april withdrawals

Despite the fact that I'm looking at a dancing Hayley Smith and listening to ABBA, sitting in a flat in London, I'm going through april withdrawals. On a positive note (I can hit those every once in a while), London is beautiful. I woke up this morning to pouring rain, which against my slanted window made the skyline look like a blurry-eyed impressionist painting. And I'm teaching, although not my genre. I will have many things to say about the personal essay. There are some impressive writers in the bunch. . . and they are all under the misconception that I know what I'm talking about. Ha. Ha ha ha. (I think I already used that on my blog, but it's so fun.)

A few notes about my life: On Saturday I woke up at 5.30a to sit outside a London theatre for four hours for front row seats to see Ewan McGregor in Guys and Dolls. I would just like to say that HMP is a better booty-shaker. That evening I saw Jim Broadbent in Theatre of Blood, a play all of us would thoroughly enjoy. It's about a Shakespearean actor who was shafted by a group of critics, so he invites them to an old theatre and starts to kill them off, a la Shakespeare's devices. Awesome stuff.

On a completely different theme, church here has been brilliant. I've been going to a small ward that meets in a school building that they rent for four hours every Sunday. This Sunday I spoke in sacrament meeting, taught youth Sunday School, and then taught Young Women. All while looking like a drug addict--something happened to my eyes that made them turn bright red. Think on that if you will.

I will now leave you to discuss the proper pronunciation of "macabre."

I vote yes and yes

Apologies for the more-than-slightly-bitter-sounding diatribes that I've recently posted from London. I love London and I love and/or enjoy a lot of the people I'm with. I posted after a particular exchange with some asinine 18 or 19 year olds. I have found a few 20 year olds that don't deserve jacking. . . although I'm not convinced Kapka is one of them. :)

Off to see Guys and Dolls with Mr. Ewan McGregor. That's right. Dance, Obi Wan, dance. Cheers.

re naming

I was tired of "bitter diatribes," which are not only redundant but from Runaway Bride. Yes, I stole my "bitter diatribes" from Ike Graham. Depressing.

The new name--"there might i live"--which blogger won't cap with this particular template--is from Walden. Another cliche, although a pseudo-intelligent one. I'm about to bus myself off to Oxford, but think about it and I'll elaborate in the very near future. (Complete with a list of names and addresses for HMP.)

Check and check

I was walking out of the Piccadilly tunnel at South Ken station (yes, I'm alive and in London), when I heard music. Not an odd occurence. I usually try to toss a few coins into their stained guitar cases. But then I realized that it was something akin to karoke music being played. And the song was "New York, New York." I admit I laughed, but refused to pay for a cheesy rendition of a cheesy song. I stepped onto the escalator as the music came to a close. I waited for the lounge singer's next offering. "New York, New York."

The past three weeks have, to be blatantly honest, been some of the most difficult of my life. There have been some high points--Irish theatre, the Thames at night, the French bakery one street over, teaching a writing class--but it has been an exhausting balance of work and play, which all too often results in all work and no play. My life is consumed by petty squabbles and things that just have to be done. I've yet to make my way to the Tate Modern or Westminster, both high on my list. Instead I hang out with my 40-year-old mentor and his 16-year-old son, who is actually one of the most intelligent people on this trip. Were we idiots when we were 20?

I have started writing again. Maybe I'll post some later tonight. I miss April. K's cupcakes and poetry printed on funky paper and HMP's (ahem) dancing and AA's sincerity and Kapka's meditations and oh!resolution's. . . what did he contribute? (Kidding. I believe the correct answer is sanity.) I'm planning on bringing you back London-y things, but you have to come find me. I'll be in Provo in my new house in July, I think. But before then, all you have to do is call. After the 14 of June, of course. Before then and you'll get my 14-year-old brother who is using my cell to collect the numbers of many, many lady friends.

DONE

Take that, BYU. I have taken my final final as an undergraduate. Granted, it was for HEPE online, but at least it's over. Now on to bigger and better things. But before I go, I think we all need a little party to celebrate. Any takers? (And then we can find a magic pair of jeans that fits each of us perfectly (good thing it's cool for guys to wear girl pants now) and then we can mail them to each other wherever. . . oh wait. Somebody already did that.)

The ABBA Way of Life

Yes, I am blogging in a staff meeting. A staff meeting in which we've been talking about. . . blogging. Isn't symmetry beautiful?

I'm in a slightly-less-distressed mode today. Probably because I'm listening to conversations like "What do you get when you cross spandex and home teachers?" "I don't know, but either way it's uncomfortable."

So let's talk about in the moment writing. It's scattered and frustrating and there are blips of info that you miss because you are writing. For example, I haven't been able to crack a joke for the past few minutes because I've been writing. I'm feeling left out and because my smart mouth is missing, Mike can only use half of his brain. Not that it would be different if I was allowing myself to be sarcastic.

How is this the ABBA way of life? Simply because I had the song "Knowing Me, Knowing You. . .ah ah. . ." going through my head.

The technicalities are mind boggling. . . or blogging. How many a week? Do we need pics? Do we have to ID in pics? (To that I say, only if he's cute and single. In fact, pictures should be restricted to cute and single males. My name is eg and I have a problem. I like boys. There HMP. Are you happy? Are you satisfied? This does not, however, mean that I will not not promise to avoid boys from now on. Boys are everywhere. One half of the population.)

