merry christmas to all

and to all a Little Debbie Christmas Tree Snack Cake.

I'm serious. The past few years, I've gone out of my way to be the grinchiest of Grinchs. I believe it brings order to the universe. But nothing says Holiday Spirit to me like a box of Christmas Tree snack cakes. I don't know if it's the vanilla cake or the vanilla frosting or those green sprinkles on top. And maybe it's just a little more than my usual dose of pathetic that I can get happy over such a small thing when Christman carols make me consider cutting off both ears (take that, Van Gogh). Christmas just isn't Christmas without them, though. And since my Macey's run last night produced the first box of the season, the season can officially begin.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

I always care. I don't always know.

Warning: Do not listen to Death Cab for Cutie when you are extremely prone to nostalgia and any degree of melancholy.


I like Thanksgiving. I like turkey and family and stuffing and organized leaf jumping. But I went so willingly to Hurricane this year because I knew it was time to visit Ivins again.


Ivins is where Trent is buried. The last time I went was over a year ago, just a few months after he died. They didn't have a headstone yet or any marker and I didn't know where his grave was. I walked from plot to plot, finally stopping at the west end of the cemetery. There were things there that made me think, but I didn't know.


This year there was still no headstone, but I had directions and pictures from K. I went to the grocery store in Hurricane the night before for flowers--small pink and burgandy roses with a few alstromeria. Not bad for small town Utah. (I consciously chose the girliest wrap available.)

My dad drove me out to Ivins on Thanksgiving morning. (I don't like driving the family suburban and he needed a break from family together time.) Thirty minutes there. Dad thought I should leave a poem or something. I did leave something--just a few sentences, copied from my Christmas present from Trent. I took the flowers out of their wrapping (because it wasn't girly, just ugly), and left them at the side of the large red rock that marks his place. The note was underneath. I was only there for maybe ten minutes.


And then thirty minutes back to Hurricane and family and organized leaf jumping.


Hey Trent: I love you.

In Hurricane, we celebrate Thanksgiving

by allowing small children to launch their small bodies into a large pile of leaves (aka organized leaf jumping).

blog Q and A

For some reason I felt compelled to do this.

Q: And me? (Because remember, it's all about me.)
A: It is all about you.

Q: What grad programs (and young men) have you decided on?
Utah, Ohio, Houston, Michigan, plus one or two. As for the young men. . . they exist.

Q: Yeah, you owe us all some info. . . men that exist in real life???
A: A girl has to move on. Especially when Jake Gyllenhaal turns out too short.

Q: Was number seven directed towards me and recent occurrences?
A: No. Number eight.

Q: I guess I'm out of touch, but what was your brother supposed to be?
A: Well, I asked for either a sister or a dog. They came later.

Q: Did you wear your sexy Velma glasses with your dirt costume?
A: No. But I was still sexy.

Q: Did they play their patented TV theme song medley? Did I spell "medley" right?
A: Yes. Unless you meant M-A-D-L-Y.

Q: You think I trust you to decide for yourself what you're watching and feeling?
A: You don’t trust me to do anything.

Q: But surely there are exceptions?
A: There are always exceptions. Except when there aren’t.

Q: Isn't this a flavor at pudding on the rice?
A: Isn’t everything a flavor at pudding on the rice?

Q: How does one grade poetry, anyhow?
A: One closes one’s eyes and randomly marks the page.

Q: Can you bump up the release date?
A: I could, but then I’d have to kill you.

Q: What's wrong with your last post?
A: Many many things.

Q: Where did you go?
A: Where no wo/man has gone before.

Q: Did I spell "elaborate" right?
A: Yes.

Q: Are you living in a theory world?
A: Against my will. . . I am sent to bid you come into supper.

Q: Is that Diet Nepenthe with Lime? What Hitchcock movie was it? Are you serious about the seven-yr.-crush? My heart throws itself into a garbage disposal in empathy for you. Isn't it strange how the people who are so wonderful to you and who you care so much about are the ones who make your life so crappy?
A: Is there any other kind? I hope it was Psycho. Yes. And yes.

