member I’d like to see take on more of a central role in some sketches—he was a strong, consistent supporting member, but other than his well-delivered “Creamery Can” solo, didn’t seem to be used as much. Lisa had a lot of energy the whole night, which was impressive since I was at the 10:00 on Friday—I wonder if she was able to keep it up through the Saturday shows. Lisa, don’t burn out on us. It’s okay to take it down a notch sometimes. Oh, and “Boys Will Do It for You” was stuck in my head all weekend. I hope we get an encore performance in December’s show.
I’ve been saving Will and Joel as a nice little segue into talking about the actual sketches. “Freshman in the Night” was a great opener, reminiscent of “I Will Be Your Missionary,” with Will ready to romance all of BYU and then some. Will is great in these roles. . . but I’ve seen him do more (remember “Pantalones”?). I hope we get to see how versatile Will is in comedic acting, rather than just the ultimate Latin lover.
One thought about “Freshman in the Night”: I took issue with one line—“I was just ten feet away, stalking your girlfriend like she was prey.” I know this is an easy laugh at BYU, but should it be? RMs after freshman is a common theme of DC sketches, but “stalking like prey” isn’t something we should be laughing at. It’s not that I’m thinking “Oh, stalking is bad.” It’s the mentality. While I think DC can provide strong social commentary, I don’t think this song succeeded. It was actually kind of creepy.
The easiest thing to compliment Joel on would be his Willy Wonka—which was brilliant. But he was a strong performer throughout the show, with my favorite being “And?” and the bus stop sketch. It’s nice to see such a strong performer in a supporting role, and providing just enough to the sketch to really make Mary and Will’s performance entertaining.
I’m going to skip over “Spiritual Crocodile Hunters” (see comments on Paul) and “Western Family Brand” (which I didn’t find that funny except for the nod to West Side Story), and quickly look at “Conference Protestors.” This was hilarious. Hillary was excellent, and the sketch went just far enough without crossing the line. I particularly enjoyed the “I’m not touching you” conclusion. This is what I meant when I said DC can provide strong and important social commentary.
I enjoyed “So You Think You Can Street Fight”—particularly the judge’s comments and the cat fight. Lisa was excellent as the host. Paul and the dog were funny and just unnerving enough. This was one of a few sketches, however, that seemed to missing a punchline. I almost wish the lights had gone down on Will’s final pose—an image that will never leave my mind. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.
“Elementary, My Dear Mr. Teacherson” was classic. I’m hoping this is a character we’ll get to see Trevor play again. And Will as a crybaby—Matt escorting him out—were they holding hands? Either way, classic. I already said that.
I’m looking at the list and realizing I still have a ways to go and I doubt anyone is still with this review. No matter. “Signs,” “BYU Buildings,” and “Communist Rhetoric” were some of my favorite Divine Comedy sketches ever. I think everyone knows why, but if you’d like me to explicate, say “aye.” “Road Trip” and “Sweet Pants” were both good strong, entertaining offerings (loved the uPod). “Mr. Nintendo”. . . well, I’m not a video game enthusiast. My sister’s boyfriend had to explain that one to me. But it did seem to go too far with the stereotype.
The parody was well done. Very well done. Perhaps one of my favorite to date. I already acknowledged that Joel as Wonka was brilliant, but it wasn’t just that. The sketch was well written and integrated BYU culture with the mood and themes of the movie. I was glad to see some of the elements of “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory” pulled in as well. And when Mary and Jono came out in full-Oompa Loompa attire—I have never laughed so hard. Ever. In my life.
All in all, an excellent show. I’m looking forward to November. Thank you, Divine Comedy.
Disclaimer: I wrote this before reading everyone else’s comments, so my apologies if I overlap/step on toes/whatever.
Divine Comedy review
The beginning of a new school year means new Divine Comedy members, but this year it seemed like almost an entire new cast, with only four returning cast members—and one of those, Taylor, has less than a year’s credit to her name. It was with nervous anticipation—okay, actually wild and crazy excitement—that the crowds waited outside 151 TNRB on October 7 and 8, 2005 to see Divine Comedy: The Next Generation.
For those of us who have followed DC through the years, we weren’t disappointed. DC offered up a brilliant show with a cast to match. Perhaps the best surprises of the night were Mary and Taylor, two returning cast members who have matured as performers. Both had their scene-stealing moments: Mary with her “Communist Rhetoric” and Taylor as Charly in “Charly and the Chocolate Factory.”
Each of the new cast members brought their own style and talent to the show, creating a new dynamic for DC. It was refreshing to see the “straight man” role that was often Peyton’s, being filled by Hillary. That being said, I would like to see Hillary a bit—what’s the word?—louder at times. Trevor seems to have a darker sensibility that may or may not play well for date-happy DC goers. Jono was entertaining to watch in “Bourne EFY” and as one half of the Oompa-Loompa singing sensation. Paul’s “Spiritual Crocodile Hunters” was a good idea, but I would have liked to see the sketch taken a step further—I’m also excited to see what else Paul can do on stage. Matt is another new member I’d like to see take on more of a central role in some sketches—he was a strong, consistent supporting member, but other than his well-delivered “Creamery Can” solo, didn’t seem to be used as much. Lisa had a lot of energy the whole night, which was impressive since I was at the 10:00 on Friday—I wonder if she was able to keep it up through the Saturday shows. Lisa, don’t burn out on us. It’s okay to take it down a notch sometimes. Oh, and “Boys Will Do It for You” was stuck in my head all weekend. I hope we get an encore performance in December’s show.
I’ve been saving Will and Joel as a nice little segue into talking about the actual sketches. “Freshman in the Night” was a great opener, reminiscent of “I Will Be Your Missionary,” with Will ready to romance all of BYU and then some. Will is great in these roles. . . but I’ve seen him do more (remember “Pantalones”?). I hope we get to see how versatile Will is in comedic acting, rather than just the ultimate Latin lover.
One thought about “Freshman in the Night”: I took issue with one line—“I was just ten feet away, stalking your girlfriend like she was prey.” I know this is an easy laugh at BYU, but should it be? RMs after freshman is a common theme of DC sketches, but “stalking like prey” isn’t something we should be laughing at. It’s not that I’m thinking “Oh, stalking is bad.” It’s the mentality. While I think DC can provide strong social commentary, I don’t think this song succeeded. It was actually kind of creepy.
The easiest thing to compliment Joel on would be his Willy Wonka—which was brilliant. But he was a strong performer throughout the show, with my favorite being “And?” and the bus stop sketch. It’s nice to see such a strong performer in a supporting role, and providing just enough to the sketch to really make Mary and Will’s performance entertaining.
I’m going to skip over “Spiritual Crocodile Hunters” (see comments on Paul) and “Western Family Brand” (which I didn’t find that funny except for the nod to West Side Story), and quickly look at “Conference Protestors.” This was hilarious. Hillary was excellent, and the sketch went just far enough without crossing the line. I particularly enjoyed the “I’m not touching you” conclusion. This is what I meant when I said DC can provide strong and important social commentary.
I enjoyed “So You Think You Can Street Fight”—particularly the judge’s comments and the cat fight. Lisa was excellent as the host. Paul and the dog were funny and just unnerving enough. This was one of a few sketches, however, that seemed to missing a punchline. I almost wish the lights had gone down on Will’s final pose—an image that will never leave my mind. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.
“Elementary, My Dear Mr. Teacherson” was classic. I’m hoping this is a character we’ll get to see Trevor play again. And Will as a crybaby—Matt escorting him out—were they holding hands? Either way, classic. I already said that.
I’m looking at the list and realizing I still have a ways to go and I doubt anyone is still with this review. No matter. “Signs,” “BYU Buildings,” and “Communist Rhetoric” were some of my favorite Divine Comedy sketches ever. I think everyone knows why, but if you’d like me to explicate, say “aye.” “Road Trip” and “Sweet Pants” were both good strong, entertaining offerings (loved the uPod). “Mr. Nintendo”. . . well, I’m not a video game enthusiast. My sister’s boyfriend had to explain that one to me. But it did seem to go too far with the stereotype.
The parody was well done. Very well done. Perhaps one of my favorite to date. I already acknowledged that Joel as Wonka was brilliant, but it wasn’t just that. The sketch was well written and integrated BYU culture with the mood and themes of the movie. I was glad to see some of the elements of “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory” pulled in as well. And when Mary and Jono came out in full-Oompa Loompa attire—I have never laughed so hard. Ever. In my life.
All in all, an excellent show. I’m looking forward to November. Thank you, Divine Comedy.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
I found fatal flaw in the logic of love
Good morning everyone. Just as a warning, I'm on heavy pain medication. But, as my friend says, "It's fun to see eg a little loopy." Make that a lot.
I didn't sleep last night, courtesy of my bad shoulder. You didn't know I had a bad shoulder, did you? It's one that mouths off a lot and is basically cranky all the time. Last night it got in a fight with my back, which spread to my arms and legs. After a night of scrambling to find positions that would shut at least a few of my body parts, I admitted defeat and got up, got ready.
Bad Shoulder kept it up this morning as I taught my class, so I finally decided to go home and medicate. The problem is, said medication makes me 1) loopy and 2) sleepy. So I am now even more out of it that usual. Which means I won't make my point very well at all.
The point, or point of conversation if you will, is transparency. How much should you relate to a person you are romantically involved with? How much should be obvious to you? And is it a bad thing if you have to do some work to get to a point of equality in a relationship?
End thought.
I didn't sleep last night, courtesy of my bad shoulder. You didn't know I had a bad shoulder, did you? It's one that mouths off a lot and is basically cranky all the time. Last night it got in a fight with my back, which spread to my arms and legs. After a night of scrambling to find positions that would shut at least a few of my body parts, I admitted defeat and got up, got ready.
Bad Shoulder kept it up this morning as I taught my class, so I finally decided to go home and medicate. The problem is, said medication makes me 1) loopy and 2) sleepy. So I am now even more out of it that usual. Which means I won't make my point very well at all.
The point, or point of conversation if you will, is transparency. How much should you relate to a person you are romantically involved with? How much should be obvious to you? And is it a bad thing if you have to do some work to get to a point of equality in a relationship?
End thought.
Gone for Good
I found a fatal flaw in the logic of love.
Hi friends. I'm assuming that you are all my friends because you are here and you care about my life and existence and stuff. Or you just randomly wound up here. In which case, there are no naked women here. Just keep pressing that "next blog" button.
I've had a rollercoaster day. . . if rollercoasters just stayed down all of the time. No details. I tried that already and it became a diatribe with a language problem many times over. But I tried to solve it. I tried to solve it by going to Vermillion Skies to get a Dr. Pepper creamosa. And no, I don't know exactly what that is. A drink with Dr. Pepper and whipped topping and. . . something. Ice.
Anyway, I went there after picking up a video for tomorrow's class and Red (the girl who owns/runs the place) told me that they're closing down. Friday will be their last day. The place flooded and the rent is too high and. . . something.
So I stood there, thinking about HMP and K and Kapka and me sitting in uncomfortable chairs at a wobbly table, even though there were couches for the taking, because it was more academic or something. Getting up to point out details in the artwork, sitting back down to read a poem. HMP starting a tab. K using his tab. The damn gummy worms. And I kept wishing that it was last year all over again. I know I romanticize it too much. Life was a downhill rollercoaster then too. But still, there was something there. At the very least there was something in me that's gone now. I feel empty. Empty and alone.
I snapped out of my thoughts and ordered my Dr. Pepper creamosa. The soda machine was down--no Dr. Pepper. She suggested a hazlenut instead. I had this vague memory tugging the back of my mind. . . he tried it. . . I don't think he liked it.
I got the hazlenut. It's not bad.
And I left a tip.
Hi friends. I'm assuming that you are all my friends because you are here and you care about my life and existence and stuff. Or you just randomly wound up here. In which case, there are no naked women here. Just keep pressing that "next blog" button.
I've had a rollercoaster day. . . if rollercoasters just stayed down all of the time. No details. I tried that already and it became a diatribe with a language problem many times over. But I tried to solve it. I tried to solve it by going to Vermillion Skies to get a Dr. Pepper creamosa. And no, I don't know exactly what that is. A drink with Dr. Pepper and whipped topping and. . . something. Ice.
Anyway, I went there after picking up a video for tomorrow's class and Red (the girl who owns/runs the place) told me that they're closing down. Friday will be their last day. The place flooded and the rent is too high and. . . something.
So I stood there, thinking about HMP and K and Kapka and me sitting in uncomfortable chairs at a wobbly table, even though there were couches for the taking, because it was more academic or something. Getting up to point out details in the artwork, sitting back down to read a poem. HMP starting a tab. K using his tab. The damn gummy worms. And I kept wishing that it was last year all over again. I know I romanticize it too much. Life was a downhill rollercoaster then too. But still, there was something there. At the very least there was something in me that's gone now. I feel empty. Empty and alone.
