K is for cupcake

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

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

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

Behold the Cupcake.

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

you remind me

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








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

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

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

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

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

This damn wind.

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

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

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

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

Not an easy thing, this wind.

Don't freak out

but tonight I'm kind of happy.

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

I missed post 700

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What are your movie mile markers?

eg hates. oh dear.

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

Yeah. I hate them too.

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

Okay. I still hate them.

. . .

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

guess what

I love you.

That is all.

enforcing gender stereotypes.

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

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

puppies.


and kittens.


okay, not so much with the kittens.


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




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

I love to see the temple

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


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


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


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


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


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

No More Than Reason: eg loves Much Ado

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



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

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

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

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

.

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

sigh no more, lady

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

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



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

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

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

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

*artwork found on Typcut.

and we'll watch Christmas TV

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

Maybe this.







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



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

20 times.

01.11.10

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

maybe not.

. . .

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

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

I used to throw wonderful parties.

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

. . .

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

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

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

twenty ten

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

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

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

Do you see where I'm going with this?

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

white night

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

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

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

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

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

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

chilly in Chicago

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

Story the first.

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

Which I did. In a snowstorm.

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

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

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

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

Too bad I didn't take a picture.

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

Story the second.

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

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

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

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

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

But just almost.

Christmas music (not sung by Muppets)

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

Okay then.

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

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

Maybe happy is the wrong word.

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

Christmas shopping: check

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

l love all the pregnant women in my life

but I love this just a little bit more.

why do you let me stay here?

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

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

Or one whole day to actually be sick.

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

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

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



This time tomorrow night, I predict the following:

pretty much the coolest thing ever

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

it was the most wonderful time of the year

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

Blogging.

.

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

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

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


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


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


Anna and I attempt to absorb some history. . .


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


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


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


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


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

spent and overspent

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

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

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

So much for lecture number two.

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

Don't answer that.

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

this will make your day a little better

found here

necessary things to know about South Carolina

The capitol and largest city is Columbia.

It was named after King Charles I.

It was one of the thirteen original colonies.

It comes between Rhode Island and South Dakota alphabetically.

The state bird is the Carolina wren. The state wild game bird is the wild turkey.

The state dog is the poodle.

Major highways include the I-20, I-26, I-77, and I-385.

The state slogan is "Smiling Faces Beautiful Places."

The most important thing to know about South Carolina: Anna and Brooke live there. And I'm going to visit them in less than two weeks.

I love South Carolina.

confession

so. here's the thing. i am really. . . happy. happy enough that i am ignoring all capitalization tonight. throwing caution to the wind, that one.

okay. i'm happy. i know this is going to sound terrible, but it feels really weird. i haven't been happy for a long time. not like this. maybe not ever (at least since puberty).

should i be worried?

i'm trying to figure out what's changed. it's not that this week has been perfect. it's been irritating and long at times. but each day seems to end well.

monday: my professor finally let someone else read a poem. "lady lazarus" by sylvia plath. i read it; it was amazing. it just. . . "Dying / is an art, like everything else. / I do it exceptionally well. // I do it so it feels like hell. / I do it so it feels real." sorry. can't disrespect the poem. sigh.

tuesday: no class, one-on-one conferences with professor kinzie. and i hate to sound like sally fields, but she likes me, she really likes me. and my poetry, which is more important.

wednesday: dinner with barbara after institute. always fun. dinner with B, not institute. but then--here's the scary bit--i stayed up late cleaning my apartment. it's not like i never clean, but, i never clean. it's lovely. oh, and wednesday is when i found a couch on craigslist for $75. and it's a nice couch. i know, because it's now in my apt, looking all comfy and 90s.

so thursday. and i can't keep up the lowercase any longer. I finally saw Mass tonight. It's been at least five, maybe six, years since Justin introduced me to the music. And it was glorious and overwhelming and inspiring. I'm hoping it's jumpstarted something in my brain, something new. It was beautiful, but not in a pretty kind of way. I'm going to attempt a full post on it tomorrow, after I've processed.

