day before a wedding

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

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

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

Suggestions? Questions? Comments?

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

talk me out of myself

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

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

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

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

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

Thought four. You are invited to my pity party.

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

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

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

In the immortal words of hmp, "Dammit."

I can't get over this

and I don't want to.

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

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

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

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

I don't know what I write.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

total eclipse

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

That being said,

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

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

.

I want to live in this song.

.

dilemma

Thursday: Free Andrew Bird concert.

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

a poem

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

in joy and the sound
of more than one breath

breathing in.

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

They all rise, holy
in the light and rising.

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

I forgot that inspiration comes from other spaces.

things I am not

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

.

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

Understand.

.

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

sugar coma

I couldn't do the pink.

This is a work in progress.

Comment accordingly.

me in pictures

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

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

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

in joy / intellectual communities / in two parts

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

.

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

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

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

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

plural / validation

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

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

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

from Lulu Meets God and Doubts Him

.

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

This is not a post about James Dewey.

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

.

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

.

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

cranky

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

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

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

head.ache

Makeover

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

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

smart(e) cart(e)

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


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

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

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


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

the more we get together

the crazier I'll be.

Jenkins Family Vacation 2008

Newport Beach, CA

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

the essential "get rejected" thing

is what Tolkien Boy calls it.

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

I gave up on lunch

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

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

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

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

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

If only all problems could be solved with token chocolate.

Prepare yourself

HarvCube

VISPO

It's 2:37 a.m.

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

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

Report

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

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

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

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

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

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

As for the rest of your suggestions:

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

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

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

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

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

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

this writing life

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

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

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

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

I'm starting this cliche out backwards.

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



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



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



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

I have no idea what to title this post

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

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

Corinna A-Maying the Apocalypse by Darcie Dennigan

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

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

after the rant cometh the poetry

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

.

Conversation

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

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

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

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

the sun,

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

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

east.

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

looking for me.

not unhappy

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

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

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

Also

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

at the end of the day

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

Normal day.

I take it back. . .

well, not all of it.

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

working 8 to 5

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

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

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

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

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

guilty pleasures

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

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

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

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

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

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

1. Chocolat: Hello.

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

BirThesisGraduPoetry Day.

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

April 11, 2008

6:00 p.m.

(call me if you're not sure where)

Someday I hope to be Mrs. Fahrenheit

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

That's really not the point of this post.

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

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

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

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

Don't answer that.

I get high with a little help from my friends

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

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

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

Anna posing for J Crew.

Group shot!

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

Anna and Brooke at Buca's.

Diet Pepsi. . . hmm.

Three people not posing. Thanks Cutchins.

the painted angel

Yes, I am awake. Yes, I am writing. Writing other than this blog. Attempting to write an intelligent conclusion to my thesis. Which I am still not bored with--I consider this both a good sign and the result of my August breakdown.

=

In other news, I seem to be unable to write a good poem. Even a decent poem. A poem I'd feel okay submitting to workshop. You'd think--or rather, I thought--that finishing the thesis would leave my mind free and easy to write poetry, but it's not happening yet. Maybe next week. A change of scenery, etc. Or maybe it will take awhile. A brilliant poet once told me that writer's block isn't writer's block--it's part of the writing process, as the brain gathers material. My brain has been gathering, even on the off days. I hope the off days end soon.

what I'm thinking about

at least what makes it way to blogger.

Hi.

Grad apps are killing me. I live for the mail. I keep every letter, even the NOs. And there have been NOs. And you have to write NO in all caps, just so you can feel the pain of NO.

Still thinking about grad apps. And moving. As in: leaving Provo. As in: leaving Utah. As in: am I really going to do this? I hate that my future is in the hands of strangers. Even more, I hate that voice in my head laughing every time I think about moving. In one month, I'll be 25. Wait. That should get its own 'graph.

I'll be 25. Not the biggest of milestones, but a milestone all the same. I know I'm still a baby, but honestly, I thought I would have lived more by 25. Or at least kissed more. Instead I have two degrees and an apartment full of books. Don't get me wrong--I love my books--but there must be other ways to live.