I snapped out of my thoughts and ordered my Dr. Pepper creamosa. The soda machine was down--no Dr. Pepper. She suggested a hazlenut instead. I had this vague memory tugging the back of my mind. . . he tried it. . . I don't think he liked it.
I got the hazlenut. It's not bad.
And I left a tip.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Objectify Me, or Would You Like Fries with That?
The ward menu came out today. And when I say "menu," I mean "menu." In addition to the title actually being "Ward Menu," those clever souls on the Welcoming Committee, who are apparently in charge of putting it together, went through and assigned each ward member a menu item. They took it a step farther by making each guy in the ward an entree or side dish and each girl a dessert. As if the dating mentality wasn't off-putting enough. Most men are now some meat dish, while the girls range from "creme brulee" to "popsicle." (Except for my sister and me. We somehow lucked out with salt and pepper, respectively.) The worst part is this gut feeling that the bishop approved the damn thing.
I just feel really bad for the guy who will forever be known as "Spam."
I just feel really bad for the guy who will forever be known as "Spam."
Orange piggy bank
Not that there's any money in it.
I'm not sure why I'm writing again. Probably just to clear my mind before I crash for the night, but I keep having this thought and I'm not sure if I want opinions or validations or someone to just tell me to shut up. Probably the last option's a good idea.
I've always maintained that I don't want someone who is on the same career track I'm on. Those of you thinking "professor, editor, writer, etc." might assume that this is because I won't be making any money. I actually don't care about the money; I care about the competition. Let me rephrase that: I cared about the competition.
Lately, though, I've realized that those roles I just listed, while not completely me, are a big part of me. When I talk to people, I want to talk about what I'm passionate about, and I'm passionate about poetry, teaching, etc. There are other passions, but I'm starting to wonder if I could date someone who was on the other side of the interest spectrum, let alone marry them.
Just FYI, my thought process leading up to this excess of blogging was realizing that many of my literary-minded friends have left me or will be leaving me and wondering how I can live without them and their constant input into my far too solitary existence.
I'm not sure why I'm writing again. Probably just to clear my mind before I crash for the night, but I keep having this thought and I'm not sure if I want opinions or validations or someone to just tell me to shut up. Probably the last option's a good idea.
I've always maintained that I don't want someone who is on the same career track I'm on. Those of you thinking "professor, editor, writer, etc." might assume that this is because I won't be making any money. I actually don't care about the money; I care about the competition. Let me rephrase that: I cared about the competition.
Lately, though, I've realized that those roles I just listed, while not completely me, are a big part of me. When I talk to people, I want to talk about what I'm passionate about, and I'm passionate about poetry, teaching, etc. There are other passions, but I'm starting to wonder if I could date someone who was on the other side of the interest spectrum, let alone marry them.
Just FYI, my thought process leading up to this excess of blogging was realizing that many of my literary-minded friends have left me or will be leaving me and wondering how I can live without them and their constant input into my far too solitary existence.
Saturday, October 08, 2005
In the eye of the beholder
I've been listening to Ani Difranco's "Not a Pretty Girl" on repeat. When the song isn't actually playing, it's running through my head.
I'll spare you the rest of the song. If you want the rest, google it.
So why am I intently listening to a song my friend would place squarely in the center of "Angry Girl Music of the Indie-Rock Persuasion" (name the movie)? Some comments over the past few weeks have left me reeling, questioning myself, etc., and I've been trying to find an appropriate way to deal with them, now that movies and eating are out (although I have tried both, Breakfast Club and Chinese food to be specific). "Not a Pretty Girl" returns me to freshman year, but it also seems an accurate theme song right now (the only better one is "Celibate Life" by the Shins).
After the conversation that broke editorgirl's sanity yesterday, I spent most of the day bouncing back and forth between feeling worthless and downright sexy. By the end of the evening (which came at 3:15 a.m.), I was tired, confused, but leaning toward sexy. I think I'll stay there, if you don't mind.
That was a very long and not very coherent intro to what I wanted to post about, but I'm going to keep it and keep typing. Today has prompted more thinking on the subject. (Did I tell you what the subject was? Explanation: sitting in on a conversation about what makes women beautiful and then several comments directed towards my physical appearance. Everyone up to speed? Good.) And I've decided something: I'm beautiful. And what's more, I'm going to tell you why.
1. Physically (since most discussion of beauty tends to begin on this level), I like my eyes (my favorite feature), my lips (I once asked a friend for a compliment--it was one of those days--and his response was "Your have lips that would be nice to kiss." And I do.), my hair, my height, and yes, my body. I know it's pudgy in some places, but I'm okay with that. It does what it needs to do. And someday I just know that the Renaissance ideal of beauty will replace our mentality of stick-thin, tiny women being beautiful. And even if that doesn't happen, who cares?
2. Maybe I come across as the depressed, quiet, shy, whatever girl when first met. But give it some time. I am entertaining, witty, cultured, etc.
3. I am not a domestic goddess. I never will be. But I can cook, bake, and I am a damn fine hostess.
4. While on the subject of godesses, I am an academic goddess. At least in my field.
5. I am a loyal friend. Try me.
Apparently I have a healthy self-image. But I'm not going to apologize tonight. Sometimes you just have to remind yourself that you are a pretty amazing person. And I am.
I am not a pretty girl
that is not what I do.
I ain't no damsel in distress
And I don't need to be rescued.
So put me down, punk.
Wouldn't you prefer a maiden fair?
Isn't there a kitten
stuck up a tree somewhere?
I am not an angry girl
but it seems like I've got everyone fooled.
I'll spare you the rest of the song. If you want the rest, google it.
So why am I intently listening to a song my friend would place squarely in the center of "Angry Girl Music of the Indie-Rock Persuasion" (name the movie)? Some comments over the past few weeks have left me reeling, questioning myself, etc., and I've been trying to find an appropriate way to deal with them, now that movies and eating are out (although I have tried both, Breakfast Club and Chinese food to be specific). "Not a Pretty Girl" returns me to freshman year, but it also seems an accurate theme song right now (the only better one is "Celibate Life" by the Shins).
After the conversation that broke editorgirl's sanity yesterday, I spent most of the day bouncing back and forth between feeling worthless and downright sexy. By the end of the evening (which came at 3:15 a.m.), I was tired, confused, but leaning toward sexy. I think I'll stay there, if you don't mind.
That was a very long and not very coherent intro to what I wanted to post about, but I'm going to keep it and keep typing. Today has prompted more thinking on the subject. (Did I tell you what the subject was? Explanation: sitting in on a conversation about what makes women beautiful and then several comments directed towards my physical appearance. Everyone up to speed? Good.) And I've decided something: I'm beautiful. And what's more, I'm going to tell you why.
1. Physically (since most discussion of beauty tends to begin on this level), I like my eyes (my favorite feature), my lips (I once asked a friend for a compliment--it was one of those days--and his response was "Your have lips that would be nice to kiss." And I do.), my hair, my height, and yes, my body. I know it's pudgy in some places, but I'm okay with that. It does what it needs to do. And someday I just know that the Renaissance ideal of beauty will replace our mentality of stick-thin, tiny women being beautiful. And even if that doesn't happen, who cares?
2. Maybe I come across as the depressed, quiet, shy, whatever girl when first met. But give it some time. I am entertaining, witty, cultured, etc.
3. I am not a domestic goddess. I never will be. But I can cook, bake, and I am a damn fine hostess.
4. While on the subject of godesses, I am an academic goddess. At least in my field.
5. I am a loyal friend. Try me.
Apparently I have a healthy self-image. But I'm not going to apologize tonight. Sometimes you just have to remind yourself that you are a pretty amazing person. And I am.
Once, twice, three times a bridesmaid
I have been a bridesmaid exactly two-and-a-half times.
1. August 2002. My cousin had four bridesmaids: the groom's sister, two high school friends, and me. We were each told to find a dress in one of her colors, lavendar or light blue. After some searching, I found a dress that I liked well enough to shell out the money for. I had it on hold at the store, pending my mother's approval, when I talked to my aunt, the mother of the bride. She had been at the same store in a different city, found the same dress, and bought it. For herself. At least I didn't have to deal with the store's no return policy.
2. August 2002, a few weeks later. My [college] best friend's wedding, eight bridesmaids. Not even going to try to list off the relations. Middle of August, outdoors, summer, and we were all in floor-length, three-quarter-sleeved deep red dresses. I referred to it as the blood bath. It was more that a little overdramatic.
1/2. December 2003. My [high school] best friend's wedding. This one only counts as a half because I didn't know I was a bridesmaid. I went to the dinner the night before in SLC, but then I had to work the next day. I arrived at the reception, wearing a button-down shirt and khakis, only to be met by a slightly frantic sister-of-the-bride asking where I had been all day. When I told her I had had to work, she nodded and said, "Well, your bouquet is over there and we'll just have to get you into some pictures later." My friend had forgotten to mention that I was part of the wedding party.
So thus far I have narrowly avoided that classic saying, "Three times a bridesmaid, never a bride." Now I'm wondering if it applies if you manage to go over. Yep, that's right. This winter I get to prance around in a dress and high heels for bridesmaid appearance #3. . . and-a-half. The bride is my 19-year-old sister. Oy.
1. August 2002. My cousin had four bridesmaids: the groom's sister, two high school friends, and me. We were each told to find a dress in one of her colors, lavendar or light blue. After some searching, I found a dress that I liked well enough to shell out the money for. I had it on hold at the store, pending my mother's approval, when I talked to my aunt, the mother of the bride. She had been at the same store in a different city, found the same dress, and bought it. For herself. At least I didn't have to deal with the store's no return policy.
2. August 2002, a few weeks later. My [college] best friend's wedding, eight bridesmaids. Not even going to try to list off the relations. Middle of August, outdoors, summer, and we were all in floor-length, three-quarter-sleeved deep red dresses. I referred to it as the blood bath. It was more that a little overdramatic.
1/2. December 2003. My [high school] best friend's wedding. This one only counts as a half because I didn't know I was a bridesmaid. I went to the dinner the night before in SLC, but then I had to work the next day. I arrived at the reception, wearing a button-down shirt and khakis, only to be met by a slightly frantic sister-of-the-bride asking where I had been all day. When I told her I had had to work, she nodded and said, "Well, your bouquet is over there and we'll just have to get you into some pictures later." My friend had forgotten to mention that I was part of the wedding party.
So thus far I have narrowly avoided that classic saying, "Three times a bridesmaid, never a bride." Now I'm wondering if it applies if you manage to go over. Yep, that's right. This winter I get to prance around in a dress and high heels for bridesmaid appearance #3. . . and-a-half. The bride is my 19-year-old sister. Oy.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Because it must be said
This was going to be titled "Ode to A. Allen," but poetry will not be attempted. But it must be said that Allen is one amazing man. Irritating at times, yes, but amazing is the more accurate word. I suppose you could substitute "brilliant," but I'm still going with amazing. It seems to cover more territory, and not just in syllables.
I was going to give a specific list, but I'll just say this: Amazing. Amazing poetry. Amazing attitude. Amazing mindset, lifestyle, hair, smile, sense of humor, sense of self, sense of when to stop using sense. Without him, there would be no ORCA. There would be no drive. And there would be no one to throw his hat off the top of the JFSB to me. Just wish I could have caught it. (For the record, it was the wind's fault.)
I was going to give a specific list, but I'll just say this: Amazing. Amazing poetry. Amazing attitude. Amazing mindset, lifestyle, hair, smile, sense of humor, sense of self, sense of when to stop using sense. Without him, there would be no ORCA. There would be no drive. And there would be no one to throw his hat off the top of the JFSB to me. Just wish I could have caught it. (For the record, it was the wind's fault.)
Thursday, October 06, 2005
I've got my happy face on
I decided that after all the angsty posts, I should write something happy.
I'm thinking.
Actually, I'm thinking that happy is not a word that readily applies to me, ever. Content, yes. Intense, passionate, articulate. . . for me, all these things equate to my somewhat warped idea of happiness.
And now, things that have made me content/intense/passionate/articulate/etc. today:
1. Excellent class today. I used multiple versions of "Rainbow Connection" (Kermit the Frog and Me First and the Gimmee Gimmees), "Such Great Heights" (Postal Service and Iron&Wine), and "Baby One More Time" (Fountains of Wayne, Bowling for Soup, and Chad Michael Murray) to discuss audience and message and the good ol' rhetorical triangle.
2. Talked with Anna. Our offices are right next to each other and we have the same office hour and since none of our students ever come to our office hours, we chat. Oh do we chat. Okay, mostly I talk and Anna kindly listens.
3. Plicka found my blog. This blog. Yes, the great Plicka has found and read my blog. He now knows just how angsty I am. I'm oddly okay with this. And now I'm going to set up a link to his. Ha!
4. I just used an exclamation point.
5. I spent two hours yesterday talking to Hickman about my thesis. I actually feel like I have a valid direction. I then spent one hour yesterday in the library hunting down books on aestheticism. You heard me. Aestheticism. (Good job for K's blog. Wouldn't know how to spell the word without her.) And then, when I was in class but not paying attention, exactly what I want to focus on came into, well, focus. And the best part is, I know I can do it. And it will be brilliant.