People needing other people. . . damn them

So I haven't been writing. Not like AA hasn't been writing, but still. And I ask myself why is this? And I say to myself, Self, get your butt in gear. But my butt is stuck to a chair in front of a computer. Writing is no longer fun; it is an obligation to my GPA. Graduation means nothing. I finish this semester, go to London, come back to Utah, find a job for summer, begin school in the fall. Nothing changes. I thought something monumental was supposed to happen at some point in time. Nothing. And the damn glass is leaking.

Your mutter is like somebody else's banshee scream.

Mike said this to me during staff meeting today.

That is all.

That Darn Cat

Yes, I know it should read "damn." I just couldn't bring myself to be that violent in a title. And I think you all know exactly what feline I'm referring to. Damn cat indeed.

In a breakthrough of astronomical proportions, I've quit moping over certain male specimens of the human population, mostly because it produces really crappy poetry. Instead, I am going to focus on the happy. The following is the beginning of a list. Feel free to contribute.

1. Super Amazing Mixes (by Sven) which invariably include "Title and Registration" by Death Cab for Cutie and "I'd Rather Dance with You" by Kings of Convenience.

2. While we're on music, "Common People" as sung by. . . William Shatner. Completely serious. He's backed up by Joe Johnson, but still. I'll let you all have a listen next april.

3. april.

4. April.

5. Trashy magazines that somehow make me feel both superior and a new conviction that I don't have to spend more than 34 minutes on my appearance. Unless I'm styling my hair, in which case there is no such thing as a time limit.

6. Unearthing my best DI find ever--a compilation of five of Jack Weyland's made-for-brainwashed-teens novels, including A New Dawn, which is about a female student at Princeton who discovers an equation that basically explains the whole universe--something Einstein couldn't do--but then becomes too popular and has to find somewhere to hide out for a while. And where does she go? BYU, of course. And what does she do there? Major in musical education, fall in love with a cowboy-ish figure, and win the Nobel Prize, of course. I'm surprised you had to ask.

7. London in. . . I haven't started a countdown yet. But it comes after three, I think. We'll be living in Manson Place and spending an unhealthy amount of time in the Tate Modern. Or at least I will be.

8. Okay, forget it. My poetry is still crap because I'm still a little melted after some choice encounters with a certain young man who attends "the school on the other side of the point."

9. The tub that I'm going to go clean after I finish this rambling post.

10. My new London friends--meaning students going to London with my study abroad. The best moment was today when Whitney told me she wouldn't mind roomming with me. Which means I'm not the nasty-alientating type of TA. Hooray.

Rambling and running out of steam are not a good combination. I think I'll let you go now. (yay for HMP posts)

Cheers, sej

iocaine powder

I don't know if I spelled that correctly. What's more, I don't know if I care if I spelled that correctly.

my world has decided to spin out of orbit. this is not a poem, nor an attempt to mimic the great oh!resolution. i just feel like lower-casing everything. makes it seems less confrontational.

chad is not engaged. i'm going to england. today was a great staff meeting. i am now working 25 hours a week, plus inscape, plus april/fad, plus class, plus class, plus class. and i don't want to drop anything, but something has to drop and i'm hoping that something isn't me.

i'm playing chad's demo cd tonight. my roommate who knows me the best noted that it's rarely a good thing when i'm listening to chad's cd. but she finally figured out why i do it--it's like iocaine powder. i'm trying to build up an immunity to it and to chad and to the past and to everything else. my life is so good right now, but it's dropping away from me. undergrad is almost over. and knowing where i'm going to grad school isn't enough to couch my future in.

is anyone else terrified?

The Play's the Thing

I love the theatre. This obsession began in 2002 when I overdosed on plays during a little thing I like to call "The Dean and Gideon Show in London," aka the Theatre in London study abroad. So when my friend reminded me to check out the show he was directing at the Alpine Playhouse, I was so there.

The show was "A Midsummer Night's Dream" and I thought Josh did a brilliant job. There were times when it felt as if the entire play was coming from Josh's personality and experience, and other times when the play actually lived. Most of those times came when Puck was on stage. Played by an AFHS student, Puck created some of the most beautiful and funniest moments of the play. His final monologue was perfectly lit and the silver glitter he had spread over the stage earlier was reflecting from his hair and it was perfect.

It was only later, when I was driving back to P-town with my roommate, and analyzing the play when I realized two things. One, that AMND is about sex and sexuality and sexual tension, of which there was very little in this production. I was commenting on the exchange between Puck and the fairy, which I personally think is best played with some tension between the two. In this production it was treated like a child's argument, with Puck teasing the fairy. It bugged. Reason for this choice, and the other choices in the play? Utah Valley perhaps? Survey says: eh. The real reason is that Josh is a very good young man recently returned from a mission who gets a little queasy at the thought of a hug. And though he's had some excellent kisses on stage, off stage his love life hasn't really happened post-mish.

Second realization. I love theatre, but I always come away feeling somewhat empty. Why is that? I was debating that it's because I don't have a way to transfer the emotion created by the play, but I have this (aka writing). Maybe it's that I don't have a physical outlet. Maybe it's that I'm jealous that performing artists at least get to display their talent to their friends and family--most people who fall in that category for me don't want to read anything more than the most superficial of articles and they definitely don't want to hear about my theories re: contemporary anything.