Okay, a few link-thoughts for you:

David Cook and Carly Smithson are the only reason to even think about American Idol this season. And AI is a million times less exciting when you're YouTubing the aftermath.

I'm not sure why I didn't get around to seeing Dan in Real Life in theaters, but it's definitely worth renting. And I heart the soundtrack. Sondre Lerche. Must buy. When I someday have money again.

Friday last

So it's a week overdue, but I felt I should announce: Friday was the best day ever. Well, maybe not the best ever, but definite top 5 material.

Friday started on Thursday night with me reciting all possible questions and all possible answers for the morning's defense. The result was a very blurry 6:45 wake up call for the actual defense.

Which went well. Not the wake up call. The defense. I'd even say very well. I passed. I passed! (Class, why would an author use repetition?)

I passed!

And then, after an hour with L and Baby, I returned to campus for the Billy Collins reading. I was sitting in the JSB auditorium (which was filled by noon) and Jon Ogden stopped by to tell me that James Dewey was on campus. James Dewey! I confess, I was more excited about that than Billy Collins.

Billy read. I laughed. Because that's what you're supposed to do when Billy reads. And then I finally found out "what happened to James Dewey." In the past two years he's become a mythical figure.

And then, Lance asked if I would like to take an open seat at the lunch with Billy Collins. Very cool. Very good food.

L and I ended the day with Enchantment, which L hadn't seen yet. It's still cute. Funny, etc. Plus, I like popcorn and diet coke for dinner.

Thank you to everyone who was cheering for me. It helped. A lot.

Professor

If you like Lost, go here.

erring on the side of grievance

Too clever? I can always subtitle this post "On Annoyance."

1. Why does the thesis format have to be so ugly? Can't I employ my skills typesetting to make it look pretty and readable? Thus masking all its flaws? Instead it's a double-spaced Times New Roman nightmare, complete with chapter titles in ALL CAPS. Ick ick ick.

2. After hauling a box of books (and then some) to the library on Monday, I discovered the library was claiming that four had not been returned. Admitting my messy standard of living (creative chaos. . . ), I double checked my apartment, although I was positive that the books were not here. And they weren't. A trip back to the library found them exactly where they were supposed to be--on the shelves.

3. I knew the thesis wasn't done, but I can't seem to find the energy to give the conclusion whatever enthusiasm it needs. What do I want to read at the end of my thesis? Nothing. Or perhaps I should write that "NOTHING."

deserved

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nLJobVC7uR4

the guilt

I've been beginning for the move in April. Because I will be moving, academic future or no. But seven years equals a lot of stuff. Books, movies, clothes, pillows. Two of my couch pillows must have mated, because they are taking over my apartment. So most of those have to be put to sleep.

I have no problem getting rid of clothes. Pillows. Random food storage. But CDs, movies, magazines, and books--it's as if I've decided to chuck my friends into a plastic bag. There's no way I can take them all with me. Maybe the CDs and DVDs in media folders. Maybe. But the books. . .

I stumbled over a solution tonight: selling books to a used bookstore in Salt Lake. They won't be subjected to the shame of DI, but still. . . am I doing the right thing?

the polls are now closed

USC won by a landslide (7 votes, most of which were courtesy of Mr. Tucker), followed by Utah, with Houston and Ohio tying for third place.

Unfortunately, these schools will not accept the editorgirl poll along with my transcripts and writing samples, so I guess we'll just have to wait for those envelopes to come in the mail. Drumroll please. . .

Cornell said no.

Utah said waitlisted.

Stay tuned as six other schools weigh in on my academic future.

- - -

In other news, my thesis defense will take place one week from today at 8:00 a.m. The gods must be crazy

Thesis is the Loneliest Number

67 pages

2 number of weeks between scheduling my defense and my defense

3 poets--Osherow, Gluck, Creech

3 committee members

1 graduate student writing her thesis

It's done.

Well, it's not done done. But it is drafted done. Intro, Osherow, Gluck, Creech, conclusion. All jammed together into one pretty little file and shipped off to the chair. I even wrote the acknowledgements.

And now I can't sleep. My brain won't turn off. Except what am I supposed to think about now? Other than sleep? And what revisions Chair will make me make in the morning? It is the morning. Maybe I should revise now. Except I can't. I might start screaming and that would wake the Abby Baby. Who is sleeping in Bountiful tonight.