6. Yesterday, when talking to the amazing Hickman (last name, not a nickname), another professor dropped in. . . to sing. He just busted out with some Billy Joel-esque song. It was amazing. And then when he paused for breath, Hickman asked him how he was. "I'm cute and cuddly," he replied, then geared up for the finale. I haven't laughed that hard since. . .
7. Just read Tolkien Boy's latest blog to sister. She actually told her boyfriend that she had to hang up because she was so into the blog.
8. Still reeling (in a good sense) from the satisfaction of having direction. Am going to go explore the subject on JSTOR.
9. Listening to my lastest playlist: emotional angst. Two hours of relationship-based music. Am working to organize it and then distribute to all my friends-in-angst. Because I like you. (Yeah, I like you. And I feel so Bohemian like you. Come on, name the band.)
I'm thinking.
Actually, I'm thinking that happy is not a word that readily applies to me, ever. Content, yes. Intense, passionate, articulate. . . for me, all these things equate to my somewhat warped idea of happiness.
And now, things that have made me content/intense/passionate/articulate/etc. today:
1. Excellent class today. I used multiple versions of "Rainbow Connection" (Kermit the Frog and Me First and the Gimmee Gimmees), "Such Great Heights" (Postal Service and Iron&Wine), and "Baby One More Time" (Fountains of Wayne, Bowling for Soup, and Chad Michael Murray) to discuss audience and message and the good ol' rhetorical triangle.
2. Talked with Anna. Our offices are right next to each other and we have the same office hour and since none of our students ever come to our office hours, we chat. Oh do we chat. Okay, mostly I talk and Anna kindly listens.
3. Plicka found my blog. This blog. Yes, the great Plicka has found and read my blog. He now knows just how angsty I am. I'm oddly okay with this. And now I'm going to set up a link to his. Ha!
4. I just used an exclamation point.
5. I spent two hours yesterday talking to Hickman about my thesis. I actually feel like I have a valid direction. I then spent one hour yesterday in the library hunting down books on aestheticism. You heard me. Aestheticism. (Good job for K's blog. Wouldn't know how to spell the word without her.) And then, when I was in class but not paying attention, exactly what I want to focus on came into, well, focus. And the best part is, I know I can do it. And it will be brilliant.
6. Yesterday, when talking to the amazing Hickman (last name, not a nickname), another professor dropped in. . . to sing. He just busted out with some Billy Joel-esque song. It was amazing. And then when he paused for breath, Hickman asked him how he was. "I'm cute and cuddly," he replied, then geared up for the finale. I haven't laughed that hard since. . .
7. Just read Tolkien Boy's latest blog to sister. She actually told her boyfriend that she had to hang up because she was so into the blog.
8. Still reeling (in a good sense) from the satisfaction of having direction. Am going to go explore the subject on JSTOR.
9. Listening to my lastest playlist: emotional angst. Two hours of relationship-based music. Am working to organize it and then distribute to all my friends-in-angst. Because I like you. (Yeah, I like you. And I feel so Bohemian like you. Come on, name the band.)
Too picky to be specific
I've been wanting to write since about 5:00 this afternoon, but I haven't let myself. Now I realize that I'd better write or I'll never sleep.
I had a brilliant day until about 4:30 when my poetry workshop class started. For some reason I can't seem to function in there. Maybe it's because I'm too bitchy for the environment. Maybe it's because I'm clinging to all my silly student-poet beliefs. Maybe I just don't belong there. I always come away frustrated. Very frustrated. More with myself than with the class.
So after a disastrous reading of my ballad (which I had to write), I was spinning into a pretty heavy anxiety attack. One of my good friends was sitting next to me. I don't know why he did what he did, but he reached out and took my hand. For some reason, that calmed me down to the point that I could stop the attack from getting any worse.
I know that touch was about friendship. . . don't worry, friend, I'm not going to complicate things by falling in love with you. . . but it made me realize how much I miss human touch. I'm not a touchy person--I actually react rather violently if I'm touched without some prior indication (e.g., someone holding their arms out for a hug). No one has held me since. . . well, I was 19 and it was Christmas.
I recently had a conversation with a friend about "what I want" as far as a relationship goes right now. I was sufficiently vague and selfish, with the justification that "I'm too picky to be specific." Which is true. But if you asked me to give you the list right now. . . I'd still be too picky to be specific, but right now I just want someone to hold me.
I had a brilliant day until about 4:30 when my poetry workshop class started. For some reason I can't seem to function in there. Maybe it's because I'm too bitchy for the environment. Maybe it's because I'm clinging to all my silly student-poet beliefs. Maybe I just don't belong there. I always come away frustrated. Very frustrated. More with myself than with the class.
So after a disastrous reading of my ballad (which I had to write), I was spinning into a pretty heavy anxiety attack. One of my good friends was sitting next to me. I don't know why he did what he did, but he reached out and took my hand. For some reason, that calmed me down to the point that I could stop the attack from getting any worse.
I know that touch was about friendship. . . don't worry, friend, I'm not going to complicate things by falling in love with you. . . but it made me realize how much I miss human touch. I'm not a touchy person--I actually react rather violently if I'm touched without some prior indication (e.g., someone holding their arms out for a hug). No one has held me since. . . well, I was 19 and it was Christmas.
I recently had a conversation with a friend about "what I want" as far as a relationship goes right now. I was sufficiently vague and selfish, with the justification that "I'm too picky to be specific." Which is true. But if you asked me to give you the list right now. . . I'd still be too picky to be specific, but right now I just want someone to hold me.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
A is for Avoidance
I've had a lot of words and ideas applied to me since, well, forever. But avoidance was a new one yesterday. I've been mulling it over in my little mind since then, identifying and analyzing where and when and how I avoid things. Over 24 hours (I didn't sleep much last night) has resulted in the following conclusion: hair. Or, as it often presents itself in my life, Hair.
Growing up I had really long, really blonde hair. If you want to see pictures, feel free to stop by. They're not hard to find. Everyone loved my hair: long, blonde, thick, curled well, etc. For as long as I can remember, I've heard about how wonderful my hair was. I even remember writing up a "Things I Like About Myself" poster in second grade that was primarily about my hair.
My boyfriends loved my hair too. I think if I concentrate hard enough, I can remember a hand resting between my shoulder blades, playing with the ends of my hair. Doesn't matter who the hand is connected to, the hair is the important thing. Somehow my hair got caught up in my idea of what was beautiful about myself.
So why did I cut my hair? I got burned. I'm still smoking from it. The day before I cut my hair short, it was my best friend's wedding--I was one of eight bridesmaids. Somehow during the day I earned the name "Bridesmaid Barbie" because of my hair. That was annoying, but I snapped when ex-boyfriend showed up with his new girlfriend and dragged up everything I had buried in the past six months. I didn't want to feel that way ever again--still don't--so I cut my hair. The first time it was to my shoulders and I keep cutting it, shorter and shorter. My ideal cut would be a supershort pixie, but I don't think my face can take it. And I had a TA who had shaved her head for a part in a play. Thought about that too.
I'm not planning on growing my hair out, but I've started wondering if my hair is just the physical manifestation of whatever I'm avoiding that has kept me from really investing in guys (despite my guy-crazy tendencies) and kept guys from liking me.
If this sounds like an online pity party for one, well, it just might be. My apologies if you suddenly feel the need for a hair cut.
Growing up I had really long, really blonde hair. If you want to see pictures, feel free to stop by. They're not hard to find. Everyone loved my hair: long, blonde, thick, curled well, etc. For as long as I can remember, I've heard about how wonderful my hair was. I even remember writing up a "Things I Like About Myself" poster in second grade that was primarily about my hair.
My boyfriends loved my hair too. I think if I concentrate hard enough, I can remember a hand resting between my shoulder blades, playing with the ends of my hair. Doesn't matter who the hand is connected to, the hair is the important thing. Somehow my hair got caught up in my idea of what was beautiful about myself.
So why did I cut my hair? I got burned. I'm still smoking from it. The day before I cut my hair short, it was my best friend's wedding--I was one of eight bridesmaids. Somehow during the day I earned the name "Bridesmaid Barbie" because of my hair. That was annoying, but I snapped when ex-boyfriend showed up with his new girlfriend and dragged up everything I had buried in the past six months. I didn't want to feel that way ever again--still don't--so I cut my hair. The first time it was to my shoulders and I keep cutting it, shorter and shorter. My ideal cut would be a supershort pixie, but I don't think my face can take it. And I had a TA who had shaved her head for a part in a play. Thought about that too.
I'm not planning on growing my hair out, but I've started wondering if my hair is just the physical manifestation of whatever I'm avoiding that has kept me from really investing in guys (despite my guy-crazy tendencies) and kept guys from liking me.
If this sounds like an online pity party for one, well, it just might be. My apologies if you suddenly feel the need for a hair cut.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Uber clutch
Today I was the world's most brilliant 115 instructor. I did the traditional, everybody's doing it intro to rhetorical analysis, but I rocked it. The idea is to have a random backpack, have students go through it, and determine what type of person owns the backpack: male, female, married, single, old, young, etc. I took it a step beyond by coming to class late, dropping the backpack on the desk and asking if anyone had left it outside of my office. When my bright-eyed, bushy-tailed freshmen students shook their heads no, I dropped it off to the side with the comment that I would take it to the Lost and Found later. I then proceeded to give their homework for Thursday and the rushwrite of the day, which was to write about RHETORIC. Scary word, especially if you have no idea what it means. I love creating fear in my students.
I had them share their answers with each other and overheard the words "Topher Grace." I stopped the girl, who happens to be one of my favorite students, and asked if she was talking about Pete from Win a Date with Tad Hamilton. She guiltly admitted she was, and the girl behind her said that was what she had thought of too. So I stopped the class, wrote the quote on the board: "I'll tear you to pieces with my bare hands--or vicious rhetoric." Brilliant. We talked about it, and then I launched into rhetorical analysis.
The point of this whole leading-up-to-moment is that I was acting spacier than usual--as if I was coming up with my lesson on the spot. So as I'm explaining rhetorical analysis, I say, "I wish there was a better way to show you what I mean. [beat] Wait a second." I hoist the bag on to my desk. "You all said this wasn't your backpack, right?" They shake their heads no again. "Well, then let's find out who's it is." An audible gasp from my students as I begin opening the bag. I glance in, and then look up. "I think I'm going to have a few of you look through this for us." I had two of my back row sitters come to the front and go through the bag, with Chase writing down on the board what was there.
A sampling: Econ book, N64 game, Japanese/English dictionary, all courtesy of Asmond. Josh Groban sheet music. Divine Comedy tickets (two, which prompted one student to declare "It's a guy. The guy always buys the tickets." Wish I had known that before). Small hymn book. Kleenex. Two CD mixes, Faith Hill, Counting Crows, and Bernstein's Mass. Lip stuff. Catcher in the Rye. Pictures from London (but they couldn't identify it as London). Oh yeah, and a bag of candy.
So as my perfectly haloed students sat in shock, Chase and I went through the bag. And then we started deciding if this bag belonged to a guy/girl, single/married, etc. The best moment was when I said, "I promised you guys candy today from last time, didn't I?" and began throwing candy out into the classroom. They were actually dodging the candy, not wanting anything to do with my antics. It was beautiful.
I did finally admit that the bag was Mary's and the stuff in the bag was mine and my friend's. To which they replied, "So we can eat the candy?"
I'll have to tell you the story in person. I just wanted to document this moment when eg went from clutch to uberclutch.
I had them share their answers with each other and overheard the words "Topher Grace." I stopped the girl, who happens to be one of my favorite students, and asked if she was talking about Pete from Win a Date with Tad Hamilton. She guiltly admitted she was, and the girl behind her said that was what she had thought of too. So I stopped the class, wrote the quote on the board: "I'll tear you to pieces with my bare hands--or vicious rhetoric." Brilliant. We talked about it, and then I launched into rhetorical analysis.
The point of this whole leading-up-to-moment is that I was acting spacier than usual--as if I was coming up with my lesson on the spot. So as I'm explaining rhetorical analysis, I say, "I wish there was a better way to show you what I mean. [beat] Wait a second." I hoist the bag on to my desk. "You all said this wasn't your backpack, right?" They shake their heads no again. "Well, then let's find out who's it is." An audible gasp from my students as I begin opening the bag. I glance in, and then look up. "I think I'm going to have a few of you look through this for us." I had two of my back row sitters come to the front and go through the bag, with Chase writing down on the board what was there.
A sampling: Econ book, N64 game, Japanese/English dictionary, all courtesy of Asmond. Josh Groban sheet music. Divine Comedy tickets (two, which prompted one student to declare "It's a guy. The guy always buys the tickets." Wish I had known that before). Small hymn book. Kleenex. Two CD mixes, Faith Hill, Counting Crows, and Bernstein's Mass. Lip stuff. Catcher in the Rye. Pictures from London (but they couldn't identify it as London). Oh yeah, and a bag of candy.