I'm hoping grad school will provide an outlet. But I've decided to stay at BYU for my masters, and will that really change anything? When do the writers get to be heard? Especially if we're not looking to be the next Jack Weyland or Anita Stansfield, John Grisham or. . . I've run out of steam. Why do we do this? Why do we write? Because if it's for acclaim, we might as well stop. And now there will be many philosophical and slightly self-righteous postings about how we have to write, which is the right answer according to Leslie Norris. But is that the answer? Why do we write? Is it creation? And does it count if nobody is around to appreciate it?

Misinterpretation

Hello. I was feeling a tad guilty that I haven't written anything lately. Wait. Let's revise that. I was feeling a tad guilty that I haven't written a blog lately. I've been writing enough to publish a book. A very boring one, but a book nonetheless.

So, thought of the evening, not about poetry (insert gasp here). Tonight I was treated very respectfully by a guy and it surprised me. Not that the men of april are disrespectful, or most other men that I associate with, but this one surprised me. It was almost enough to distract me from trying to decide what to wear when I present at the AML conference on Saturday.

Any opinions?

Tuesday as Monday or Monday as Tuesday or. . .

Is anyone else terribly confused? It's not enough that they control our meaningless, consumer-driven lives, now they have to play games with the days of the week. I've spent the day trying to remember if it was Monday or Wednesday and receiving mild shock therapy every time someone mentions that it's actually Tuesday. Did I lose a day or gain an hour or what?

That being ranted, I am writing yet another paper. Maybe I should change my blog title to "yet another paper." Or maybe something clever. Any suggestions?

This one is just a 6 to 8 pager about, well, something from my civ class. I'm thinking of expounding on a quote from the Bacchae: "Man's true nature's seen in darkness not in light." Now, I know that nighttime is when HMP busts out the speedo and goes high stepping it down 9th, so no need to point out that correlation--but if you have any other ideas, they are most welcome. Granted, the paper is due tomorrow. Maybe I should be more worried than I am. Then again, maybe not.

Cheers. And april tomorrow.

Losing My Voice, or Questions of the Universe for 200

Luckily it's just my physical voice, not my writing voice. Due to the decided lack of writing classes this semester, this voice is here to stay, my friend.

As to the other half of the title, I'd like to clarify the first item on the april agenda. Not that anyone else can be absent without excuse or explanation, but such is my lot. Sigh. I was supporting my friend who was in The Rainmaker tonight. The facts that he is very attractive, loves Shakespeare, and took me to dinner a few weeks ago is irrelevant.

Just Duckie

Hi all. Who "all" is, I'm not sure, but it makes me feel more directed.

The debate has returned to the JKHB--or at least one side of it--in the form of eye-searing yellow posters. Just in case you missed them.

One of my favorite reactions to the debate have been the duck pictures. You know, the duck near Hickman's old office, with papers listing off different forms of criticism: feminist, Marxist, postmodern, etc. This go around there was a note under the duck saying "Poetry as Criticism," then papers with sonnet, limerick, and haiku available along with the standard options. There were a few haiku, a note on the limerick, and nothing on sonnet. And because I had nothing better to do during class, I decided to contribute to the conversation. You can check it out in the JKHB (if it stays up--I used tape) or here it is, free for the mocking.

Duck Sonnet 1

Here, this yellow means of explanation--
my feathered love for you sits a waiting
duck, overlooking these halls debating
which theory to give our dedication.
Yet is this duck true magnification
of my affection? In its elating
"quack," is it real or is it the grating
squeak of rubber duckie? Hesitation,
my love, will demand we pause our passion
and here in structured form lay out our vows
yet with only one hundred and forty
syllables at hand, I can but fashion
a construct of love and this will not wow
or woo, but seem only rubber duckie.

Charybdis

Thanks to everyone for their comments on nostalgia a few posts ago. I've been thinking about it a lot this weekend for a very specific reason. But before I go into that, I want to recap some of the comments made, mostly so I have them in front of me as I write tonight.

and on nostalgia. i can't say i agree with you the least. i don't claim to speak for all, and girls seem to be somewhat unified with you on this, but i love to reflect back. even on the stupid crappy stuff, i never liked the question 'what would you do different if you were to go back into the past' it seemed so...disrespectul maybe. even to change the absolutely wrong things i did, i would be very hesitant to say i would like to change it, even if i wish i never did it. i like to look back, i like to be sad on occasion, and to stew in my despondancy. (HMP)

On rememberese, I vote: depends on the memory. Some are fun to savor. Others give me physical pain. True I wouldn't change my past; however, I would still choose not to remember some of the hurt with quite as much poignancy as I am prone to do. (Miss K)

think i am in the same boat as HMP with the whole nostalgia thing. I love diving into old memories, often just as a way of renewing my gratitude towards H.F. Even the bad memories give me pleasure when i realize how far i have come from them...but i guess that all depends on how far back you cast your mind. (AA)

Apologies for the length of that. And apologies for what I'm about to write. I'm mostly doing it, as always, to give my mind a sort of release, so if you want to stop reading here, go for it. I don't blame you.

Chad is engaged. Chad is--was--boyfriend number one. I don't think my life is a drippy romance story at all, but this weekend it's felt like that. The nostalgia that I so dread has been sucking me in and spitting me out and tonight I feel broken. No, that's not quite right. I feel numb. Because I'm not sure what to feel.

I've been trying to explain this all weekend. How an old boyfriend's engagement to another girl can make my entire world spin out of orbit. Chad was my first kiss--a perfect first kiss, as far as I'm concerned. He was the guy who taught me how to kiss. He was also the first guy to tell me I was beautiful. And the only guy who has kept telling me that, even after we broke up. I guess in the back of my mind was always the comforting thought that even if no one else thought I was beautiful, even if no one else wanted me, Chad was there.

