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.

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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.

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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.

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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

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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.

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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.

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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.