So as my perfectly haloed students sat in shock, Chase and I went through the bag. And then we started deciding if this bag belonged to a guy/girl, single/married, etc. The best moment was when I said, "I promised you guys candy today from last time, didn't I?" and began throwing candy out into the classroom. They were actually dodging the candy, not wanting anything to do with my antics. It was beautiful.
I did finally admit that the bag was Mary's and the stuff in the bag was mine and my friend's. To which they replied, "So we can eat the candy?"
I'll have to tell you the story in person. I just wanted to document this moment when eg went from clutch to uberclutch.
I have no spine
I actually texted him and told him I couldn't write it, but then he emailed me today and asked if I was going to write it. So I did. (See "To Kolob" post for explanation. And while I'm talking about Kolob, did anyone else see the dance forum today? The Kolob/Ballroom number was beautiful, if a little too showy for my taste.)
It's not perfect, but not bad for less than 10 minutes of thought.
Press Release: Michael Johnson running for Centerville Mayor
At 22, most people are deciding what career to pursue, what person to date, and what movie to see on a Saturday night. For 22-year-old Centerville resident Michael Johnson, a decision has been made. Johnson is running for mayor.
“I have been compelled since my early childhood to seek involvement in the community and in government at every level,” states Johnson. “That same drive compels me today to seek opportunities to be involved and active to ensure the community I live in is being run responsibly and that people are being fairly represented.
“I also believe there is not a better way to spend your life than to become busy helping other people. Government provides an opportunity to do that. Although the government is not perfect, I believe it becomes one of our greatest assets when it is employed in our behalf. I want to be part of that, and make sure government performs its correct responsibilities.”
Although some may be surprised that Johnson is running at such a young age, those who know Johnson and support his candidacy are not, including former city councilman Steve Mangel. “I have had the privilege of working with Michael within the Davis School District. He was a student board member on the School Board, and worked on the Davis Reads Committee. His knowledge and background added great insight which helped in both of these areas. He is a man who has the ability to look at a problem, analyze it, and come up with some great conclusions. He is very progressive in his thinking and would be a great asset to the City, the current Council, and City Manager. He is what the city needs: a new person with some fresh ideas.”
In addition to working on the school board and Davis Reads committee, Johnson has volunteered with the Davis School District Foundation, worked as a legislative liaison for Utah Attorney General Mark Shurtleff, and represented the Utah chapter of the American Legion as a Boys State Senator.
More information on Michael Johnson’s campaign can be found at michaeljohnson2005.com
It's not perfect, but not bad for less than 10 minutes of thought.
Synapse to synapse
I'm having yet another identity crisis. Chad is married. Am I a red head? Should I be in the creative writing track? Do I truly love John Cusack as much as I profess to? Can I like another guy if it means getting hurt?
So, many many questions and not so many answers. Part of me just wants to curl up with Szymborska and part of me knows that I can't handle that much beauty tonight. I'm in love with much of the world, but am afraid to approach the world. I don't want to be hurt again and I know I can deal with the kind of hurt I'm feeling right now, because I've done that for so long. And I keep trying to avoid intensifiers, but there isn't anything else there for me to use tonight. Which must mean that I'm being overly dramatic and should go to bed. But you're not my mother. And I don't go to bed when my mother tells me to. Let's hear it for early-adulthood rebellion.
(I should end there, but I really am perplexed: is my hair red?)
So, many many questions and not so many answers. Part of me just wants to curl up with Szymborska and part of me knows that I can't handle that much beauty tonight. I'm in love with much of the world, but am afraid to approach the world. I don't want to be hurt again and I know I can deal with the kind of hurt I'm feeling right now, because I've done that for so long. And I keep trying to avoid intensifiers, but there isn't anything else there for me to use tonight. Which must mean that I'm being overly dramatic and should go to bed. But you're not my mother. And I don't go to bed when my mother tells me to. Let's hear it for early-adulthood rebellion.
(I should end there, but I really am perplexed: is my hair red?)
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Im mature
So I came home (home home, Bountiful home) Friday night to find Chad's wedding announcement. I freaked out. Not that I want to date him again, but how dare he move on with his life when I'm still stuck in a BYU singles ward?
I freaked out (again) today when I actually looked at the announcement and realized that Chad has been Mr. Tiffany Thurgood since Friday afternoon. Weird.
So I shredded the announcement. And the picture. Say it with me friends: catharsis.
In other news, I feel sorry for anyone who didn't get to see me today. Because I look hot.
I freaked out (again) today when I actually looked at the announcement and realized that Chad has been Mr. Tiffany Thurgood since Friday afternoon. Weird.
So I shredded the announcement. And the picture. Say it with me friends: catharsis.
In other news, I feel sorry for anyone who didn't get to see me today. Because I look hot.
Friday, September 30, 2005
For example
After posting "To Kolob," I said good-bye to Tolkien Boy and Eleka, who were only one computer removed from myself in the computer lab, and marched my way down the library stairs to the basement for the English reading series. Today's offering was Kim Johnson, who I think I can safely say is a genius. She is a poet who has deep, deep roots in the classical tradition, who graduated from Iowa, Johns Hopkins, and Berkeley, and who is flat out brilliant. Why she is also a professor at the Y, I can't really tell you. I'm just glad she's here.
With excited anticipation, I found a seat in the library auditorium--my regular seat on the third row, seven seats in on the south side was taken, but I happily settled into the fifth row, glad to see so many people already at the reading. Until they started to talk. They seemed young, all of them. I glanced back at a guy I had recognized when I walked in and realized that he was the "Mr. Rich" a few of the girls were talking about. He had brought his English 11 class to the reading series. Not just any reading, though. Kim Johnson--a woman who is intense, precise, clinical, brilliant. What the hell was he thinking?
I managed a quick rant to JeffT when he arrived, then relaxed back into my seat as John Talbot began his introduction. I appreciated the symmetry--Kim had intro'd Talbot when he read winter semester. He praised her, compared her to Milton, discussed her roots to the seventeenth century and Latin (what he called "the dear departed language of precision"). I've never seen Kim embarrassed before, but this was close. And then Talbot wrapped up and Kim walked to the speaker's podium.
When Kim reads, she enunciates every syllable. The emphasis and energy is exhausting just for her listener. She is amazing on a million levels. The way she plays with language is fascinating. I sat, literally on the edge of my seat, so intent on the poetry that I didn't realize I was smiling. At the end of the reading, Jeff made the comment that he'd never seen me that happy. I don't think I often am that happy; words, language, poetry invigorate me, make me feel alive like nothing else can. I get such a rush from poetry--maybe I'm a little crazy.
The after-reading was good too. Talk to my brilliant friends, and then JeffT asked if I'd read his short story. I'm not sure how I got the rep I have as a good critical reader/editor, but reading a well-written story and commenting on it comes just behind hearing Kim Johnson read her poetry. This is what I live for. eg
P.S. I forgot about the high school juniors I introduced at the beginning of this post--kind of like I forgot about them as the reading went on. They actually behaved very well and some of them seemed really intent on the poetry. And I did know "Mr. Rich." He's very good looking. Not to undermine the euphoria of this post, but why can't I meet a guy who makes me feel like I'm at a poetry reading? How's that for decent criteria?
With excited anticipation, I found a seat in the library auditorium--my regular seat on the third row, seven seats in on the south side was taken, but I happily settled into the fifth row, glad to see so many people already at the reading. Until they started to talk. They seemed young, all of them. I glanced back at a guy I had recognized when I walked in and realized that he was the "Mr. Rich" a few of the girls were talking about. He had brought his English 11 class to the reading series. Not just any reading, though. Kim Johnson--a woman who is intense, precise, clinical, brilliant. What the hell was he thinking?
I managed a quick rant to JeffT when he arrived, then relaxed back into my seat as John Talbot began his introduction. I appreciated the symmetry--Kim had intro'd Talbot when he read winter semester. He praised her, compared her to Milton, discussed her roots to the seventeenth century and Latin (what he called "the dear departed language of precision"). I've never seen Kim embarrassed before, but this was close. And then Talbot wrapped up and Kim walked to the speaker's podium.
When Kim reads, she enunciates every syllable. The emphasis and energy is exhausting just for her listener. She is amazing on a million levels. The way she plays with language is fascinating. I sat, literally on the edge of my seat, so intent on the poetry that I didn't realize I was smiling. At the end of the reading, Jeff made the comment that he'd never seen me that happy. I don't think I often am that happy; words, language, poetry invigorate me, make me feel alive like nothing else can. I get such a rush from poetry--maybe I'm a little crazy.
The after-reading was good too. Talk to my brilliant friends, and then JeffT asked if I'd read his short story. I'm not sure how I got the rep I have as a good critical reader/editor, but reading a well-written story and commenting on it comes just behind hearing Kim Johnson read her poetry. This is what I live for. eg
P.S. I forgot about the high school juniors I introduced at the beginning of this post--kind of like I forgot about them as the reading went on. They actually behaved very well and some of them seemed really intent on the poetry. And I did know "Mr. Rich." He's very good looking. Not to undermine the euphoria of this post, but why can't I meet a guy who makes me feel like I'm at a poetry reading? How's that for decent criteria?
To Kolob
Reading over last night's post, I realize that I didn't manage to say anything I wanted to. I've been composing a new post in my head, but now that I'm actually typing, I have no desire to attempt to explain myself. Because I don't have to. So there.
Instead. . . the infamous MJ emailed me, asking me to write a press release. He's running for mayor of Centerville. Mad props to him, but why do I have to be dragged into it? I now find myself wondering if I should have been completely honest with him when he told me about Tina. "Oh, that's nice. By the way, I've been in love with you for six years. I'm going to take my broken heart to London, though, and maybe I'll be up for talking to you at our thirty-five year reunion." Instead I said, "Good for you. Please take me home. I have to pack." And I went to London. Without saying anything. Which is probably for the best. . . right? And now I'm supposed to write a press release for him, because I can't say no. I should say no. I should say "Hell no and damn you and," but I won't. I'll write the press release, even post it here and you can all tell me what a gracious loser I am. Gracious and stupid.
ps. And the form of protest today is apparently conjunctions. But it's not very effective. I'm not very effective. And yes, I am going to go cram myself into a corner and cry now.
Instead. . . the infamous MJ emailed me, asking me to write a press release. He's running for mayor of Centerville. Mad props to him, but why do I have to be dragged into it? I now find myself wondering if I should have been completely honest with him when he told me about Tina. "Oh, that's nice. By the way, I've been in love with you for six years. I'm going to take my broken heart to London, though, and maybe I'll be up for talking to you at our thirty-five year reunion." Instead I said, "Good for you. Please take me home. I have to pack." And I went to London. Without saying anything. Which is probably for the best. . . right? And now I'm supposed to write a press release for him, because I can't say no. I should say no. I should say "Hell no and damn you and," but I won't. I'll write the press release, even post it here and you can all tell me what a gracious loser I am. Gracious and stupid.
ps. And the form of protest today is apparently conjunctions. But it's not very effective. I'm not very effective. And yes, I am going to go cram myself into a corner and cry now.
punk rock princess
When I was a freshman, I received a call from my best friend. "Eg, you're either going to love me or hate me--I'm not sure which."
"What did you do?"
"My friend called me asking about girls he could take to Homecoming. I gave him your name and number."
"Do I know this friend?"
"No. But I told him about you. I told him you were a combination of a fairy tale princess and a punk rocker."
"What?" I'm guessing this wasn't just my reaction five years ago, that you, my reader/friend are also thinking that I needed a new best friend. She explained that she was referring to my appearance--at the time, long blonde hair and big blue eyes, etc.--and my attitude, which I still wouldn't call punk rocker.
I've been thinking about this lately. Who I am, how I define myself, how others see me. You discover interesting things if you pay attention. Even more interesting things if you don't pay attention, but that's another blog.
After another brilliant meeting of Fob tonight, I mentioned (via IM) to Tolkien Boy that I feel most like myself when I'm at Fob; I felt the same way last year during april. I've always attributed that to being in a workshop/writing/editing situation, one where I feel I have some control over my own thoughts and actions, and where I know I belong. But TB pointed out that part of it is being among friends. I can rapidly switch between joking and being serious and being sarcastic without having to explain myself or my multiple personalities. I'm comfortable there. More and more this semester I'm finding myself out of my comfort zone, forced into personalities/roles I'm not ready to be/fill. But it's nice to know that some of the time, I can still be a punk rock princess. (Dance party anyone?)
"What did you do?"
"My friend called me asking about girls he could take to Homecoming. I gave him your name and number."
"Do I know this friend?"
"No. But I told him about you. I told him you were a combination of a fairy tale princess and a punk rocker."
"What?" I'm guessing this wasn't just my reaction five years ago, that you, my reader/friend are also thinking that I needed a new best friend. She explained that she was referring to my appearance--at the time, long blonde hair and big blue eyes, etc.--and my attitude, which I still wouldn't call punk rocker.