Q: Is "treats" a Utahism?
A: Yes. And apparently so is everything else that comes out of my mouth.

Q: Poetry?
A: What else is there?

Q: Do you look disapprovingly at people over the top of them?
A: Isn’t that why one wears glasses?

Q: Does this mean you're going to fob all night tonight?
A: And party every day.

Q: The real world is scary, but so what?
A: So you ignore it and read lots of things that replace the real world. Try it. You’ll like it.

Q: Did I mention you're beautiful?
A: No. Say it again, Sam.

Q: Is it a poem? For if it isn't, will you make it one?
A: It is a poem. Now. Look at me being all obedient and stuff.

Q: Can I please join your support group?
A: Email me with a statement of intent. Preferably one I can use for my grad school apps.

Q: Is that too sappy?
A: Yes.

Q: Isn't it cute when they try to make sense of these things?
A: Cute isn’t the word I’d use to describe it.

Q: Can't you come up with better reasons than that?
A: Apparently not.

Q: And can we mention she's played by the incomparable Emma Thompson?
A: She’s played by the incomparable Emma Thompson.

Q: How exactly does one simultaneously account for an event that *did* occur and several events that could have?
A: The Fob Pantheon. That and Zizek.

genius

Attention: Prepared to be ranted at. Or to. At or to. Whatever you/I/we decide, it will be a rant.

My family is unusually brilliant. Take, for example, me. Or Sven, LaLa, the Jester, Marzipan. Plus the parents. Oh, and the dog. All very very smart, talented individuals. Emphasis on the very.

Tonight's subject is the Jester. He earned his nickname four-ish years ago when he played the Jester in Once Upon a Mattress. The year before that he was in the barbershop quartet in Music Man, and the year after he was Will Parker in Oklahoma! And then he was Baby John in West Side and the Genie in Aladdin. Not only is he a good actor, but the boy can sing.

For some reason, all of his talent and success has not translated to his high school musical theatre program. I know high school programs are political, but this one goes above and beyond. And after being cast in the chorus for the second year, we (the family) expected him to get a good role in the Broadway revue. Tonight I found out he pulled one small solo in a song called "It Sucks to Be Me" from Avenue Q. And while censoring annoys and frustrates the hell out of me, I don't think Avenue Q is appropriate for high school students. And that my little brother should not be required to sing "It sucks to be me." He's one who listened to the "don't swear" from our parents. He's the one who is super sensitive about language.

a girl's got to do

I have taken to eating entire packages of Pepperidge Farm Parmesan Goldfish in single sittings. And yet in spite of this—or perhaps because of this—I bought the three highest pairs of high heels I’ve had in years today.

the great debate

(at least the great debate going on in my head)

I thought once I decided on creative writing, the answers were there. And then once I decided on a PhD in creative writing, the answers were there. And then once I decided "the best creative writing program that will let me in," the answeres were there. But no. Each decision just gives me more decisions to make. Today's special: where to apply.

This is one list I keep thinking I have figured out. And for the most part, I do. Houston, Ohio, Iowa, Michigan, Virginia, NYU. . . my humility is overwhelming, I know. But there's a school that keeps hovering, one so appealing I can't help but want to apply. And yet. . .

The U has always been. . . the U. It's the "other university," the one I never even considered attending. It was too close to home, and it just wasn't BYU. And now that I've been looking at grad programs, I've been looking outside of the state, wanting to leave, wanting to experience something new. And I know Salt Lake isn't Provo. But it's still Salt Lake.

I am going to apply. The program benefits outweigh the fifteen minute drive to the Land Bountiful. Decision made.

For now.

Do you know what today is?

No.

nope.

Try again.

No, I don't Care that my caps are off.

Yes. Yes I do.

You still don't know.

Do you?

Think.

Think real hard.

Got it?

I don't think you do.

Come on.

It's easy.

Well, easy for me.

But most things are.

Ready?

One

two

three.

Happy BlogDay to Me!

But then again, you knew that.

ice cube

I know I delivered that cute little teaser in my last post. And one of these days the movie will come out (Julia Stiles will play me, with Val Kilmer as Tolkien Boy, Liv Tyler as Melyngoch, and John Cusack as John Cusack). Until then. . . Ice Car.

