after the rant cometh the poetry

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

.

Conversation

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

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

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

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

the sun,

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

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

east.

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

looking for me.

not unhappy

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

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

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

Also

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

at the end of the day

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

Normal day.

I take it back. . .

well, not all of it.

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

working 8 to 5

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

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

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

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

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

guilty pleasures

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

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

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

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

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

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

1. Chocolat: Hello.

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

BirThesisGraduPoetry Day.

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

April 11, 2008

6:00 p.m.

(call me if you're not sure where)

Someday I hope to be Mrs. Fahrenheit

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

That's really not the point of this post.

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

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

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

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

Don't answer that.

I get high with a little help from my friends

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

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

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

Anna posing for J Crew.

Group shot!

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

Anna and Brooke at Buca's.

Diet Pepsi. . . hmm.

Three people not posing. Thanks Cutchins.

the painted angel

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

=

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

what I'm thinking about

at least what makes it way to blogger.

Hi.

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

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

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

Okay, a few link-thoughts for you:

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

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

Friday last

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

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

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

I passed!

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

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

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

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

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

Professor

If you like Lost, go here.

erring on the side of grievance

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

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

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

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

deserved

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

the guilt

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

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

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

the polls are now closed

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

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

Cornell said no.

Utah said waitlisted.

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

- - -

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

Thesis is the Loneliest Number

67 pages

2 number of weeks between scheduling my defense and my defense

3 poets--Osherow, Gluck, Creech

3 committee members

1 graduate student writing her thesis