I've been thinking about this lately. Who I am, how I define myself, how others see me. You discover interesting things if you pay attention. Even more interesting things if you don't pay attention, but that's another blog.
After another brilliant meeting of Fob tonight, I mentioned (via IM) to Tolkien Boy that I feel most like myself when I'm at Fob; I felt the same way last year during april. I've always attributed that to being in a workshop/writing/editing situation, one where I feel I have some control over my own thoughts and actions, and where I know I belong. But TB pointed out that part of it is being among friends. I can rapidly switch between joking and being serious and being sarcastic without having to explain myself or my multiple personalities. I'm comfortable there. More and more this semester I'm finding myself out of my comfort zone, forced into personalities/roles I'm not ready to be/fill. But it's nice to know that some of the time, I can still be a punk rock princess. (Dance party anyone?)
Thursday, September 29, 2005
tenpoints for Foxy (plus 1)
This is much easier when you know the person. After a least twenty minutes of serious musical contemplation, I'm feeling pretty good about this tenpoints. . . plus one. Hey, I make the rules.
1. So Says I (The Shins)
2. A Long December (Counting Crows)
3. Marvelous Things (Eisley)
4. Fresh Feeling (Eels)
5. I've Got a Crush on You (Sinatra)
6. My Baby Loves a Bunch of Authors (Moxy Fruvous)
7. Soundtrack for Our Movie (Mae)
8. Holding Out for a Hero (Frou Frou)
9. My Love (Keeping the Faith. . . not as cheesy as it sounds)
10. Just a Ride (Jem)
plusone. mr. darcy (Mary Cox and the pop rocks)
Looking at that list, I'm suddenly terrified that Foxy only listens to country.
1. So Says I (The Shins)
2. A Long December (Counting Crows)
3. Marvelous Things (Eisley)
4. Fresh Feeling (Eels)
5. I've Got a Crush on You (Sinatra)
6. My Baby Loves a Bunch of Authors (Moxy Fruvous)
7. Soundtrack for Our Movie (Mae)
8. Holding Out for a Hero (Frou Frou)
9. My Love (Keeping the Faith. . . not as cheesy as it sounds)
10. Just a Ride (Jem)
plusone. mr. darcy (Mary Cox and the pop rocks)
Looking at that list, I'm suddenly terrified that Foxy only listens to country.
Good. For. You.
Have been conferencing since 8:15 a.m. with freshmen writers. Brain no longer functioning. Will have to share the personal essay about the boy who puked on one of my students and then the progressively creepy young men who decided they were in love with her. Will also share love over a Cannon Center meal story. Must go to class.
Yes, Master Fob, this is yet another form of protest. Will be functioning enough to provide cookies tonight. Maybe brownies. Does Foxy have a preference?
Yes, Master Fob, this is yet another form of protest. Will be functioning enough to provide cookies tonight. Maybe brownies. Does Foxy have a preference?
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
[Needs title]
I don't usually do this, but without april meeting in person, I'm thinking it's the only way. And yes, aa, this has gone beyond you. In some ways.
He goes quiet
removes his hands from my shoulders
the smile dropped from his face
his shoulders tight
back hunched, head bowed low.
He prays in his poetry
makes me the virgin mary,
lowercased, shrouded
figure in blue, waiting
for someone else
to point the way to heaven.
He prays in his poetry;
and this is not a love song—
it is confession: I kneel
waiting for his hands to return,
to find my shoulders.
He goes quiet
removes his hands from my shoulders
the smile dropped from his face
his shoulders tight
back hunched, head bowed low.
He prays in his poetry
makes me the virgin mary,
lowercased, shrouded
figure in blue, waiting
for someone else
to point the way to heaven.
He prays in his poetry;
and this is not a love song—
it is confession: I kneel
waiting for his hands to return,
to find my shoulders.
Sven the Swedish Model
So he's actually an English/Danish blend, but. . .
I thought it was a cool pic. From family vacation. And a nice little tribute to Elder Jenkins.
Because Jeremy did it
. . . and if Jeremy jumped off a cliff, you would too?
Yes. Provided that cliff was in Hawaii.
From the man who started the insanity:
1. Delve into your blog.
2. Find the twenty-third post.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
Curiosity killed the cat. Or the eg.
23.5: "Every time I enter the Marriot Center I have the same vision-—me tumbling down the full length of cement steps, crashing at the bottom in a pitiful heap, and breaking my nose."
Yes. Provided that cliff was in Hawaii.
From the man who started the insanity:
1. Delve into your blog.
2. Find the twenty-third post.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
Curiosity killed the cat. Or the eg.
23.5: "Every time I enter the Marriot Center I have the same vision-—me tumbling down the full length of cement steps, crashing at the bottom in a pitiful heap, and breaking my nose."
What's right with me
I've been making a list all morning of what's wrong with me: my head hurts, my stomach hurts, my eye refuses to let me wear my contact today so I'm out of focus, etc. This is just a normal continuation of my usual train of thought: what's wrong with my clothes, my height, my hair, my weight, my mind, my intellect, etc. And I just had the thought: Why can't I ever list what's right with me? Not in a pompous-ass train of thought, just a natural, this-is-what-is-good-about-me way.
On another note, I told my students today that I will never tell them if they are doing (i.e., writing) something correctly or incorrectly, right or wrong. There are more effective ways of presenting a story/argument, but I refuse to be a writing teacher who says "Thou shalt" for every minor detail. I want these papers to be their papers, not mine.
Why do I have such a hard time applying this concept to my own life?
On another note, I told my students today that I will never tell them if they are doing (i.e., writing) something correctly or incorrectly, right or wrong. There are more effective ways of presenting a story/argument, but I refuse to be a writing teacher who says "Thou shalt" for every minor detail. I want these papers to be their papers, not mine.
Why do I have such a hard time applying this concept to my own life?
confession
Trying to find a way to say/indicate "confession" without using the word "confession."
Any ideas?
Any ideas?
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Identity crisis
Yes, I'm well-aware of the fact that my blog has had about twelve too many names in the past month or so. Eventually I'll probably work my way back to the original and brilliant "Bitter diatribe is redundant," but Kapka would and will gnaw my ear off for that one and I'm not ready at this time in my life to mimic Van Gogh. (Did that sentence make sense to anyone else?)
That being said, today has been a good day, so far. Got up, ate breakfast, showered, got dressed, did some writing/revising, went to church, realized it was supposed to be fast sunday, enjoyed testimony meeting (I usually just grit my teeth, but today was decent), decided it was time to go home after sacrament meeting, came home, ate scrambled eggs and chocolate chip cookies for lunch, etc., etc., etc.
I had another moment today where I realized that I'm doing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing--not just teaching and writing, but the whole grad school thing, right down to studying 20th century and contemporary poetry and planning on getting my PhD. Part of myself is terribly satisfied. The other part is screaming "What the hell do you think you're doing?!?!?" (complete with punctuation.) This is not practical, no one else cares, and would someone please explain why I want a PhD? As much as I love DPS and John Keating, poetry will not change the world. My studying poetry will not change the world. What if all I want to do is be married? And then I recoil at that suggestion. I'm not ready for marriage. I'm not even ready to date anyone. Which means the only thing I really can do is continue doing what I'm already doing. I just wish it wasn't such a lonely option.
That being said, today has been a good day, so far. Got up, ate breakfast, showered, got dressed, did some writing/revising, went to church, realized it was supposed to be fast sunday, enjoyed testimony meeting (I usually just grit my teeth, but today was decent), decided it was time to go home after sacrament meeting, came home, ate scrambled eggs and chocolate chip cookies for lunch, etc., etc., etc.
I had another moment today where I realized that I'm doing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing--not just teaching and writing, but the whole grad school thing, right down to studying 20th century and contemporary poetry and planning on getting my PhD. Part of myself is terribly satisfied. The other part is screaming "What the hell do you think you're doing?!?!?" (complete with punctuation.) This is not practical, no one else cares, and would someone please explain why I want a PhD? As much as I love DPS and John Keating, poetry will not change the world. My studying poetry will not change the world. What if all I want to do is be married? And then I recoil at that suggestion. I'm not ready for marriage. I'm not even ready to date anyone. Which means the only thing I really can do is continue doing what I'm already doing. I just wish it wasn't such a lonely option.
the world's first unmanned flying desk set
10 points and a plate of cookies if you can name the movie.
Final thoughts of the evening:
1. I really want to see Elizabethtown.
2. People are not supposed to fall in love at 15.
Final thoughts of the evening:
1. I really want to see Elizabethtown.
2. People are not supposed to fall in love at 15.
Friday, September 23, 2005
i give up
there will be no capitalization in this post. to capitalize would be to show respect for a very lousy day. i refuse.
i'm not sure why i'm so tired. maybe it's not sleeping for three days. maybe it's the pounds of reading i've done this week (measuring it in pages has become a futile attempt.) maybe it's because i've accepted my fate as a single and singular academic. maybe it's because counseling today consisted of many metaphors, which i felt were unnecessary and unfair. and rather painful. or maybe it is simply because all my roommates have left me and i'm alone in my big house, with my books, my grandfather's car, and the piano.
the story of the day:
i was teaching my class today. . . well, teaching is rather a stretch. i was standing at the front of the room as my brilliant students workshopped each others' papers. hooray. no thinking necessary, except to do some fast thinking when i realized that there was no way the thorough would finish before class was over. i opened the door, glanced at the clock ticking just outside (my room does not have its own clock), and returned to stand just at the doorknob inside the room, leaving the door open. i was beginning to get the class's attention, when a creature swooped through the door, snarling and grabbing at me. i screamed. and then i realized it was my sister, who thought the opening of the door meant class was over. i chased her out of the room, and resumed to give the weekend's homework, but in a rather distracted and scattered manner. so it really was like every other day.
i'm not sure why i'm so tired. maybe it's not sleeping for three days. maybe it's the pounds of reading i've done this week (measuring it in pages has become a futile attempt.) maybe it's because i've accepted my fate as a single and singular academic. maybe it's because counseling today consisted of many metaphors, which i felt were unnecessary and unfair. and rather painful. or maybe it is simply because all my roommates have left me and i'm alone in my big house, with my books, my grandfather's car, and the piano.
the story of the day:
i was teaching my class today. . . well, teaching is rather a stretch. i was standing at the front of the room as my brilliant students workshopped each others' papers. hooray. no thinking necessary, except to do some fast thinking when i realized that there was no way the thorough would finish before class was over. i opened the door, glanced at the clock ticking just outside (my room does not have its own clock), and returned to stand just at the doorknob inside the room, leaving the door open. i was beginning to get the class's attention, when a creature swooped through the door, snarling and grabbing at me. i screamed. and then i realized it was my sister, who thought the opening of the door meant class was over. i chased her out of the room, and resumed to give the weekend's homework, but in a rather distracted and scattered manner. so it really was like every other day.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
I won't dance; don't ask me.
This morning I found the perfect example of a situation/issue/experience to help my 115 students with personal essay. I was in the women's restroom in the Wilk, across from the ballroom, when the room was flooded with girls in high heels and swishy skirts--social dance females. Their presence was the trigger I needed to start thinking about dance, dancing, ballroom, etc. The fact is, I don't dance. I can't dance, unless it's in a Top-40-everybody-looks-like-an-idiot situation. But I love watching people dance and I wish I knew how--that I had taken the time and energy to learn.
So I presented the situation to my class today, then asked them what kind of questions I could ask about the situation. They came up with a decent list, including the obvious "Why don't I feel like I can dance?" We answered that question: you feel foolish, embarrassed, you don't know the steps. I thought one guy said "skirts," so I pointed out that I was wearing a skirt, so that wasn't a logical answer. "Um, I said scared," he said. "Oh. That's a good one."
"So now we have our question and all these answers: I don't dance because I would feel foolish, I don't know the steps, I'd be scared or embarrassed. Is this enough for my personal essay?" And I got a resounding "NO!" They got it! They knew the story and the analysis had to be taken one step further. Success.
So I presented the situation to my class today, then asked them what kind of questions I could ask about the situation. They came up with a decent list, including the obvious "Why don't I feel like I can dance?" We answered that question: you feel foolish, embarrassed, you don't know the steps. I thought one guy said "skirts," so I pointed out that I was wearing a skirt, so that wasn't a logical answer. "Um, I said scared," he said. "Oh. That's a good one."
"So now we have our question and all these answers: I don't dance because I would feel foolish, I don't know the steps, I'd be scared or embarrassed. Is this enough for my personal essay?" And I got a resounding "NO!" They got it! They knew the story and the analysis had to be taken one step further. Success.
This is your brain on 452.
In my contemporary literaty theory today, hereafter referred to as the class from hell, something finally clicked for me. (Please note that the name is editorgirl, not theorygirl.) In writing about Karl Kraus, Walter Benjamin made the statement that using a quotation purifies or elevates the language. Benjamin's ideal book would be completely composed of quotations. And apparently Kraus was a genius with this.