This is what I found when I went out to my car this morning. (Okay, not that bad, but you get the idea.) But it was an ice cube. I attempted to open the passenger door, with absolutely no luck. After some coercing (read: kicking, swearing, digging at it with my fingernails and the cover of a library book), I got the back door on the driver's side open, found my ice pick . . . scraper . . . thing, and begin scraping. Five minutes and I could drive away without threatening myself or anyone else on the road. And then as I turned onto 800 North, I heard a pop. I freaked out, because this is what I do when a sound happens anywhere near my car.

The passenger door had finally thawed.

things that make me feel guilty

• seeing professors who teach the class I plan on skipping (or skipped) that day
• taking more than a week to return papers to my students
• using one word to answer a question that deserves a paragraph (and vice versa)
• reading my friends' blogs and not leaving a comment
• being more interested in the toddler I'm holding than the presentation going on in front of me
• ignoring a friend
• asking another writer to change what they've written for not aesthetic reasons
• not finishing an assignment
• forgetting someone's name
• liking the same guy as a friend
• not blogging for an extended period of time (especially when I've decided on grad programs, been introduced to The Weepies, gone to AA's cabin, introduced and eaten lunch with a really cool poet, read a dozen good books, become obsessed with a few more TV shows, and encountered at least three young men who I enjoy looking at, and who exist in real life.)

For Halloween

I was dirt.

But I don't have a picture of that. So here's my incredibly cute brother and sister. I think you can tell who is who.

myth

I shouldn't use my blog to avoid homework. And I'm not avoiding homework. . . not exactly. I'm sure at some point I'll mention Barthes and whatever Barthes is talking about. Maybe I'll mention that I find Barthes easier to understand than Culler, who is supposed to be explicating Barthes and is doing a rather poor job. Or I'll just write Barthes because it's a bizarre combination of letters and sounds all working against each other in my brain when I try to figure out how to pronounce Barthes. And no, I don't want to be instructed in the pronunciation of Barthes or linguistics or anything else, unless it's the accelerated whatever that Optimistic has been touting. And even then, I may not pay attention.

Actually, I can guarantee that I won't pay attention. It's just a fact of life right now, limited attention span. Limited attention span, excessive sleeping, disinterest (Matthew Arnold would be so proud), aggressive roller coastering. Yesterday it was a relief to not finish my homework assignment, spend forty minutes looking for a parking spot, and dump a Jamba down my shirt because it gave me something to be upset about. Right now I'm upset about the Hollywood Ten, courtesy of Eli Wallach's guest appearance on Studio 60 (watching that on NBC rewind is really how I was avoiding doing my homework tonight). I like Eli Wallach--I didn't like him at first, for his role in How to Steal a Million, but since then--he's amazing. And he was quite good in How to Steal a Million, his character was just annoying. Something similar to my hating Fred Astaire after watching Holiday Inn. I couldn't stomach Funny Face for a while. Of course, that could be because of the rather dreadful "Bonjour Paris" number.

Like I said, limited attention span.

P.S. The picture is of Wallach comma Eli, not Barthes comma Roland.

P.P.S. Speaking of pictures, I need a new one. I love Eve, but she's just not cutting it right now. Suggestions?

what was your first impression?

I love that I can post three sentences and get several responses more thought out than the original post. And yes, I do enjoy the voiceover on About a Boy and most of the time on Arrested Development (is no one else mildly creeped out that it's Ron Howard? Or that his daughter was wet and barely clothed for the entire Lady in the Water?). But I feel the time has come, as the walrus (or was that the Walrus) said, to talk of many things. Or at least as many things as I have time and patience for.