And the company wasn't too bad either.

under pressure

Peer pressure is a nasty little thing. It's even nastier when it comes in the guise of a bridal shower.

We could pause here to explain to all the menfolk that a bridal shower is not a bachelorette party. A bridal shower is the bachelorette's cardigan-wearing tea-party-hosting sister. Which is all we really can hope for--hours of opening Pyrex and pillows and the occasional un-risque lingerie.

Okay. It wasn't that bad. The bridal shower I went to on Saturday was actually everything a bridal shower should be: informal and friendly, featuring Diet Coke and cupcakes. And it was short. I was also excited/happy for the bride, which makes for a less-excruciating afternoon.

What was bad was the ride to and from the shower. Not so much the company, but the conversation. And not so much the conversation, but what the conversation made me do.

The company was our new second counselor's wife, who was driving, and another "single sister." (Anybody else want to throw a punch?)

The conversation almost naturally fell to dating. (Why couldn't we just talk about the cupcakes and Diet Coke?) The 2nd counselor's wife is out to marry us all off. After circling the same topics of boys-need-to-ask, girls-need-to-flirt a few times, I told a story, hoping to end the conversation. The punchline of the story was that I had told a guy I was interested in that "I don't date." (Which I don't. I am honest to a fault.) It didn't end the conversation; it accelerated it, with the full force on how I was going to correct the situation. I mentioned a possible solution: a production I was already planning on going to this weekend at NU. "What a marvelous idea!"

I put that plan in my pocket, bought my lonelygirl ticket, and went to church on Sunday fancy-free. And I was accosted. Had I talked to the boy? Had I asked him out? Could I point him out again?

So I talked to the boy. I (kind of) asked him out. I even pointed him out again. And now I have a (kind of) date on Thursday.

Next time, kids, learn from my mistake: Just say no. (Or don't say "I don't date" and then tell the 2nd counselor's wife about it.)

?

I taught Relief Society a few weeks ago. It was about marriage. Marriage and family. Our two favorite topics. Well, maybe your two favorite topics. Not so much in a singles ward. But I am teacher, hear me teach.

Charity and I were joking about how I could just start the lesson by saying, "My name is Editorgirl and I want to get married." So that's what I did. Only without the 'nym. And then I recruited Charity and four other girls to join me. I decided the best approach wasn't the usual "well, someday it will happen" or "I know lots of cool married people," but this crazy straightforward approach of "we want to get married and here's why." Honest, optimistic, open. Genuine.

The next Sunday the second counselor who had been sitting in on my lesson told me he had enjoyed my lesson. And that he hoped my writing was as witty and sarcastic as my lesson had been.

Honest. Open. Genuine. Sarcastic. One of these things is not like the other.

There should be a conclusion here, but I'm not sure what it is. Suggestions?

happy the first

I'm not sure I can keep looking at my face every time I pull up my blog. It's not a bad face, it's just my face and I spend too much time with it. (Was that vain or just sad and lonely? and please note that in the first unedited version of this post, I did in fact spell that v-e-i-n. Happy Halloween.)

My mom sent me a newspaper article about writing down one happy thing a day, or something like that (I was distracted by the envelope full of pictures). I obviously haven't been doing that, but I thought maybe I'd try (maybe I was inspired to change the name of this blog a few years ago from "bitter diatribe is redundant" to it's current flying state). Maybe I should lay off the parentheses. They're addictive.

So. Happy thing from yesterday is unfortunately kind of easy, and by "unfortunately," I should mean I have to stretch to find something I wouldn't normally see. But I'm just warming up here, so I'm going to count it. Last night was a Charity night, meaning a $5 pizza and several hours of good and random conversation. We've already discussed our deepest darkest; last night we finally got around to comparing our TV watch list. Which reminds me: if I had started this happy-a-day thing on Tuesday, I so would have listed the first few minutes of this week's Castle. Nathan Fillion, I love you*. (Or I love the writers of the shows that make me love you.)