So here's the plan: 8:00 a.m. Chair flips his way through the thesis. 9:00 a.m. I meet with Chair and listen obediently to what changes must be made before I send this thing on to committee. I'm hoping to be done with it by noon, or slightly after noon. And then I wait for them to tell me I can schedule my defense, which has to be done by Feburary 22. In the meantime. . .

Szymborska's "4 o'clock in the morning" suggests that what saves us from that awful hour is 5:00 a.m. But 5:00 a.m. is just as awful. Trust me. I have experienced it too many times.

Okay, meantime. I am planning a party. I'm not sure what day, but it will be after the defense. It will be a "Pass" party and if I can swing it, it will also be my 25th birthday party. I've wanted to be 25 for forever. Not sure why. But 25 is one I'm going to celebrate. I'm not sure what day (TB and K, this might be subject by any Utah-ward plans you have), but I know the schedule. 7:00 to 8:00: music and drinks. 8:00 to 9:00-ish: poetry reading/open-mic. Hey, it's an editorgirl party and the whole point is the poetry. And then the rest of the night will dissolve into conversation and celebration and more drinks and more music. Maybe cake. Maybe cupcakes.

Because you have to celebrate with cupcakes.

answers (courtesy of YouTube)

According to some of my friends, I haven't been blogging much lately (apparently pictures of the Abby Baby don't exactly count, even if they should). I've kind of written myself out with thesis and poetry attempts. So there's that. And there's the fact that it seems like the only things people want to know about my life are answers I don't have right now. For example, I don't know where I want to go to school next year, other than anywhere I applied that will let me in. (Although please see the poll at right: Where will editorgirl be in one year?). And I don't know when my thesis will be "done." Hell, I don't know what "done" means. I can't conceive of my thesis not being in progress, although I certainly will let you know when it is out of progress.

After this long list, I decided to find some questions I do have answers to. And to make it more fun, I suggest you follow the YouTube links.

The three songs I've been listening to over and over and over again.

I had to check out ABC's Eli Stone because I love Johnny Lee Miller and Victor Garber. This is the moment I decided I gave it two thumbs up.

This was the result of trying to find Victor Garber clips on YouTube.

And this was the result of spending more time on YouTube (skip to 1:40 for the performance).

Okay, so nothing groundbreaking. But it's keeping me up at night.

What's cuter than a thesis?

Answer:

and in conclusion. . .

I have just pulled another all-nighter. I'm sure my therapist and my mother won't approve, in that order, but I'm afraid it was necessary. Apparently my best thesis work happens when I'm not fully cognizant of what's going on.

Everything is now drafted, with the exception of the conclusion. You know, that part where I talk about what I mean by all those pages before. The part where I tell you you should care about all those pages before. The part where I. . .

It's not just tired. It's that I'm not sure what all this amounts to, other than graduation. I know I still feel passionate about contemporary American poetry, I still love these poets, and I think more people should read poetry, but that is a bunch of very general statements only loosely associated with the seventy pages or so that I'm ready to ship off to somewhere far far away.

How does this conclusion thing work, anyway? The Chair has told me to leave all critics behind and write as if I were talking to a class--if I were talking to a class about my thesis, it would be full of bizarre half-funny comments and warnings that graduate work can kill.

But hey, I just used the subjunctive, so I guess grad school taught me something.

No, wait. That was kindergarten.

it is

very very late. or very very early, depending on which direction you're heading. and for most people it wouldn't be either. i, on the other hand, no longer have a recognizable sleep pattern. i just sleep. a lot and at inappropriate times. which is why i didn't sleep last night. i told myself that sleep was not allowed until i have this chapter done. it's closer, but nothing meriting an all-nighter. although, based on this week's sleep, i'm not sure the past 12 or so hours qualifies as an all-nighter.

.

i stole periods from th. for this blog, and for that one poem i wrote a year ago.

.

all applications are in, as of yesterday when i was pretending i was going to have a productive day, which i would then interpret as a good day.