This is sounding like a pity party for one. And in a way it is. I've spent the weekend wondering what happened, when I know exactly what happened. I wasn't there for him when he needed someone. I kept reasoning that I needed him as much as he needed me and it was his turn to make some effort. But part of it was knowing that Chad wasn't who I needed, that he wouldn't make me happy--and vice versa.

The shattering came on Thursday. I had decided to call him when I went home this weekend, just to see how he was. And then I found out, Thursday afternoon. My mother told me. And I told her I was fine, even though I couldn't focus the rest of the afternoon.

I interviewed a group of people that night for an article. After the interviews, one of the guys asked me if I had a boyfriend. "No." Was I upset about/with guys? "Not tonight." Where did that answer come from? I was upset, more upset over a guy than I'd been since my freshman year. Again, something to distract me this weekend. And tonight I'm coming to the conclusion that nostalgia does operate like Charybdis--we get pulled into the swirling mess and then spit out again, only to wash up broken on the shore of some empty island. But I missed what comes next. Nostalgia is a good thing, because it allows us to re-learn our mistakes and our successes. After we're left on the shore, we're given time to heal, even though sometimes it feels like a redundant process.

Part of me always expected Chad to show up on my doorstep, or to at least call. And part of me has held that against every guy I've known. Somehow, though, I've arrived on the opposite side of this bout of nostalgia. I'm still not feeling too hot, but I've rebuilt my world again, this time one without a ghost clouding my view.

While the iron's hot

I found my story tonight. Meaning, I can write anything--I really can. But tonight I found the article I want to write. I can see how it's going to be set up, I know the descriptions, I have the quotes inserted all neat and tidy. This is a feature I know I can write.
Now I just have to convince somebody, aka Mr. Super Cool Editor.

"DC" can stand for so many things

Not much to say, except that every once in a while, life is really good. This would be one of those times. Which means I have nothing interesting to say. . .
Question: literature, stories, narratives, texts, whatever you want to call it, is most often and most successfully the relations of conflict, resolved or not. So the question is, is that necessary? Can you write a successfully entertaining anything--poem, short story, personal essay, blog--without that tension? I read through my journal last night. Anyone reading it will think that my life was the greatest melodrama of the twenty-first century. Which it isn't. Yet. But who honestly writes when life is just ordinary? It makes for a very boring read.
Point. Counterpoint. Bring it on.

A Series of Inexplicable Events, or Everything Tastes Like Soap

This weekend has been decidedly bizarre, at least from my POV. When, or rather if, you read this, you'll probably sit there dumbfounded at what struck me dumbfounded. And so we proceed.

Chapter One. Friday. A very short chapter, in which editorgirl waits for the phone to ring. When it doesn't, she attempts to read The Tempest without falling asleep, is unsuccessful, and consequently goes to bed before 10:00. Lights out.

Chapter Two. Saturday. A slightly longer chapter, in which eg begins--again--by reading The Tempest. Is more successful, in that she finishes it. Receives phone call she had expected the night before. Now has evening plans. Is picked up sometime after 5:00 by Josh friend. Is surprised by Josh friend's sudden chivalric mood of opening doors and paying for dinner. Realizes that she is on date with Josh friend. Loses a game of name that show tune before receiving dramatic end of evening hug. Wonders when Josh friend grew up.

Chapter Three. Sunday. A chapter which was supposed to be another short chapter, but which rambling tripled its size, in which eg recalls receiving random phone call from male on Tuesday. Remembers male asked if she still plays Speed Scrabble on Sundays and if she would be playing Sunday night. As it is now Sunday, eg decides that she will play Speed Scrabble and leaves message for aforementioned male. Aforementioned male does not receive message as he is at a superbowl party, but calls eg to find out if Speed Scrabble is being played. She informs aforementioned male that she will be playing with an assortment of individuals at nine o'clock. Aforementioned male agrees to come. Speed Scrabble game begins at ten to nine; male comes around nine twenty. Male plays Speed Scrabble, eats dessert, and leaves, without much fanfare. Eg is confused. Eg is used to being confused, but can usually find farfetched explaination. There is no explanation, hence the title inexplicable events.

Eg will now return you to your regularly scheduled programming and the use of first person. Good night.

Reality! is overrated! [sic]

Has it really been a week since I last blogged? Scary. I've had one of those weeks where at the end of the day I can't tell you what I did at the beginning. Everything is blending together in a frightening combination of literary theory, the Pub, work meetings, interviews, and just a little bit of Houdini for good measure.

So, thoughts of the past week, in no particular order.

Nostaligia is like Charybdis in The Odyssey--a deep, black, swirling whirlpool that pulls you in and then spits you out, broken and wasted. I've never been one for memory lane. If I could, I'd put up a DETOUR sign in my head to keep me far far away. This week has been particularly bad. I've been reading Doctorow's Ragtime for one of my lit classes. I decided to pull out the soundtrack for the Broadway musical, even though they don't have much in common. But somewhere in the past four years I forgot that Ragtime was the top choir's big number my senior year of high school. I wasn't in choir that year, but I went to the concert to see my best friends and my kind-of boyfriend, who later became Boyfriend #1. Listening to the music has brought back a good month and a half of people singing "Sarah Brown Eyes" to me, but changing the lyrics to "Sarah, blue eyes." And BF1 singing the Henry Ford solo and ranting about the minor lyric changes made so as not to offend the conservative parental audience. In a way I feel as if I've had ghosts following me around.