*In a non-creepy, non-obsessed kind of way. I'm saving that kind of love for someone special.

cut it out.

This is what my hair looked like last Saturday.


This is what it looks like now.


But wait, Larry. I can't tell if she likes it. Look at her face.


Pretty serious for a new haircut.


I think she likes it.

(unrequited) love and salsa

Limited edition salsa. For Sarah (I'm not talking in the third person.)

There is a blog post here, but I'm not sure what it is.

I'll sleep on it.

I should be sleeping right now.

this is just to say

last night my prof described my most recent offering as "precarious," "weird," and "marvelous."

I know the success of a poem doesn't depend on a prof's feedback, but dammit, that felt good.

wired

This time last week, I kind of wanted to die. Or at least stay in bed for an extended period of time. Which may not have been a bad idea. But tonight--well, like the title says, I'm wired. (This will be a problem when I should actually be in bed. Which is now.)

This weekend was a little crazy, but good crazy, not crazy crazy. Friday night I hit Nevins with Sarah & co. long enough to drink one watered down Diet Coke (sad day) before running out the door, down the street, and to the El. Correction: I sauntered. The train took me to the Book Cellar, where John Koethe was reading. Yes, the poet who caused so much pain and suffering last week. It was penance (and kissing up to my prof). I ended the night with a Little Caesar's pizza and Charity, my favorite criminal defense lawyer.

Saturday I slept in-ish. I'm not sure what counts for sleeping in anymore, but it felt like sleeping in. I cleaned for a little while before hopping on the El again, this time to meet up with Tamry (who said I don't have any friends). We drove to Ikea, which is my kind of Disneyland. We were there at least four hours, which was just plain awesome. We bought lamps and picture frames and tables and chairs and some brilliant bookends in the shape of the letter B (which makes me think of a Muppet Family Christmas when Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street corner Doc from Fraggle Rock and name the letter that every word Doc says starts with. He ends the conversation by saying he's going to make some bunkbeds--"Bunkbeds! B words!" It's got to be on YouTube. . .It is! See bottom of post. Oh, just go there now.). We ended the outing at California Pizza Kitchen. Yum yum yum.

Sunday was another busy/crazy day. I actually woke up early, which was a problem because (1) it was Fast Sunday, and (2) my branch now meets at 3:00, which means eating doesn't happen until 6:00 at the earliest. But I distracted myself with reading and some light cleaning and emailing Seth before my visiting teachers stopped by. And then it was off to the races. The weird thing was, I like this building better and the time isn't as bad as I thought it would be. Church was pretty good, and we had a break the fast. The food was okay, but when you've been fasting all day, it was amazing. (Actually, there was a cheesecake that deserved that adjective.)

This has been a long post, brought to you by the letter B and the number 12, as in what time it is. So I guess we'll just have to wait until tomorrow for the poetry smackdown that was class this evening. Good night.

i'm in love

I've decided to use letters in my apartment. I know it's a random decorating choice, but it's one that makes me happy. That being said, I think I need one of these letter pillows (custom made out of retired suit jackets!).

the way you felt yesterday afternoon

I realized, just after I hit "publish," that while I had thought and felt every single thing I wrote yesterday, I didn't necessarily believe what I had written. It would be easier, or at least a different kind of hard, to live a different life. I have a full-time job. I could stop going to school, stop writing, etc. I've made this choice to live this life and I'm going to live it.

I wanted to tell you that I survived yesterday, survived last night. That my line breaks are shoddy and I drift off into adjectival fragments and my writing requires thought and revision. That in the last line of the penultimate stanza, she wrote "ah!" That my writing is worth thought and revision.

Thank you for letting my cry on your shoulder last night. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some writing to do.

unepiphany

Yesterday I wrote a poem. Considering my level of production over the past few months, this was a momentous occasion.

Or should have been.