.

i know what i want to write. both in this blog and in the chapter. but everything keeps getting mixed up so Creech's Judas and my sleeping patterns and Kneehigh's A Matter of Life and Death, which I saw in London and read sometime this week, and various TV sitcoms and epithalamions and everything else don't have a clear place.

.

i just want to write poetry. please.

confession/post 500

I just right aligned a poem. And it kind of works.

Dammit.

499

Where do titles come from?

I'll tell you.

I don't know.

********************

Seriously, I need help here. Strong poem, absolutely no title. I'd really like to include it in my manuscript for Denver, but I refuse to not have a title and no one word or phrase really stands out as title material. Can't I just be Dickinson and use numbers?

huh

I'm working on a poem when I hear a knock on my door. Answer it. Find two home teacher-y types from the ward. Invite them in.

They asked what I was working on. I tell them I was writing. They ask what. "A poem." One asks if it's an assignment or if it's "just for fun."

Okay, so the poem wasn't assigned (hi, no classes really). But "just for fun"? No. Not at all.

exactly how it is, everytime

I've had too many thoughts in my head to put any two together for a blog. And a one sentence blog isn't really my thing. Not that it can't be done. It can. I've seen it done. Read it done. Still not me.

So where I am right now: In the Hole (what was once the basement, my apartment, my flat, and the Fen). The Hole is a bit of a mess. Actually, it's a killer mess. Dirty dishes, dirty floor, file cabinet in front of the couch (so it's a loveseat, but so inappropriate). Tomorrow is going to be the day of cleaning. Promise.

Tomorrow is also the day of the thesis. It's coming. Coming coming coming. It will be done. This chapter will be done for Monday.

On a higher note, or a different note, I did get a job. Source checking my brains out. Not my favorite way to pass the time, but I can do it and do it well. Go me.

The best part has been doing reading and writing I don't have to do. I'm sitting in on Kim's classes, reading Summa Lyrica and brilliant contemporary poets (brilliant even if they do insist on right-aligned poetry, which I can't decide if I like). Brilliant classmates as well. (Can I call them my classmates if I'm not technically in the class?)

The only thing I really want to do now is write. And sleep. Write and sleep. The perfect life.

a post on emptiness

I don't know if I can explain how empty I feel right now. Maybe all you would have to do is look at the posts from last year--so much emptiness. It's that moment at the end of a story when it's not a happy ending, not a sad ending, when life just keeps going and you're left feeling unsatisfied and unhinged. Which is what life is. I keep looking for the "The End" sign for this chapter of my life, but there isn't a sign. There is this emptiness. Not happy, not sad. Empty. No roommate, no job, no friends I see every day, no one who needs me. But there is my thesis, my sister's family, my friends who are still in contact. I feel as if I'm waiting to be filled up. This isn't a religious question so much as a life question, that "So what?" Hickman is so fond of writing on my thesis chapters. What has all this meant? What does all this mean? Am I going to find out? So much happened last year, right down to the final coutdown with K and me holding our henna tattoos away from our sides so they wouldn't smear while the rest of the world ran into each other. So much. Is it right for me to feel empty?

26 Dresses

A few months ago I predicted that 27 Dresses would be my movie for the new year. It doesn't hit theaters until January 11, but yesterday I stumbled upon a sneak preview and I dragged K along. We were late (stupid parking in stupid SLC), so we only saw 26 Dresses (quip courtesy of K), but I still thought the movie was worth blogging about. (At this point, anything is worth blogging about as long as it's not my thesis.)




Please note that there will be spoilers, although none of them should come as a surprise if you've ever seen five minutes of a romantic comedy.



Katherine Heigl plays Jane, a perpetual bridesmaid and the owner of the 27 title dresses. Jane is super-organized, super-efficient, and super-super. She's super in love with weddings and romance and articles written by Malcolm Doyle, a wedding columnist for the New York Journal. She's also super in love with her boss George (note to self: blog about how George is not a sexy name), played by Edward Burns.
As mentioned earlier, K and I missed the 25th and 26th dresses because we missed the first ten minutes of the movie, but while wearing them, Jane meets Kevin Doyle (played by surprisingly adorable and just possibly outdoor material James Marsden). The next day, Jane arrives to work to find flowers on her desk and her sister Tess arrives from Italy and her super-glamourous life as. . . something. Missed that.