So the question posed by my professor was why or how does quoting something purify or elevate the language? The conclusion I came to was that by removing the words from their original source, they are forced to stand on their own and "really mean something" (TTIHAY). Which makes sense to me--by isolating a statement, I am able to focus on the language and derive meaning from it, often to a greater degree than when I am attacked by a massive treatise on whatever.
This is my electronic pat-on-the-back. Go me.
So the question posed by my professor was why or how does quoting something purify or elevate the language? The conclusion I came to was that by removing the words from their original source, they are forced to stand on their own and "really mean something" (TTIHAY). Which makes sense to me--by isolating a statement, I am able to focus on the language and derive meaning from it, often to a greater degree than when I am attacked by a massive treatise on whatever.
This is my electronic pat-on-the-back. Go me.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Hey brother
I promise I went to sleep tonight shortly after midnight. But I wasn't sleeping well and around 1:30 a.m. I woke up, frustrated and disoriented. As I usually am when I wake up. I was trying to go back to sleep when my sister L started talking--loudly--in the next room. I was convinced she was talking in her sleep--which is a me thing to do, not an L thing to do--until I noticed the pattern of her talking. She was on the phone with S, make that Elder Sven, our brother (her twin), who is currently boarding a plane in Vienna for the Ukraine. (He was allowed to call during layovers at the airports.) I lay there, listening, and, I admit it, jealous. I wanted to talk to Sven. And soon I could hear her saying, I'll see if I can wake her up. She brought in her cell phone, handed it over, and there was my brother. I admit I haven't been a very good correspondent for the past 11 weeks--I'm a terrible correspondent pretty much anytime--but that didn't mean that I hadn't missed him. I got to talk to him, quickly, about important things like Death Cab for Cutie, Iron & Wine, and my 115 class.
I don't usually like to talk about God on my blog, but there's no way else to view this experience. At least not at this time of the morning. L and I needed to talk to Sven, and he needed to talk to us, so God made sure we were awake. And that is no small task.
I don't usually like to talk about God on my blog, but there's no way else to view this experience. At least not at this time of the morning. L and I needed to talk to Sven, and he needed to talk to us, so God made sure we were awake. And that is no small task.
Please believe the punctuation!
This is a quote from the poet Muriel Rukeyser. I've been reading her book The Life of Poetry, which was first published in 1949. Basically she thought that poetry could become the "meeting-place" that would resolve the world's problems. I don't take poetry that far, but it's a nice thought. As is "Please believe the punctuation!", so it is now an option for my blog title. The editor in me is all giddy.
And now I should sleep. But I think I'm going to read Franny and Zooey.
P.S. Elder Sven is almost to Vienna now. Then a flight to Kiev. Then a train ride (we think) to Donestk. And my apologies to anyone who reads this and realizes I spelled that incorrectly. (I'm not sure if I did or not.)
And now I should sleep. But I think I'm going to read Franny and Zooey.
P.S. Elder Sven is almost to Vienna now. Then a flight to Kiev. Then a train ride (we think) to Donestk. And my apologies to anyone who reads this and realizes I spelled that incorrectly. (I'm not sure if I did or not.)
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Big Words
Perhaps it seems a bit silly (which somehow means blessed? Or is it the other way around?), but I've been giving myself quite a few pats on the back for stepping out of my comfort zone and making your acquaintance. (And now the roommate is mushy-talking to her boyfriend, who happens to be my cousin, which is disconcerting and irritating and now I'm totally distracted.) At the same time, my comfort zone of words and editing seems to have been invaded--I find myself checking the dictionary half the time to make sure I'm spelling something write or that I understand what you are saying. Tonight was a vocab night, albeit a vocabulary that I've already started to learn.
1. Poetaster. Noun. An inferior poet. Also a workshopping group that meets once a week to, well, workshop poetry. I've known about it for two years now, ever since JD announced it in our contemporary American poetry class, and I fumed because I didn't like the name. Well, that was the reason I said I wasn't going. I'm not sure why I didn't. Too shy, too self-conscious. Plus I've never thought as myself as a poet or one who writes poetry, so I didn't know if I belonged. I'm still not sure, but I enjoy it.
2. Triangles. No part of speech can contain it. And I'm still not entirely sure what it is. But apparently I'm a green who frequently flips purple. Questions? Me too.
As a final thought, I saw Lizzie tonight. Or rather she saw me as she ran past. And she was right. I do know everything about London--and other things.
1. Poetaster. Noun. An inferior poet. Also a workshopping group that meets once a week to, well, workshop poetry. I've known about it for two years now, ever since JD announced it in our contemporary American poetry class, and I fumed because I didn't like the name. Well, that was the reason I said I wasn't going. I'm not sure why I didn't. Too shy, too self-conscious. Plus I've never thought as myself as a poet or one who writes poetry, so I didn't know if I belonged. I'm still not sure, but I enjoy it.
2. Triangles. No part of speech can contain it. And I'm still not entirely sure what it is. But apparently I'm a green who frequently flips purple. Questions? Me too.
As a final thought, I saw Lizzie tonight. Or rather she saw me as she ran past. And she was right. I do know everything about London--and other things.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Ack and other sophisticated sounds
This is why I don't wake up before I have to--I feel obligated to be productive and then I use up my productivity and then I can't be stressed anymore because my list is all checked off and then I don't exist.
And because I can't have one coherent thought today and I am the queen of non-sequiturs, even if I have to look up how to spell it every time I use the term, I am now noticing that "There Might I Live" is a terribly pretentious name for a blog. I really need a new blog name. Hmmm. A list will now be forthcoming.
Cold medication is a wonderful thing. Hey Mom, look at me! I'm floating! (None of these are blog name options. My blog name options will be classy. Like. . . um. . . quick, TB, give me a quote from Emma.)
And because I can't have one coherent thought today and I am the queen of non-sequiturs, even if I have to look up how to spell it every time I use the term, I am now noticing that "There Might I Live" is a terribly pretentious name for a blog. I really need a new blog name. Hmmm. A list will now be forthcoming.
Cold medication is a wonderful thing. Hey Mom, look at me! I'm floating! (None of these are blog name options. My blog name options will be classy. Like. . . um. . . quick, TB, give me a quote from Emma.)
she would infect to the north star
An entire six hours since last I blogged. . . sorry, Shakespeare on the brain.
I'm sick, which my mother reminds me is normal for this time of the semester. I forget to eat well, sleep well, eat and sleep at all, and take my vitamins. Let's face it--after you pass the stage where vitamins look like circus animals or Fred Flinstone, what's the point? I'm just crossing my fingers that I don't lose my voice this time around. I'm not sure I'm up to teaching in mime.
((((((((())))))))
I'm terribly annoyed today because, in addition to being sniffly, I can't work out a poem that's been haunting me for months that I pulled out again. The worst part is I submitted it for my 518 workshop. I hate to workshop anything that's not ready, but nothing was and I had to have "three to five" poems. I don't even know what it's about. And I'm pretty sure what I have right now is actually two different poems, even though it would be the same speaker. Huh. It might be a series, or part of a series at least.
I might regret this. I probably will regret this, but the poem/poems/poem pieces are following. If you know what I'm writing about, please let me know. Cheers.
When he goes quiet
removes his hands from my shoulders
I finally know him
the smile dropped from his face
his shoulders taut
back hunched in religious devotion.
He prays in his poetry,
makes me the virgin mary—
lowercased, abused—
when all I ask
is the few drops of oil
to give him light.
Looking at it, I know the last three lines are going to have to go. Where, I'm not sure. And it was originally, "He prays in his poetry / and this is not a love song". Any takers?
I'm sick, which my mother reminds me is normal for this time of the semester. I forget to eat well, sleep well, eat and sleep at all, and take my vitamins. Let's face it--after you pass the stage where vitamins look like circus animals or Fred Flinstone, what's the point? I'm just crossing my fingers that I don't lose my voice this time around. I'm not sure I'm up to teaching in mime.
((((((((())))))))
I'm terribly annoyed today because, in addition to being sniffly, I can't work out a poem that's been haunting me for months that I pulled out again. The worst part is I submitted it for my 518 workshop. I hate to workshop anything that's not ready, but nothing was and I had to have "three to five" poems. I don't even know what it's about. And I'm pretty sure what I have right now is actually two different poems, even though it would be the same speaker. Huh. It might be a series, or part of a series at least.
I might regret this. I probably will regret this, but the poem/poems/poem pieces are following. If you know what I'm writing about, please let me know. Cheers.
When he goes quiet
removes his hands from my shoulders
I finally know him
the smile dropped from his face
his shoulders taut
back hunched in religious devotion.
He prays in his poetry,
makes me the virgin mary—
lowercased, abused—
when all I ask
is the few drops of oil
to give him light.
Looking at it, I know the last three lines are going to have to go. Where, I'm not sure. And it was originally, "He prays in his poetry / and this is not a love song". Any takers?
What the?
It is 6:36 a.m. (can I use small caps on this program? Hmmm. Must find out) and I am awake. I have been awake for twenty-one minutes when my body misinformedly woke up. I am a firm believer that one should only wake up in order to give oneself sufficient time to get ready and be on time to class. Seeing as how my first class today is at 5:10 p.m., I shouldn't have to wake up until, oh, 2:00 or 3:00 p.m. (I do have some reading to finish. I'm also wondering how I feel about the excessive use of "a.m." and "p.m." in this post, particularly when I don't know how to small cap them, thereby making them look classier as well as ridding myself of those irritating periods. So distracting.)
Hmmm. As I was sitting here, my mind was making a list of things I could be doing right now that are much more productive than blogging. Like showering. And then getting that reading done, preparing for class tomorrow (even though I did get a great head start during Sunday School yesterday), more reading, more reading, more reading, more reading, more reading, and, oh yes, making treats for FHE (the only way to get Paul-from-the-ward out my study. . . which is where one of the front doors opens into). Now that I'm a little more awake (let's hear it for rambling and parenthetical statements), I think I'm going to start that list and shower.
And kick myself for agreeing to go to FHE.
Hmmm. As I was sitting here, my mind was making a list of things I could be doing right now that are much more productive than blogging. Like showering. And then getting that reading done, preparing for class tomorrow (even though I did get a great head start during Sunday School yesterday), more reading, more reading, more reading, more reading, more reading, and, oh yes, making treats for FHE (the only way to get Paul-from-the-ward out my study. . . which is where one of the front doors opens into). Now that I'm a little more awake (let's hear it for rambling and parenthetical statements), I think I'm going to start that list and shower.
And kick myself for agreeing to go to FHE.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Double booking
My roommates are having people over for dinner. Which is fine, except that I am also having people over for dinner in an hour. And I told them this last week. Grrr.
Necessary Evils
I have spent the evening with two necessary evils: shaving my legs and grading papers. But not before I was introduced to Jeeves and Wooster, courtesy of UffishThought. It was brilliant and British and Wooster was played by Mr. Palmer from Sense and Sensibility. . . in my opinion, he's the best part of S&S. (Sorry, Hugh, but it's just a fact of life.)
Anyway, with a big sigh of resignation, I am going to begin grading papers. Again.
Anyway, with a big sigh of resignation, I am going to begin grading papers. Again.
Saturday, September 17, 2005
An HMPism
I've been thinking about this for a while, maybe because it's linked to HMP. But I started reading through my blog and found this in a comment. It's connected to the "The Play's the Thing" post in April.
I'm not trying to make anyone else sad or depressed or anything, because I don't wish that on anyone. I realized yesterday that I never had time to mourn him. I had to still be super-TA. And I was so far removed from everything, physically, that was done to commemorate him. So I am now mourning. And this is the only way I know how.
nothing makes painting or writing art that doesn't make auto repair art. give me the lowest basest work, and I will show you a canvas waiting for an artist. (HMP)
I'm not trying to make anyone else sad or depressed or anything, because I don't wish that on anyone. I realized yesterday that I never had time to mourn him. I had to still be super-TA. And I was so far removed from everything, physically, that was done to commemorate him. So I am now mourning. And this is the only way I know how.
We were wrong
I hate crying. I avoid it at all costs. Which usually results in crying harder than necessary and winding up with a killer headache. Unfortunately, yesterday was a day that demanded crying. That hard, hiccough-y, gasping, snotty crying. As I was driving. And when I came home to excise my demons, my computer wouldn't work and the upstairs of my house was overflowing with couples. So I left again, called aa, and showed up at his apartment looking like Hell's second cousin.
& & & & & & & & &
I dreamed him alive last night. . . well, not last night, but recently. I dream that I'm in the classroom where we held the second FAD and I'm looking over and I'm surprised to see him, but all I can focus on are his face, which is bearded, and his ankles and his hand reaching down to his ankle. And I realize (in my dream) that he didn't die. He just hurt his ankle and the story got blown out of proportion. The dream ends there, usually because I'm so excited and wanting to get out of the classroom to find april and tell them we were wrong. We were wrong. We were wrong.