It was an assignment. After reading John Koethe, I was supposed to "imitate the features that most interest you." He struck me as a next-generation New York school poet--Frank O'Hara meets the philosophical (which is an obvious reading: Koethe's PhD is in philosophy and the poem I linked you to is about hanging out with Ashbery and O'Hara--but I didn't know that when I read the first set of poems I was given). There's also some lines he's pulled from Eliot, but I'm not sure I was supposed to notice that--it suggests an unhealthy love of Prufrock, which in turn suggest the anti-social status of my existence.

Tangent.

The poem was an assignment, and Koethe had one long, sectioned poem. The stanzas were tercets and each section had a different rhyme scheme. I was intrigued by an "axb bxa" scheme, and set out to imitate that, along with his ten-syllable lines.

This is a complete antithesis of everything I've been writing over the past year. My form has collapsed into what Kim Johnson generously terms "unlineated verse," and what Jeff Tucker dubbed "parastanzas." I love my loose, wandering poems--maybe too much. It was revealing to construct a poem with a strict form, to attempt rhymes and meter again.

I'm not sure what I found. I'm not sure what it is. What scares me is that, without knowing I was headed in that direction, the poem was in a garden. It was concerned with telling a story over and over again, revising and redirecting the reader's attention. It's the same poem I've been writing, only with an obvious, definable form.

I said it scares me, and it does. What if I can only write this poem: the couple in the garden. I know it's a classic subject. It's been done before, it will be done again. But is my mind so preoccupied with relationships and religion that I can't write anything else? If this is all I can write, should I be writing?

Should I be writing? This blog used to be a place where I offered up my worst fears, often the worst version of myself. I'm not asking if I should stop writing. But this career and life that I'm pursuing, am I worthy of it? Is my writing worthy of it? I love teaching, and you don't have to be a writer to teach. I love literature, and you don't have to be a writer to read. Is this MFA, this time I'm taking to "write," is it worth it? Not just for me, but for the people I could be with, the students I could be teaching.

I leave for you my exercise in form and humiliation. I'm terrified of class tonight, terrified to hear my professor--a poet I respect--tell me I shouldn't be a writer. What if she said that? Would I listen?

If I were to tell this story again—
We start our walk slow across the garden,
Our steps lingering on uneven stone,

On the uneven edge of garden grown
To mimic a field, the world uncluttered.
But the grass was trimmed and clean around when

We walked gate to garden, garden to door.
We walked apart, peregrines unaware
Of path, our hands grasped in prayer uncommon

Father, forgive us, Father, know us. Amen.
And in the garden, our grasped hands blossom,
Bloom red, bloom white, bloom and bloom and put your

Hand against my hand. This was the story—
We walked into a garden ungated,
My hand at your elbow, holding where flesh

Meets flesh, tentative embrace—our mouths left
Free to pray. We walked into a garden,
Sat under blooms and trees and somehow we

Watched the world, our garden, fade. Again our
Story. You, me, the garden. An easy
Comparison to everything that came

Before. We walk in the garden, come
To believe in grass uneven, in blooms
And trees and then the winter, in the hour

When our world turns and you are gone. I walk
Into the garden, outline the path
With careful steps, with the white bloom of snow.

My hands chap red, leave markings you would know—
This was our story. We walked into a
Garden. We walked in a garden. We walked.

epiphany

I had a sudden moment of clarity this morning as I was balancing on the lid of my toilet, trying to angle the mirror over the sink in order to re-consider the outfit I was wearing.

I really need to buy a bigger mirror.

believe it

So, oh ye of little faith, I'm blogging. Blogging blogging blogging.

Fact: It helps to have something to blog about. For the past I don't know how long, I've been composing posts in my head. Last night I was reciting something brilliant about how the entire world is pregnant (not in a Keatsian "season of mist and mellow fruitfulness" kind of way, but in a pregnant pregnant kind of way). It's all gone now--although the entire world is still pregnant.

What, then, should I blog about? The usual late night angst and anxiety isn't present, which makes little to no sense. I live for, thrive on, my late night angst and anxiety.