We can speed up this next part: Jane goes to party, George goes to party, George mentions he left something on Jane's desk, Jane assumes flowers, George means dry cleaning ticket, Tess shows up for drinks, George meets Tess. Oh, and Kevin sent the flowers.

Tess falls for George, George falls for Tess, and suddenly Jane is planning her sister's wedding to the man of Jane's dreams. In the meantime, Kevin is booking it after Jane--literally. In one of my favorite moments of the movie, Kevin returns Jane's day planner, but only after penning his name in every Saturday for the rest of the year.

Here's the spoiler/twist you may not see coming: Kevin Doyle is Malcolm Doyle. He's writing an article about Tess and George--but he's also writing an article about Jane's state as a perpetual bridesmaid. Hence the booking. Sad, because he really is cute. Cynical and cute make an excellent leading man.


The movie works itself out exactly as it's supposed to, complete with a boat scene and "Benny and the Jets." And most importantly, as K pointed out, Jane gets around to kissing both guys. We awarded the movie 3.5 out of 5 stars, mostly because Marsden wasn't on screen enough. He really was that cute.

Happy Christmas

I know I'm American and that an American who says "Happy Christmas" is pretenious. But if you're reading this blog, you know that at times I can be pretenious. Just a little.

I've been considering a long list of possible Christmas-y posts. Something about how I've given up my Grinch-like ways or how my mom keeps trying to create new Christmas "traditions" or how the baby has taken over Christmas. And then the Christmas Eve present happened and it wasn't pajama pants--it was "Jenkins University" t-shirts. Not sure what message they're trying to send with those. . . but I did promise that I'd walk if they wore them to graduation. I'm just not sure which definition of "walk" I should say I meant.

Speaking of definitions, I took a test yesterday. A test. I haven't taken a test in at least a year. But this was for a job (have I mentioned that I'm currently jobless?) that I'd really love. And I got stuck on the first question: List five of your favorite books and explain why. I had to come back to it.

So what Santa needed to bring me was a job. A job, an acceptance to a PhD program, and, to quote my grandfather, "a fat little friend" (i.e., gentlemen caller). Maybe a car. And a finished thesis.

I did get a chair.

SOS: Millennium Bridge

I'm trying to put the finishing touches on my graduate applications. This is one poem I'm hoping is nearing completion, or at least presentability. Is that a word? Oh well. Please to tell me what you think.

Millennium Bridge

St. Paul’s grows larger, larger until I
am standing on its roof,

the city small at my feet,
the city spiraling at my feet.
I can see from here—

here where breath comes cold,
and draws back to the river,
crawls across the river

to the heat of the Globe,
to the false sun heavy setting.
I hold it between my fingers,

hold it all, let go, wait to disappear
in audience applause.

TMI

Every time this time of the month rolls around, I recite the few lines I remember from a 319 poem: "It's a relief / when the blood comes." I didn't particularly like the rest of the poem--are you supposed to like 319 workshops?--but I can't shake those lines. And the thought that maybe this should be a relief. But right now my legs are cramping up and I know any craving I satisfy will result in stomachaches for what will seem like forever. I'm sure there are worse things. I'm sure I'll experience worse things. But right now, there's no relief.

on chapped lips

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

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

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

because tomorrow there will be more important things to blog about

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



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

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

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

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

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

on thesising

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

of blogging blogging blogging blogging blogging blogging

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

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

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

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

PhD or Bust.

of kissing

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

Here we go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kissing Color?

Your Kiss is Pink

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

What Color Is Your Kiss?

everything I should be doing right now

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





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

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

Brian Doyle is coming Friday. Friday!

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

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

bruised

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

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

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

What I'm in love with right now

courtesy of one fabulous, concert-heavy weekend.

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






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



















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

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

The Skinny Mice @ Muse

3 Reasons to Love the Skinny Mice

Jimmy D

Laura

Rosie

Wait. . . what is Spencer doing there?

Can you say "Tin Whistle"?

Can you say "Genius"?

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

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

something to burn

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

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

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

consolation prize: the weekend

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

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

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

what does this mean?

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