That was a lot, but one more thought. Maybe two. I've been thinking about art and Mormonism and how the two inform each other in my writing and wondering how it works for visual artists. This is definitely something I want april to pursue.

Last thought. Promise. I was talking to my dad about how the decisions I make in the next month or two will affect the rest of my life. Is anyone else scared witless by this idea? Chime in. We'll start a support group.

Projection

I just got done puzzling my way through Aaron's blog. I have one thing to say: paragraph breaks.

Actually, I have many things to say. This topic came up with Trent and seems to be the central theme of most of our discussions. And by this point in a post I should have identified my topic, but I'm not sure what to call it. Poetic project, poetic theory, poetic function? None of these really encapsulate what I'm after, but slap your own label on it when you get there.

Aaron referenced Leslie Norris and I'm going to follow suit: "I truly spend my life waiting to write." This was towards the end of his presentation in our 518 class. He began it by asking "Why do you write?" and his answer was "Is it because you can't help it?"

I don't want to come off as self-righteous or self-indulgent or even self-congratulatory, but I write because that's what I do. I'm not concerned with my reader. Writing for me is a purely selfish pursuit. My poetry comes when it comes and unless I have an assignment, I don't sit down to write a poem. I sit down to write and I just happen to translate my thoughts into words and hyphens and line breaks. I do admit to being too fond of the em-dash, but as that didn't stop Emily Dickinson, I'm not overly concerned.

I bring a unique reading to poetry in that I'm more interested in publishing other poets than getting myself published. I'm more interested in teaching a class out of poetry anthologies than seeing my name in one. This alters what you do, how you write, and for me is the only answer.

This is turning into altruistic drivel. My apologies. I don't expect that my theories or concepts will work for anyone else. If anything, this thread of blogging proves that we all approach our art from different angles, even if we voice it in a plethora of ways. Yes, plethora. As in pinatas. Aaron has his cat in the orchard. And from that experience, he has given me the voice of the woman sitting in the front seat. Maybe voices are what I'm interested in, even if they all are portions of myself.

Late. Rambling. Good morning.

Return of the Midget Stalker

This post will not actually be about the midget stalker, although he did return and this time I didn't have my personal bodyguard/poetic genius friend around to scare him away. Aaron, where are you?

Hickman discussed Benjamin's "On the Concept of History" today. I admit that I only understood every third word. No, actually, I have a decent if simple grasp on Marxism and Hegel's dialectic, so I was feeling pretty good about myself. But the concept of history has always fascinated me. Who makes history? I would argue the writers. Who says what they write is accurate? This becomes a contract between the writer and the reader which is inevitably broken.

This concept of history and historical accuracy and recording has been playing in mind in tangent with the 24 Hours at BYU photo essay. Is that history? It is from our point of view, or at least history from the lens of a camera. There is a website my brother directed me to called the Thought Project. A photographer asked people what they had been thinking about right before he walked up to them, then took their picture. The pictures are simple portraits, but their answers vary in depth and apparent importance and interest. But is that the truest form of history? They must have censored their answers for this random photo-man. And some of them have been translated into English, adding another layer for their stories to filter through. Check it out, though. Just google "Thought Project." It should be the first one to show up.

Shuffle Off to Buffalo

Every time I access the internet at work I'm confronted with yet another add for the iPod shuffle thing. And while I am intrigued by a gadget that weighs less than a pack of gum yet will randomly shoot at my eardrums music from my personal collection, I'm a little afraid of the implications. Continuing the literary analysis applied to real life from yesterday, it amazes me that we, meaning Society with a capital S, are so willing to sacrifice choice, control, independence of thought on the altar of chance and do-it-for-me mentalities. Sure I like having a Postal Service song followed by Peter Gabriel, but only when I make the mix. Maybe I just feel threatened that my singular talent of creating bizarre mixes featuring at least one nostalgic-induced track has become obselete. Shuffle indeed.

On my desk is a large bag of Sweethearts, those disgusting, flavorless, chalky hearts with cheesy sentimentality stamped onto them. The bag is red and the hearts are green, white, purple, pink, orange, and yellow. Which is the order I'll eat them in, ignoring the "Kiss Me" "Marry Me" "Be Mine" corporate messages.

I walked through the Bookstore yesterday to find a new calendar. Not that I really want to be the means of my roommates announcing their personal lives to the world on our wall, but there was a calendar earlier this month with brilliant shots of London that I thought would be the cause of much rejoicing, at least on a personal level. The calendar was no longer there, so I checked out my other options. Puppies. Flowers--more specifically, roses. Romantic Europe. Dead people. More puppies. Nothing really tempted me. I mean, the Chinese Propaganda was cool, but doesn't really go with my eclectic apartment. So the great calendar hunt continues.

[sic]

I'm writing this during class, which is to say I'm writing with pen on paper and will probably make multiple spelling errors, none of which will appear in electronic form if I can help it.

My brother asked me last night why I haven't been posting and today I ran into Aaron who was off to the library to read blogs. Point taken.

I haven't been writing because I've had a crap guy week and after two blogs, plus multiple other drafts, I got tired of writing about it. But I think anyone can relate to not being able to think of much else after rejection and other matters of the opposite sex. This blog will hopefully be a break from past trends, but I make no promises.