Listening to Badly Drawn Boy. Last night I was at Muse Music for an unpublicized evening of rocking. . . not my words. The Cobabes, aka Rockwell, aka Electric Gravy, were opening for some group I'd never heard of. But I have heard of Cobabes/Rockwell/Gravy. We went to high school together and they are three of my favorite boys in Provo. Three of the sexiest too. Well, one of the sexiest, one of the cutest, and one of the most awkward. . . but one out of three isn't bad. Plus I can say with pride that I went to Muse last night, while I'm not so sure I can be proud of the fact that I have seen Step Up twice since it hit the dollar. Twice with Lady Jane, at that. The first time we went for the dancing and because I still think Channing Tatum is hot. The second time we went for the dancing and because Channing Tatum is hot. And guess what--he was hot both times.

In other movie news, Marie Antoinette. I have been waiting and waiting for this movie, reading reviews, buying magazines. A small part of this was that I like Kirsten Dunst and Jason Schwartzman as actors--something I know is awful to admit. But even more was the study of European, and more specifically French, history that occupied my brain during high school. I've always been fascinated by Marie Antoinette and Versailles. There was a tragic extravagence to both that held my attention. I think that was a large part of Coppola's movie, which also held my attention. It was beautiful and overwhelming and almost too caught up by the story to care about its audience, much like I think Versailles must have been. I give it two enthusiastic thumbs up, but with the warning that you just might hate it. The girls I was with did. A lot.

day ten

I hate voiceovers. Why do I need you to tell me what I'm watching? Why do you need to tell me how I'm feeling? And what am I feeling? Stupid people.

Extending the Challenge

Today my 218 students shot questions at me about my writing process. One came closer to the end of class, and it was something I'd never thought about before: What do I like best about my poetry? And I had no answer. I spend so much time critiquing my poetry that I haven't thought about what I like, let alone what I like best (a superlative implies multiple happy things, right?). I told them I'd get back to them. Here's what I came up with, although I don't know if any falls under "best."

• I like the restraint that characterizes most of my poetry. It's often my downfall, because I don't give my reader enough to figure out the poem, but when your concern is expressing silences or absences, it makes sense to leave a lot out.
• I get giddy over a well-wrought phrase. They are few and far between, but I think some of my lines qualify.
• Speaking of lines, I find similarities in the structure of most of my poems. Odd numbers of lines in stanzas, lines standing alone, words occupying their own lines, line breaks that play with the meaning of the poem. The last is a newer development and it occupies a lot of my revision time--seeing if I can mess with the lines to do more than is already being done.
• The lack of restraint--or rather, the lack of propriety when it comes to topics. I have no problem invoking the sensual, the disturbing, the embarassing, the depressing along with invoking the muse. This is possible (I think) because I use restraint in addressing these topics. Confused yet?
• The last thing I love about my poetry (and the thing that I won't share with my class) is my muse. My muse acts as encouragement as well as inspiration.

I think this is a challenge that I'll extend not only to my writing class, but to the April and Fob diasporas, as well as Zero and all other writers who venture here. What do you like best about your writing?

the opiate of the masses

I just finished reading Terry Eagleton's summary of New Criticism in his "The Rise of English." Before that I was reading new critics (or New Critics) Brooks, Wimsatt, and Beardsley explanations and applications of New Criticism. And all of this most likely means nothing or very little to you, my favorite reader, who was expecting some dazzling new insight from the top floor of the JFSB. Well, I'm on the top floor of the library tonight--or at least as top as they'll let us get--and joining my studies with those of the masses is doing weird things to this poor girl's head.

vision and revision

I'm resisting the urge to put in a movie right now--because it will keep me up for two hours, because I don't have the movie I want to watch on hand, because it will distract me from myself, which of course is the objective.

I always line up my thoughts before I begin a post, and then find them misplaced when I sit down to type. That sounds woefully like testimony meeting, but it's true.