& & & & & & & & &
I dreamed him alive last night. . . well, not last night, but recently. I dream that I'm in the classroom where we held the second FAD and I'm looking over and I'm surprised to see him, but all I can focus on are his face, which is bearded, and his ankles and his hand reaching down to his ankle. And I realize (in my dream) that he didn't die. He just hurt his ankle and the story got blown out of proportion. The dream ends there, usually because I'm so excited and wanting to get out of the classroom to find april and tell them we were wrong. We were wrong. We were wrong.
Friday, September 16, 2005
Damn zoobies indeed
I refuse to tell this story again. Let's just say that for at least 24 hours I was seriously doubting my drive to be a professor. Do I really want to put up with freshman for the next two years of my life? There are slightly more pleasant things to do, like kicking myself in the face (hypothetically).
But then today the class just seemed to click. The "focused freewrite" that I stole from Plicka worked for one of my students--so much so that she asked if we could do it the rest of the day. I told her we had other things to do in class, but she was welcome to freewrite for the rest of the day after class. In fact, I told her that she should cancel her hot date. "Sorry I can't go out tonight. I'm freewriting."
That and Nick Mason is supporting my goal to go to Chicago for my PhD. Take that, all you nay-sayers.
But then today the class just seemed to click. The "focused freewrite" that I stole from Plicka worked for one of my students--so much so that she asked if we could do it the rest of the day. I told her we had other things to do in class, but she was welcome to freewrite for the rest of the day after class. In fact, I told her that she should cancel her hot date. "Sorry I can't go out tonight. I'm freewriting."
That and Nick Mason is supporting my goal to go to Chicago for my PhD. Take that, all you nay-sayers.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
So tired
Does it bother anyone else that it says "1 comments"? Grrr.
And I'm not "so tired," I'm just trying to convince myself that I am so that I have a good excuse not to read the 80+ pages of rhetorical mumbo jumbo I have to write a two-page paper on for tomorrow.
Too distracted. . .
And I'm not "so tired," I'm just trying to convince myself that I am so that I have a good excuse not to read the 80+ pages of rhetorical mumbo jumbo I have to write a two-page paper on for tomorrow.
Too distracted. . .
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Why blog?
I don't have a reason for blogging. Is that allowed? Can I do something just as release. . . catch and release? I blog for myself and my friends and whatever. I blog to hear myself think. E.M. Forester said something to the effect of "I don't know what I think until I can see what I say." Totally butchered it, but that's my idea. (Totally incoherent; on drugs)
Two thoughts
1. Jeff told me today he forgets that I'm a first-year (like him) because I seem to know everything and have everything under control. Well, at least I have one of them fooled.
2. I feel totally incompetent to be teaching. I'm too messed up right now. Too much theory in my head, not enough to do anyone any good. And can I write my seminar paper for 452 on the flaneur in contemporary poetry?
3. Bonus thought: I always hate being unattached, without a crush, but they (crushes) are so unconvenient (deliberate word choice). I wish I could just tell my brain "Hold off until someone makes a move at you." Of course, if I said that, I would be waiting forever. (Somewhere Trent is rolling his eyes at this. That makes me happy. And a little sad.)
4. Dammit, they keep coming. This was supposed to stop. But how am I supposed to stop remembering? I'm teaching my class and I think about how it's what Trent should be doing. I'm talking to a great guy and Trent comes up. He's everywhere for me on this campus. Everywhere except the new building, which means I'm spending more time there than I want.
5. Might as well hit an even 5. I want to write, but I'm not letting myself. I'm just holding back, waiting for so much emotion to drop away. I don't want to write poetry laced with loss. And the only image I can conjure isn't the one I want to leave forever. Plus it already has a name attached.
Two thoughts
1. Jeff told me today he forgets that I'm a first-year (like him) because I seem to know everything and have everything under control. Well, at least I have one of them fooled.
2. I feel totally incompetent to be teaching. I'm too messed up right now. Too much theory in my head, not enough to do anyone any good. And can I write my seminar paper for 452 on the flaneur in contemporary poetry?
3. Bonus thought: I always hate being unattached, without a crush, but they (crushes) are so unconvenient (deliberate word choice). I wish I could just tell my brain "Hold off until someone makes a move at you." Of course, if I said that, I would be waiting forever. (Somewhere Trent is rolling his eyes at this. That makes me happy. And a little sad.)
4. Dammit, they keep coming. This was supposed to stop. But how am I supposed to stop remembering? I'm teaching my class and I think about how it's what Trent should be doing. I'm talking to a great guy and Trent comes up. He's everywhere for me on this campus. Everywhere except the new building, which means I'm spending more time there than I want.
5. Might as well hit an even 5. I want to write, but I'm not letting myself. I'm just holding back, waiting for so much emotion to drop away. I don't want to write poetry laced with loss. And the only image I can conjure isn't the one I want to leave forever. Plus it already has a name attached.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
You can't go back
I went to hear a friend's band play at Vermillion Skies. It was weird going back into that narrow little cafe--beg pardon--de-cafe. And I stopped right outside the door, because, like so many other things, it reminded me of last year and Trent and april and the fact that things will never be like that again.
The artwork on the walls is different, more abstract. And the floor was cleared for all the bands performing. I ordered my Dr. Pepper creamosa and leaned with my friends against the counter. It was so loud--people talking and bands playing over the talking--and I remember it being so quiet, with the very important exception of us.
I think I'm going to start going back there, to write and to think. In a way it's become my church--a place to remember and reflect and begin again. Because (pardon the cheese), even if you can't go back, you can step forward. I think it's time I tried.
The artwork on the walls is different, more abstract. And the floor was cleared for all the bands performing. I ordered my Dr. Pepper creamosa and leaned with my friends against the counter. It was so loud--people talking and bands playing over the talking--and I remember it being so quiet, with the very important exception of us.
I think I'm going to start going back there, to write and to think. In a way it's become my church--a place to remember and reflect and begin again. Because (pardon the cheese), even if you can't go back, you can step forward. I think it's time I tried.
The Joy List
A friend of mine had the idea that we have "pet joys," as well as "pet peeves." I started making my list elsewhere, but decided this was the perfect forum to continue. (I think this should be an april activity. Anyone second the motion?)
*really big messy hamburgers
*singing "Someone Like You" from Jekyll and Hyde
*Dali prints/posters
*quoting Say Anything
*finding other people who quote Say Anything
*reading poorly written YA novels
*reading well-written poetry and short fiction by my peers
*going to outdoor theatre. . . or any theatre for that matter
*talking about a play I just saw with intelligent (i.e., thinking) people
*my many nicknames (and the many word plays with my nicknames--thank you, Kapka)
*Kapka, conversations with
*AA, workshopping with
*Special K, not the cereal
*my collection of editing reference books
*my even-bigger collection of poetry books
*local bands
*being a local band groupie
*pictures of my family
*taking pictures with my family
*alphabetizing (too bad I didn't try with this list--I will repent and begin now)
*bagels, un-toasted, with cream cheese
*beagles named Bagel, stories of
*Beatles (such a cliche, but hey, they make me happy
*Beatrice and Benedick in Much Ado About Nothing
*Bollywood
*capitalizing prepositions. . .
*chick flicks
*Divine Comedy shows, introducing people to
*Eels, The (and Kapka's educational CD)
*guys who like girls who wear glasses
*guys who like girls who wear corduroy (I know that jumped out of alphabetical order, but it sounded better this way--see "poetic license")
*incredibly tiny volume of Much Ado About Nothing
*Inscape, finishing
*Lauren Callista
*London
*Muppets, the
*poetic license
*Rachel Yamagata, Happenstance
*Riki-Tiki booty shake
*Shakespeare, reading aloud
This list will be added to again and again.
*really big messy hamburgers
*singing "Someone Like You" from Jekyll and Hyde
*Dali prints/posters
*quoting Say Anything
*finding other people who quote Say Anything
*reading poorly written YA novels
*reading well-written poetry and short fiction by my peers
*going to outdoor theatre. . . or any theatre for that matter
*talking about a play I just saw with intelligent (i.e., thinking) people
*my many nicknames (and the many word plays with my nicknames--thank you, Kapka)
*Kapka, conversations with
*AA, workshopping with
*Special K, not the cereal
*my collection of editing reference books
*my even-bigger collection of poetry books
*local bands
*being a local band groupie
*pictures of my family
*taking pictures with my family
*alphabetizing (too bad I didn't try with this list--I will repent and begin now)
*bagels, un-toasted, with cream cheese
*beagles named Bagel, stories of
*Beatles (such a cliche, but hey, they make me happy
*Beatrice and Benedick in Much Ado About Nothing
*Bollywood
*capitalizing prepositions. . .
*chick flicks
*Divine Comedy shows, introducing people to
*Eels, The (and Kapka's educational CD)
*guys who like girls who wear glasses
*guys who like girls who wear corduroy (I know that jumped out of alphabetical order, but it sounded better this way--see "poetic license")
*incredibly tiny volume of Much Ado About Nothing
*Inscape, finishing
*Lauren Callista
*London
*Muppets, the
*poetic license
*Rachel Yamagata, Happenstance
*Riki-Tiki booty shake
*Shakespeare, reading aloud
This list will be added to again and again.
Saturday, September 10, 2005
I think I can
I think I can start blogging again. It's been a good day. I taught class, met with AA about ORCA (how cryptic is that?), went to an awesome poetry reading, and then ate the fattiest burger I could find. The best part? I was happy.
Fingers crossed, life will now continue as we used to know it, to some degree.
Fingers crossed, life will now continue as we used to know it, to some degree.
Friday, August 05, 2005
completion
Two blogs in one night after months of silence. Or something like that. I know, it blows the mind. But I had a revelation tonight and I wanted to know what you guys thought of it.
I've been in a lot of lit and writing classes where the issue of the artist being mentally unstable has been brought up. A lot of the greats are thoroughly unbalanced. I'm not even going to give examples because you can supply them for me. And I've taken some comfort from these discussions because we all know I'm crazy. But here's where the revelation comes in--not sure how it ties in to the crazy aspect, but that's what it stemmed from tonight--I feel as if I'm waiting to do my great writing, or any writing at all for that matter. I'm waiting for a sense of completion. And I think that all my life I've expected that sense to come from a steady, serious relationship with a man. Hence all the dreadful blogging about that gender. But now I'm wondering--can that sense of completion come from something or someone or somewhere else? I guess this is a question for me to answer, but I wanted to know what you guys thought.
And Kapka, if you post, I will reply this time. Promise.
I've been in a lot of lit and writing classes where the issue of the artist being mentally unstable has been brought up. A lot of the greats are thoroughly unbalanced. I'm not even going to give examples because you can supply them for me. And I've taken some comfort from these discussions because we all know I'm crazy. But here's where the revelation comes in--not sure how it ties in to the crazy aspect, but that's what it stemmed from tonight--I feel as if I'm waiting to do my great writing, or any writing at all for that matter. I'm waiting for a sense of completion. And I think that all my life I've expected that sense to come from a steady, serious relationship with a man. Hence all the dreadful blogging about that gender. But now I'm wondering--can that sense of completion come from something or someone or somewhere else? I guess this is a question for me to answer, but I wanted to know what you guys thought.
And Kapka, if you post, I will reply this time. Promise.
Must Love
Confession (that really is just stating the obvious, but it's me finally realizing what I'm about to say): I haven't been editorgirl for a long time. I'd like to pinpoint a certain night in Paris as the cause, but I know it goes back past that. Or maybe not. What has happened to me? I've become boring, quiet, irritable, ornery, snobby. I know I was all those things before, but now it seems to be maginified to a power I can't even enumerate. I blame things around me, things inside me, but tonight I'm realizing that it's just me. I'm not apologizing--no reason to apologize--but I haven't been blogging much because of that. And when I signed on to another discussion board I rejected editorgirl because I'm just not her anymore. I miss her. I miss who I was when I was in that role, even though I hated who I was sometimes as eg.
I went to a movie by myself tonight, something I really needed to do. And for the first time in months, I felt like editorgirl. I had my notebook out, I was writing down quotes, I was getting all giddy and worked up over the screen. Granted, it was John Cusack, but still. I was eg tonight.
I don't know who I'll be this fall. I'm not sure who I am now. But someday--someday, I hope I get to be eg again.
I went to a movie by myself tonight, something I really needed to do. And for the first time in months, I felt like editorgirl. I had my notebook out, I was writing down quotes, I was getting all giddy and worked up over the screen. Granted, it was John Cusack, but still. I was eg tonight.
I don't know who I'll be this fall. I'm not sure who I am now. But someday--someday, I hope I get to be eg again.
Saturday, July 30, 2005
one more river
I spend too much of my time thinking. That's why I'm still awake. I'm not always sure what I'm thinking about.
I'm terrified of the future; I keep trying to postpone it. I'm moving back to Provo on Monday, to live in a house. I'm too little for a house. Let me repeat: there's not enough of me yet for a house. Even if there will be a study.
Please come visit me. sej
I'm terrified of the future; I keep trying to postpone it. I'm moving back to Provo on Monday, to live in a house. I'm too little for a house. Let me repeat: there's not enough of me yet for a house. Even if there will be a study.