Yesterday, at Institute, we discussed talents and gifts, how we develop them, how we maintain them.

Thesis: I have a talent for being alone.

I'm sitting in my studio-ish apartment (we'll take the tour in the near future and you'll see why it isn't a true studio), quite satisfied with the little world I'm slowly creating for myself here. It might have something to do with the vintage Royal typewriter sitting on the desk I managed to reassemble (courtesy of my friend Sarah) or the Belle and Sebastian posters that arrived yesterday. But really, I'm just happy in my space. Happy. Not a word you often see on this blog.

Returning to the world-is-pregnant, I mentioned this to a friend last night. I hope she doesn't mind my repeating this, but her response was "I know. And I keep hoping you'll meet someone and get married and be pregnant too." My first thought was, Please no. Not right now. Future, yes, sure, bring on the offspring. But I'm good alone. I'm trying to understand this life that I somehow find myself living. It's not what I expected--it's nothing that I expected. But it's my life.

Cue Bon Jovi.

And guess what. I'll see you tomorrow.

we apologize for the delay

After all the excitement and buildup, I still don't have an internet connection. Which completely ruined my planned weekend of watching everything on Hulu and Netflix and YouTube that I've missed in the past two months. It also means that I didn't get to blog this weekend. Which is sad.

We expect to be moving shortly.

public service announcement

after a year of sacrifice (read: no consistent internet connection), I'll be back online tomorrow night around 8:30 p.n. (post-Nevins)

which means this blog is back.

see you tomorrow.

wants and needs

I signed the lease for my apt last night. I should be moving in the next week or so. And even though I have a bed (!), there's a list of things I kind of need: a shower curtain, a garbage can. I've been spending free time (read: lunch) on design blogs, and while I may need a shower curtain and a garbage can, I keep putting these on my list of "Things to Buy ASAP for Apt." It's a mental list.

Ellen Print by Tuesday Mourning

She & Him poster by The Small Stakes

update

I found an apt. (It's a studio, so it doesn't get to be an "apartment.")

I have a bed.

Seth went into the MTC. In 2.5 weeks, he'll be in New Zealand.

Abby had her second birthday.

I celebrated the second anniversary of my Failure.

The apt. will have internet (once I get it set up), so I should return to blogging in a week or two.

I dream in spreadsheets.

a saturday post comes on monday

I’ve never understood how to not love someone anymore. There are movies and novels and songs about learning to let go of one love and accept a new one. They are some of my favorite movies and novels and songs—and maybe they are the reason I don’t understand love. Granted, this is just another theory I’ve been handed from movies and novels and songs (most noticeably, (500) Days of Summer and High Fidelity). But right now (cue self-pity moment), it seems as though the only way I’ll ever be able to experience love, or even Love, is via my need for movies and novels and songs. Even poetry, which I approach with a much more critically discerning eye, feeds that need I have to connect with this—what is this? An emotion? A defining moment? A chance to live a different life? What is love? How do you define it, how do you get it? I feel like I’ve spent my life studying this idea, but without any practical application.

This meditation comes on the heels of my Michael discovery (see this rambling post), finding out a close friend is engaged (via Facebook, which is an another post), and then finding out, less than two months after I heard him talk about being single and disappointed with himself and me being that encouraging pep talk (yes I got the verb right), that Michael is now engaged. Also via Facebook (I really should write that post). All this begs the question: What the hell?

Tonight, however, is my trump card. I gave myself the day to indulge in (500) Days of Summer, which was brilliant and gave me a new appreciation for both The Smiths and Joseph Gordon-Leavitt, who was just plain perfect (every man should dress like he does in this movie). I resigned myself to the feelings and arguments I initiated this post with. I curled up on my couch, watched a few episodes of Freaks and Geeks, courtesy of Netflix, and then decided it was time for bed. I was going to sing myself to sleep with sad stories of my forever-single existence, accompanied by the recitation of men I have liked or loved or just plain wanted watch from a distance.