I am sitting in English 363, American lit 1914 to 1960, listening to yet another clean shaven, close cropped, tie wearing male present on how the feminine functions in literature, in this case My Antonia. May I be so bold to ask what makes guys think they can understand and explicate the feminine? The best paper I ever read on feminist criticism and l'ecriture feminine was by a guy. Granted, he was married. Maybe his wife wrote it. Anyway, this male/female dichotomy (the ever abused friend of the English major) seems to be appearing in most of my classes, most noticeably in The Dean and Gideon Show (not to be confused with The Gideon and Dean Show). Spurred on by the inexplicable, I have taken scrupulous notes this semester, including pages and pages on this male vs. female concept. What is most striking is that women rarely factor in the literature we're reading and by virtue of their absence, we're allowed to talk about them, use the feminine in correspondence with the nebulous other.

On the flip side, and I apologize for dragging in some of "crap guy week" here, but it is applicable, do we honestly have a definition of the feminine and the masculine anymore? The feminine is the irrational, the other, the mysterious, the weak, the fairer, the innocent. It all depends on what person you talk to, what text you read. And the masculine is the known, the strong, the heroic. The masculine is Odysseus, Dante, Virgil, Siddhartha, Newland Archer. The feminine is something we avoid, something we escape in literature because it's oppression and unfamiliar. The masculine is something we embrace, something we feel safe with. Isn't it? "Crap guy week." Right.

His idea is being the man, taking care of the woman, standing as sentinel over her at all times. ("His" here refers to a specific person.) His concept of a relationship is her (any her) waiting to here how his day went without telling him anything about her day. His idea is that she should be seen and not heard.

Maybe I need to remove literary theory/analysis from real life. But then what is the point of literature? Is it just a bunch of pretty words that create a pretty picture and then we step away, sigh, and say "that was nice" and then forget about Billy Pilgrim and Galadriel and Valancy? If we believed that we wouldn't spend our time reading. We wouldn't be English majors. We'd go study science, we'd break down life into numbers and decided dichotomies rather than allowing the postmodernists to break everything apart so that we can piece it back together again. (Note: I am now sitting in English 365, American lit 1960 to the present talking about The City of Glass. Slightly different mode of conversation here.) Does the Elephant Love Medley accurately or remotely resemble the way we approach life? My brother is defined in many ways by his music. We are all defined by our culture, whether it is the acceptance or rejection of our culture.

Now somebody tell me to pay attention.

Diatribing

So last night my friend Seth was over. Maybe friend is too strong a word. He's my home teacher and the other "ward menu supervisor." I had called him over to talk about the ward menu, actually, which he really doesn't care about.
Seth is usually a nice guy, but consistently negative, especially when it comes to the fairer sex. Last night I made the gross error of asking him if he was currently interested in anyone. This innocent, albeit stupid, question set him off on a diatribe of his own with poor little old me dodging darts and arrows and the opinions of someone who truly hates girls/women.
Guys can usually get away with telling me how ridiculous females are. I agree. Girls/females/women/chicks/babes, whatever you want to call them are annoying and obnoxious and demanding and stupid and collectively irritating. Not that guys/males/men/dudes/boys don't receive and deserve similar treatment. But at the same time, both guys and girls can be pretty wonderful. It's an interesting dichotomy. The opinions thrown at me last night, however, were of a completely new variety.
Seth has, like everyone else, been hurt by girls in the past. Unlike everyone else, Seth forces these experiences onto every girl he subsequently meets, making the entire gender one nasty mess of a beast. He is holding out for the perfect woman, who in his mind, does exist and will conform to what he wants.
This isn't following logically, and I don't care, but the few points that stuck from Seth's argument were that 1) girls are selfish. Seth complained that in past relationships, the girls expected him to work around their schedules. "Didn't you expect them to work around your schedule?" Of course, but that is the way it's supposed to work; the girl is supposed to adjust her schedule and her life to meet the guy's needs while he continues on as normal.
The conversation continued with me more than a little bugged with him and somehow reached the point of Seth saying he required a girl to show a lot of interest in him before he would lift a finger in her direction. I argued that there is only so much a girl can do before she is seen as forward, chasing, and desparate, and basically discussed negatively in the ward. He claimed that there were certain things a girl can do to let a guy know she's interested. "Fine. Tell me what to do. I'll test your theories." Seth, of course, laughed at me and then asked, "Are you willing to fall in love? And then get hurt?"
He then proceeded to tell me who I would be calling on, if you will. It's a guy I know pretty well, who I respect a lot, but who I have no desire to date. And I now I realize that this is the major flaw in Seth's theories: he doesn't realize that there has to be some form of attraction and that the two people have to want to make the other person happy. I know that this guy Seth decided I should date wouldn't make me happy, and I wouldn't make him happy. Seth only wants someone to make him happy--he's not out to reciprocate. I've gone on dates with him and he is a great date, but he's a great date because that's what a guy is supposed to do, not because he respects the girl he is with and wants to make her happy.
At this point in my own personal diatribe, the doorbell rang and two of the greatest guys in the world were on the other side of the door, which, thankfully, ended the discussion.
Fin.