Other things that are true:

• My life is busy, but not too busy, not yet. Which means I am strangely contented, despite the tiredness. I finally connected with my 150 students today, courtesy of Lady Jane's brilliant lesson plan. And it didn't hurt that Zero had hyped me up via sprinting to class and attacking an elevator.
• I read Tam Lin this week. I should have been reading theory, but Tam Lin appears at least once a school year. I read it first in high school, but it reminds me of freshman year and Aislin and London. And of course it gives me the chance to swoon over Thomas Lane and feel relieved that men like him don't exist.
• Somehow the panic has gone away. Not the stress, but I thrive on stress. I can't focus without it. But things feel much more certain this year. I have a good idea of what comes next and why and I'm still letting myself write about wings. Not as many shoulders. I should return to that theme, image, whatever.
• Finally (not because it's the last thing that's true, but because I'm slowly convincing myself that sleep is not the enemy), I'm excited to go home this weekend. The Jester and Marzipan are in Aladdin as the Genie and Narrator, respectively. And then I plan to grade poetry in my pajamas during conference. Does life get any better than this? Probably. But I don't need any more right now. Not for a few days, at least.

eg's anatomy

If I'm not already crazy, I'm on my way.

I've spent tonight trying to figure out the two kinds of openness defined in Allan--not Harold--Bloom's "Our Virtue." In addition to the stupid title, the man doesn't make any sense, at least not that I can figure out. There are two kinds of openness defined, but I can't decide which is which. It probably doesn't help that I had Grey's Anatomy playing in the background, but usually the background noise does help. Let's define that as one type of openness--open to outside influences.

I still have 40 poems to "grade." It's not really grading--it's commenting and giving credit for having done the assignment. Add to that two lesson plans (Muhlestein is a genius for planning four weeks in advance, but how is that possible.) Tomorrow's subjects are word choice (for 218) and intros, conclusions, and APA format (for 150). 150 is easy--just a repeat of past lessons, featuring Indiana Jones and Hitch and the tech podium. The 218. . . I don't know. And I know that there is the possibility of riot if I don't have the aforementioned poems marked up and ready to go. It's 1:20 a.m. Either I pull an all-nighter or it's not going to happen. Just waiting for the Diet Coke to kick in. If it doesn't, I'm dead.

What I did do this weekend: read Pamela Dean's Tam Lin, which is what I still think college life should be like; saw World of Dance with Lady Jane (they abused the smoke machine and ended to High School Musical, but I can't really fault them on either point); met up with Saule and Tolkien Boy in Salt Lake for a final night of reveling before TB leaves us for Washington; killed my feet walking around SLC in heels; and I did read for 628 (Doctorow's The March) and most of 630. . . which returns me to the problem at hand. I still don't know what Bloom (Allan--not Harold) is talking about. Time for more DCwL, a bath, and a hi-lighter.

She liked imaginary men best of all.

I think about men. I think about men a lot. In fact, I think I think about men too much, but according to scholars, my singles ward relief society president, and my mother, it's normal for a twentysomething female to think about the opposite gender (or the same gender, depending on said female's preference).

Before Master Fob left for the great and spacious city, and even before Melyn left for the middle-of-somewhere city (which would put us somewhere at the beginning of August), the subject of men-eg-is-interested-in came up. I rattled off the usual suspects: John Cusack, Benedick, Mr. Darcy, Bradley Cooper (who, by the way, is exhibit A). Master Fob pointed out with his usual fobby wisdom that none of the men on my list were real. And I pointed out that John Cusack and Bradley Cooper were very much real, just not. . . real real.

This exchange has been in the back of my mind since it happened and an evening of watching The Goodbye Girl with LadyJane and exclaiming over the brilliance of Elliot Garfield has made me return to the subject, but now with the tainting of late-night worry. What if I really do like my imaginary men best of all? Has all my reading and movie watching amounted to insane expectations of not just men in my life, but the man? Case in point: The selling point on the seven-year-crush (which I think might actually be an eight-year-crush now) was always that he annoyed me more than anyone living, a la Benedick or Darcy.

I attempted to create a shortlist of "real" men. Couldn't do it. Instead I added Gregory House, M.D., to the original list. How can you not love that man?

Something's in the water. . .

So there's an uninvolved couple on the fourth floor of the JFSB. Actually, there's two couples. One is doing laps, trying to figure out a phone conversation that will involve the girl asking the guy's friend out. . . or something. It sounds more like they're rehearsing a play than deciding the proper way to ask someone out.

The other couple is fighting. Physical, with a piece of wood or something. And nothing will stop them. They just keep fighting, mostly in slow motion. It would look so much cooler if they were wearing pirate outfits.