I checked my phone. Which was a mistake. I checked my phone, and Michael had texted me. Twice. Every time we meet up, he brings up writing (or in this text, “writting”) a novel or screen play together. No amount of telling him that I write poetry stops this. And tonight he texted me about it again.

He’s engaged. He’s never been interested in me. I’m sounding like a stalker. I know all this. So why can’t I convince my pulse not to accelerate when I see his name? When will it be my turn to move on? (And does anyone know a cute guy in Chicago to facilitate all this?)

still in love

with Zooey Deschanel, She & Him, and now this music video. (I really want to see (500) Days of Summer.)

i really should mention

I got a job. A real-live job.

Which means I get to stay in Chicago, and in Northwestern's MFA program.

Go team.

Next adventure: editorgirl finds an apartment. More chills, more thrills, but it better not take 11 months.

samuel baby

I used to roll my eyes at friends who showed off their nieces and nephews, and now I'm one of them. As of 10:30 yesterday morning, Stephen and Ashton are now the proud and totally stylish parents of Samuel Martin Jenkins.
And Abby is one very excited cousin. I'm sad I missed the special day, but I'm excited to hit H&M for baby Samuel.

Oh My Abby

I just found this picture on Lauren's blog. I miss this little girl, but how cute is she?

And Maryn took and photoshopped this pic. She (Maryn) is on her way to being a genius photog. Having such a perfect model can't hurt.

showing off

I posted a few months ago about the chapbook project I was working on for my poetry workshop. This is a small collection of poems, most of them written in Chicago. I asked a friend to paint a watercolor of an orange tree--she brilliantly sent me three different options, and this one was exactly what I was hoping for. I printed the first cover page on vellum (classic copy guy question: "You know that you'll be able to see your title page through the vellum, right?" My cranky answer: That's the point), with the second cover page on a linen-textured paper. I spent way too much time cutting the paper down to the write size (yay, Xacto knife!), then folding and sewing the books together (look, Mom, I'm sewing!).

The moral of this story is that I have a few extra chapbooks. So, if you're interested, I'll mail them this week to the first four people who ask for them.

I might be getting ahead of myself

but I have a job interview in 30 minutes. When I left the apartment this morning, I didn't have a job interview today. So I left the house in an old Tshirt (not gross old, but clearly not new) and a skirt. And flip-flops.

Here's hoping the interviewer has a good sense of humor.*




*It ruins the shock value, but for the record, I told her I wasn't dressed for an interview and she said that was fine, as it was so last minute. But I'm still wearing flip-flops. At least I shaved my legs last night.

all is not lost (yet)

Two of my poems are going to be published.*



*"and now they came like rain and were real" and "There are no wings in Ecclesiastes." I guess they like long titles. And I'll post the link (it's an online journal) as soon as they're up.

dis-couraged

I don't know what to do.

I just spent an hour tailoring my resume and writing a new cover letter for a position that was pretty much my dream job. I felt good about my application, I was excited that maybe something good was going to come from all these weeks of waiting. I sent the email and got started on the homework I was supposed to be working on.

On a whim, I checked the website again, just minutes after sending my application. The job is no longer posted.

I know that the employment situation is awful for everyone right now. I know talented, awesome people who can't find a job. I happen to be one of them. But I am so frustrated. How many times am I going to go through the nervousness, the anticipation, the interviews, the waiting, only to find out that I'm still unemployed?

I had this moment last night where I felt like life was looking up. I'm trying so hard to hang on to that feeling and the belief that something will work out. I just don't know how long I can stay this course.

crash course

I need to write a long question-answering post. The problem is I don't have any answers just yet. So here's a pic from my Utah visit--my very fun Utah visit. We danced in the rain, went shopping (a few times), hit Yogurt Stop (a few times), made Chuck Bartowskis (sandwiches), went to the Oquirrh Mountain Temple open house. . . played with sparklers. . . it was a long, awesome weekend.