Truth, Dare, and Eighth Grade

My roommate Emily and I walked into our apartment Friday night to find it occupied by the strangest of creatures--law students. I suppose we should be used to this by now, seeing as how our other two roommates are law students, but usually they don't travel in packs. And it wasn't so much that they were there, strewn about our living room and kitchen, but what they were doing: threading Fruit Loops onto (my) thread to make necklaces and bracelets and I think one guy made a crown.
The night digressed from there, with Emily and I thrown in the mix, until only about ten people were left (2 guys, 8 girls), and someone decided the next game should be "Truth or Dare." Everyone jokingly went along, writing down truths and dares on pieces of paper. Each person had to draw and either answer a question or perform a dare. This was mildly entertaining until after the first round the questions and dares continued to have a common thread: kissing. "Tell about your first kiss." "Describe your first kiss in detail, but not graphically." "Kiss Rich on the cheek. If you're a boy, throw this back and get a new question." Okay, so the last one was kindly put in by one girl hoping her friend who is interested in Rich would grab it and finally establish some form of physical contact. But still, are you people 3Ls or 8th graders? I don't even know if a self respecting eighth grader would ask and/or answer those questions. Sheesh.
This whole incidence begs the question, what bizarre world are we living in? Is everyone so obsessed with kissing and relationships and physical contact that we can't break away, even in a stupid party game? The sad thing is, the answer is yes. We cannot break away from these conversations and analyses and all-to-human desires that we have effectively distanced ourselves from.
And as for my first kiss, he missed.

"Like, there goes another lemming"

In a full on attack of "everybody's doing it," I hereby jump off the cliff.

Three names you go by:
1. Sar-bear (I wish I was kidding)
2. Captain Spanky
3. oh editor queen

Three screen names you have:
1. editorgirl
2. whyherecoldsister
3. barbiegirl

Three things you like about yourself:
1. my hair
2. I know when (and how) to use a comma.
3. my dedication to things

Three things you dislike about yourself:
1. my tendency to trust sterotypes
2. my inability to clean my bedroom
3. that I let people walk all over me

Three parts of your heritage:
1. English
2. Danish
3. Prince John, the phony king of England

Three things that scare you:
1. large bodies of water
2. parking tickets
3. people at Disney theme parks

Three of your everyday essentials:
1. hot shower
2. good music
3. control

Three things I am wearing right now:
1. jeans
2. the ubiquitous navy blue hoodie
3. silver jewlery

Three of your favorite bands/artists today:
1. Frou Frou
2. Rooney
3. America

Three of your fav. songs at present
1. “Accidentally in Love” (Counting Crows)
2. “Such Great Heights” (both Postal Service and Iron & Wine’s cover)
3. “Someone Like You” (Jekyll & Hyde)

Three new things you want to try in the upcoming year:
1. leaving Provo
2. dyeing my hair
3. being lazy

Three things you want in a relationship (love is a given):
1. communication
2. respect
3. height (hey, one of these has to be superficial)

Two truths and a lie (in any order):
1. I got my first pair of glasses when I was 18 months old.
2. I hate peas.
3. I refuse to date psych majors.

Three things about the opposite sex that appeal to you:
1. great eyes
2. great lips
3. facial hair

Three things you just can't do:
1. admit I’m wrong
2. throw away my Baby-sitter Club books
3. be honest about my feelings

Three of your favorite hobbies:
1. write
2. read
3. edit

Three careers you're considering:
1. writing (articles as a professor)
2. reading (student papers as a professor)
3. editing (everything)

Three places you'd like to go on vacation:
1. London
2. New York
3. Washington coast

Three kids names:
1. Beatrice
2. Amelia
3. Gideon

Three things you want to do before you die:
1. kiss someone taller than me
2. visit NYC
3. live in Europe

april showers

I like april. And the great thing about a good april (which I feel tonight was) is that after everyone leaves, I feel like writing. Tonight, however, I'm not sure what to write about. I expended all of my positive energy in my post about my job (Bongos in the RB) and while I know you all enjoy angsty posts and poems from the queen of, I'm just not in the mood.

Over the break I congratulated myself on not having anyone ask if I was engaged to, dating, or interested in any boy. Up until the night before I returned to Provo. I ran into a friend's mom and after I asked how Emily is doing, she had a question of her own. "So are you in love?" I quickly shook my head and said something to the effect of "Too busy to be in love." I am now re-evaluating that answer and here present a list of what and who I am in love with.

1. em-dashes (even though I can't figure out how to do them on this and I'm too lazy to cut and paste from Word)
2. Ben and Jerry's Oatmeal Cookie Chunk
3. Counting Crows and Frou Frou
4. Muffy (my car)
5. Ethan Hawke in Dead Poets, John Cusack in Say Anything, and Laurence Olivier in Pride and Prejudice
6. photographs
7. Michael Johnson
8. LM Montgomery and Louisa May Alcott novels
9. Drive Me Crazy (yes, with Melissa Joan Hart)

I was going to hit 10, but here's a challenge for all my friends/readers/bosses: what is my number 10?

It's my party and I'll. . . never mind

I went to devotional today. I was so proud of myself, for being so spiritual and everything.

Actually, it started out as a crap day. I woke up late, had an 8:00 a.m. interview to get to, got to my interview (looking pretty damn good), and then had to sit through twenty of the dullest minutes of my life. Apparently this bloke was working for the CIA last summer because he didn't want to tell me anything, just that it was "a really great experience" and that he was married.

I returned to work to type up the interview and send out some emails only to find that my wireless connection was obselete for the moment. I could still type up my interview, which I started, until a computer guy (they live in the basement) came up to check out my machine, only to determine fifteen minutes later that he "didn't know what was going on." I continued typing until it was time for devotional.