Please come visit me. sej
Monday, July 18, 2005
Gulp
In an act of impulsiveness completely uncharacteristic of my family, my mother has decided to pilgrimage on down to southern Utah for a few days of grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. oy, the cousins. I'll be back Thursday.
A vendredi, eg
A vendredi, eg
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Poetry in poetry
Hey gang. It's late. I'm tired. And for some ridiculous reason, I can't see any new blog posts. Grrr. But I'll keep writing, just for you.
I've spent a lot of time considering how art influences and acts as a catalyst for more and new art. This is purely selfish in motivation, since my best work often comes from considering another piece of artwork, usually non-literary. There will be more blogging done on this subject in the very near future. For tonight I want to leave you with this quote from a novel. The "she" is an artist trying to "see" the art in the people she is portraying. Enjoy. And comment.
"It was a miracle when you looked hard enough, when you really sought out information, there was so much to see, even in a person's tiniest gesture. There was so much feeling, such a dazzling array of things that your words, at least [her] words, could never say. There were thousands of images and memories and ideas, if you just let them come. There was the whole history of human experience somewhere contained in each of the bits, the most universal in the most specific, if you could only see it. It was like poetry. Well, she had never found poetry in poetry, to be truthful. But she imagined this was what poetry might be like for someone who understood it and loved it.
"Either it was like poetry or it was like getting really, really stoned."
I've spent a lot of time considering how art influences and acts as a catalyst for more and new art. This is purely selfish in motivation, since my best work often comes from considering another piece of artwork, usually non-literary. There will be more blogging done on this subject in the very near future. For tonight I want to leave you with this quote from a novel. The "she" is an artist trying to "see" the art in the people she is portraying. Enjoy. And comment.
"It was a miracle when you looked hard enough, when you really sought out information, there was so much to see, even in a person's tiniest gesture. There was so much feeling, such a dazzling array of things that your words, at least [her] words, could never say. There were thousands of images and memories and ideas, if you just let them come. There was the whole history of human experience somewhere contained in each of the bits, the most universal in the most specific, if you could only see it. It was like poetry. Well, she had never found poetry in poetry, to be truthful. But she imagined this was what poetry might be like for someone who understood it and loved it.
"Either it was like poetry or it was like getting really, really stoned."
Friday, July 08, 2005
Almost
Has it really been a month since I last blogged? I suppose so. Over a month. I stopped checking off the days on my calendar, well, when I last had a calendar to check the days off. Maybe I need to buy a planner or something so that I will recognize the days again.
I haven't wanted to write. There is too much that is too much right now that writing seems inadequate. And then I read a story from Kapka or a poem by K and I realize I'm doing more injury to myself than necessary. But what to write about? There are things on my list: an article for Clark Memorandum (very sterile and simple, but still); a personal essay for Gideon about London (the one I wrote in London was crap and Gideon called me on it); journal entries, poetry, letters. I need to write (platonic) love letters to the world at large and everyone individually.
I keep thinking of poem 5 from Tennyson's "In Memoriam." I probably just botched the title, but it's in the Norton anthologies. Go look it up. I want to use it as an excuse--that writing is always inadequate. But this time I know it's not true. This time writing is the only answer.
I love you (you is plural).
I haven't wanted to write. There is too much that is too much right now that writing seems inadequate. And then I read a story from Kapka or a poem by K and I realize I'm doing more injury to myself than necessary. But what to write about? There are things on my list: an article for Clark Memorandum (very sterile and simple, but still); a personal essay for Gideon about London (the one I wrote in London was crap and Gideon called me on it); journal entries, poetry, letters. I need to write (platonic) love letters to the world at large and everyone individually.
I keep thinking of poem 5 from Tennyson's "In Memoriam." I probably just botched the title, but it's in the Norton anthologies. Go look it up. I want to use it as an excuse--that writing is always inadequate. But this time I know it's not true. This time writing is the only answer.
I love you (you is plural).
Monday, May 30, 2005
april withdrawals
Despite the fact that I'm looking at a dancing Hayley Smith and listening to ABBA, sitting in a flat in London, I'm going through april withdrawals. On a positive note (I can hit those every once in a while), London is beautiful. I woke up this morning to pouring rain, which against my slanted window made the skyline look like a blurry-eyed impressionist painting. And I'm teaching, although not my genre. I will have many things to say about the personal essay. There are some impressive writers in the bunch. . . and they are all under the misconception that I know what I'm talking about. Ha. Ha ha ha. (I think I already used that on my blog, but it's so fun.)
A few notes about my life: On Saturday I woke up at 5.30a to sit outside a London theatre for four hours for front row seats to see Ewan McGregor in Guys and Dolls. I would just like to say that HMP is a better booty-shaker. That evening I saw Jim Broadbent in Theatre of Blood, a play all of us would thoroughly enjoy. It's about a Shakespearean actor who was shafted by a group of critics, so he invites them to an old theatre and starts to kill them off, a la Shakespeare's devices. Awesome stuff.
On a completely different theme, church here has been brilliant. I've been going to a small ward that meets in a school building that they rent for four hours every Sunday. This Sunday I spoke in sacrament meeting, taught youth Sunday School, and then taught Young Women. All while looking like a drug addict--something happened to my eyes that made them turn bright red. Think on that if you will.
I will now leave you to discuss the proper pronunciation of "macabre."
A few notes about my life: On Saturday I woke up at 5.30a to sit outside a London theatre for four hours for front row seats to see Ewan McGregor in Guys and Dolls. I would just like to say that HMP is a better booty-shaker. That evening I saw Jim Broadbent in Theatre of Blood, a play all of us would thoroughly enjoy. It's about a Shakespearean actor who was shafted by a group of critics, so he invites them to an old theatre and starts to kill them off, a la Shakespeare's devices. Awesome stuff.
On a completely different theme, church here has been brilliant. I've been going to a small ward that meets in a school building that they rent for four hours every Sunday. This Sunday I spoke in sacrament meeting, taught youth Sunday School, and then taught Young Women. All while looking like a drug addict--something happened to my eyes that made them turn bright red. Think on that if you will.
I will now leave you to discuss the proper pronunciation of "macabre."
Saturday, May 28, 2005
I vote yes and yes
Apologies for the more-than-slightly-bitter-sounding diatribes that I've recently posted from London. I love London and I love and/or enjoy a lot of the people I'm with. I posted after a particular exchange with some asinine 18 or 19 year olds. I have found a few 20 year olds that don't deserve jacking. . . although I'm not convinced Kapka is one of them. :)
Off to see Guys and Dolls with Mr. Ewan McGregor. That's right. Dance, Obi Wan, dance. Cheers.
Off to see Guys and Dolls with Mr. Ewan McGregor. That's right. Dance, Obi Wan, dance. Cheers.
Friday, May 27, 2005
re naming
I was tired of "bitter diatribes," which are not only redundant but from Runaway Bride. Yes, I stole my "bitter diatribes" from Ike Graham. Depressing.
The new name--"there might i live"--which blogger won't cap with this particular template--is from Walden. Another cliche, although a pseudo-intelligent one. I'm about to bus myself off to Oxford, but think about it and I'll elaborate in the very near future. (Complete with a list of names and addresses for HMP.)
The new name--"there might i live"--which blogger won't cap with this particular template--is from Walden. Another cliche, although a pseudo-intelligent one. I'm about to bus myself off to Oxford, but think about it and I'll elaborate in the very near future. (Complete with a list of names and addresses for HMP.)
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Check and check
I was walking out of the Piccadilly tunnel at South Ken station (yes, I'm alive and in London), when I heard music. Not an odd occurence. I usually try to toss a few coins into their stained guitar cases. But then I realized that it was something akin to karoke music being played. And the song was "New York, New York." I admit I laughed, but refused to pay for a cheesy rendition of a cheesy song. I stepped onto the escalator as the music came to a close. I waited for the lounge singer's next offering. "New York, New York."
The past three weeks have, to be blatantly honest, been some of the most difficult of my life. There have been some high points--Irish theatre, the Thames at night, the French bakery one street over, teaching a writing class--but it has been an exhausting balance of work and play, which all too often results in all work and no play. My life is consumed by petty squabbles and things that just have to be done. I've yet to make my way to the Tate Modern or Westminster, both high on my list. Instead I hang out with my 40-year-old mentor and his 16-year-old son, who is actually one of the most intelligent people on this trip. Were we idiots when we were 20?
I have started writing again. Maybe I'll post some later tonight. I miss April. K's cupcakes and poetry printed on funky paper and HMP's (ahem) dancing and AA's sincerity and Kapka's meditations and oh!resolution's. . . what did he contribute? (Kidding. I believe the correct answer is sanity.) I'm planning on bringing you back London-y things, but you have to come find me. I'll be in Provo in my new house in July, I think. But before then, all you have to do is call. After the 14 of June, of course. Before then and you'll get my 14-year-old brother who is using my cell to collect the numbers of many, many lady friends.
The past three weeks have, to be blatantly honest, been some of the most difficult of my life. There have been some high points--Irish theatre, the Thames at night, the French bakery one street over, teaching a writing class--but it has been an exhausting balance of work and play, which all too often results in all work and no play. My life is consumed by petty squabbles and things that just have to be done. I've yet to make my way to the Tate Modern or Westminster, both high on my list. Instead I hang out with my 40-year-old mentor and his 16-year-old son, who is actually one of the most intelligent people on this trip. Were we idiots when we were 20?
I have started writing again. Maybe I'll post some later tonight. I miss April. K's cupcakes and poetry printed on funky paper and HMP's (ahem) dancing and AA's sincerity and Kapka's meditations and oh!resolution's. . . what did he contribute? (Kidding. I believe the correct answer is sanity.) I'm planning on bringing you back London-y things, but you have to come find me. I'll be in Provo in my new house in July, I think. But before then, all you have to do is call. After the 14 of June, of course. Before then and you'll get my 14-year-old brother who is using my cell to collect the numbers of many, many lady friends.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
DONE
Take that, BYU. I have taken my final final as an undergraduate. Granted, it was for HEPE online, but at least it's over. Now on to bigger and better things. But before I go, I think we all need a little party to celebrate. Any takers? (And then we can find a magic pair of jeans that fits each of us perfectly (good thing it's cool for guys to wear girl pants now) and then we can mail them to each other wherever. . . oh wait. Somebody already did that.)
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
The ABBA Way of Life
Yes, I am blogging in a staff meeting. A staff meeting in which we've been talking about. . . blogging. Isn't symmetry beautiful?
I'm in a slightly-less-distressed mode today. Probably because I'm listening to conversations like "What do you get when you cross spandex and home teachers?" "I don't know, but either way it's uncomfortable."
So let's talk about in the moment writing. It's scattered and frustrating and there are blips of info that you miss because you are writing. For example, I haven't been able to crack a joke for the past few minutes because I've been writing. I'm feeling left out and because my smart mouth is missing, Mike can only use half of his brain. Not that it would be different if I was allowing myself to be sarcastic.
How is this the ABBA way of life? Simply because I had the song "Knowing Me, Knowing You. . .ah ah. . ." going through my head.
The technicalities are mind boggling. . . or blogging. How many a week? Do we need pics? Do we have to ID in pics? (To that I say, only if he's cute and single. In fact, pictures should be restricted to cute and single males. My name is eg and I have a problem. I like boys. There HMP. Are you happy? Are you satisfied? This does not, however, mean that I will not not promise to avoid boys from now on. Boys are everywhere. One half of the population.)
I'm in a slightly-less-distressed mode today. Probably because I'm listening to conversations like "What do you get when you cross spandex and home teachers?" "I don't know, but either way it's uncomfortable."
So let's talk about in the moment writing. It's scattered and frustrating and there are blips of info that you miss because you are writing. For example, I haven't been able to crack a joke for the past few minutes because I've been writing. I'm feeling left out and because my smart mouth is missing, Mike can only use half of his brain. Not that it would be different if I was allowing myself to be sarcastic.
How is this the ABBA way of life? Simply because I had the song "Knowing Me, Knowing You. . .ah ah. . ." going through my head.
The technicalities are mind boggling. . . or blogging. How many a week? Do we need pics? Do we have to ID in pics? (To that I say, only if he's cute and single. In fact, pictures should be restricted to cute and single males. My name is eg and I have a problem. I like boys. There HMP. Are you happy? Are you satisfied? This does not, however, mean that I will not not promise to avoid boys from now on. Boys are everywhere. One half of the population.)
Monday, April 11, 2005
People needing other people. . . damn them
So I haven't been writing. Not like AA hasn't been writing, but still. And I ask myself why is this? And I say to myself, Self, get your butt in gear. But my butt is stuck to a chair in front of a computer. Writing is no longer fun; it is an obligation to my GPA. Graduation means nothing. I finish this semester, go to London, come back to Utah, find a job for summer, begin school in the fall. Nothing changes. I thought something monumental was supposed to happen at some point in time. Nothing. And the damn glass is leaking.
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