Devotional itself was brilliant. Elder Pace was pretty funny and he said some cool things. If you didn't go, look it up on the web. (That's an order.) What was not so brilliant was that I ran into my midget stalker from last semester, who after the devotional proceeded to escort me to the JKHB, even though he had class in the MARB. Someone is now going to remind me how much I would like to have a decent guy around and that maybe I should give this one a chance. And in my defense, I will point out that he has two strikes against him, aside from general stalker creepyness: he is a psych major and he is shorter than I am. The next guy I date will be taller than I am.

Class was just proofreading, which I find some relaxation in. And now my day will continue, with or without my permission.

Cheers.

In My Free Time

I stopped by the Creamery on Ninth tonight to grab some milk. At least a dozen people had the same idea, but after standing in line for a good ten minutes, I made it up to the cashier, who was, naturally, one of those chicks who are "just too cute for words."

Said cashier was in a chatty mood tonight. She asked how this semester has been. "Fine." She then asked what my major is. "English."

"Wow. What do you do with all your free time?"

I didn't get it at first. I just smiled and said, "If I ever get some I'll let you know." And had it been left there, I would have ignored the entire incidence and the cute little cashier would not be making an appearance on my blog. But she continued. "Isn't English just 48 hours?"

Lightbulb goes on and I like Miss Cashier even less.

"42."

"I just wouldn't know what to do with myself if I had all that free time."

I bet you wouldn't. (Insert hair toss here.)

Bongos in the RB

Initially I fully intended on writing a true "bitter diatribe" (you people have yet to tell me what movie that's from. Hint: chick flick) about the general herding mentality of BYU, coupled with some commentary on couples and the ickiness of PDA in general. And that diatribe is most likely going to appear sometime in the near future. But last night I had a good little phone chat with a good little friend (okay, he's not that little). We were discussing our schedules and why I should be dead. He suggested I drop something. Can't drop any of my courses. Won't drop inscape or april. So he asked about work. Fact: I love my job. Therefore this post is going to entirely be about the wonderfulness of my job. No brown nosing intended--I'm just happy.

This train of thought started when my boss, the chief editor dude, said something to the effect of "I can't picture myself in this job for the next 30 years." It was a passing comment, until the next day when he i-chatted (IMed) everyone saying, "Remember how I said I couldn't picture myself in this job for the next 30 years?" Unfortunately, group chatting wasn't functioning, so we all had to wait for the explanatory email. In my head I was finishing the ichat with, "Well, I'm not going to. See you, suckers!"

The email came and luckily it was an epiphany regarding the immense cool factor of his job. Which it is. I mean, he gets to work with me. Kidding. Everyone now poke fun at editorgirl in the comments section. But he does have a cool job, and as a small extension, I have a cool job. I get to edit and proofread, which I find a perverse enjoyment in. And I get to write articles, which I love to do. And I work with (brown nosing begins here) three of the coolest guys I know. And the word "cool" has officially been overused in this post. But I'm not done.

Yesterday I got to work to find a note taped to my office door telling me to haul over to a staff meeting. I grabbed my laptop, now complete with a wireless connection, and followed the map they had drawn me. We spent the next two hours talking about the next big project for the magazine, a photo essay of "24 Hours at BYU" (which Kapka's genius brother helped with, by the way). Actually, I don't know if I can say we spent two hours discussing that, because at these meetings, we are the masters of tangential conversation. But it was fun. I probably shouldn't get so much enjoyment from making Excel spreadsheets and chatting people during meetings, but the best part of any day at work is that this editorial triumverate I work for actually listens to the interns.

This post has gotten obscenely long, so I'm going to postpone writing about walking outside the Royal Albert Hall with Todd talking about his brilliant internship at BYU Magazine that made me want to intern there. . . which is now here. Anyway. . . happy Saturday everyone.

The Anti-Tangent

I just spent an hour wallowing on the sac of love and thinking about the events of the evening. 58 minutes and one potential poem later, I realized that thinking isn't going to cure anything. Neither will writing, for that matter, but it will let me sleep.
I am a creature of habit. Every time I start a new routine, it takes a major effort on my part just to function. Such an effort was required today with classes starting. Add to that stress the tension that had magically built up in my apartment since Sunday, etc., etc., etc. and I was having a watery blue day. Nothing too serious just off.
Enter ward executive secretary, via a phone message. I thought it was the Sunday School president reminding me about teaching this week. Instead, I was being called in to talk with the bishop. That less than a minute message made everything stop. I couldn't focus on work, I couldn't focus on chatting with my new co-worker. I had to get away. So I did.
Somehow I survived until my scheduled appointment. And I was right, it was a release and a new calling. My new co-chair is a friend of mine and a guy the bishop thinks I should "take care of." What a very domestic suggestion.
In the same hour, I was asked if I was dating another of my guy friends. Apparently the word hasn't finished circulating yet that I'm decidedly single. The odd thing about this question was--and is--that it made me start thinking about this guy, who was already on my short list, and I realized I really would like to date him. Talking with my roommates just made it sound, as always, that much more feasible. I just wish I had paid more attention in Guy Chasing 101. I don't do the whole game playing, guy chasing mess. Flirting I do and can do, but that's about it. Which means this will be just another cute guy who I admire from afar and have intelligent conversations with at ward functions. Hmmm.

Welcome Home (and a bedspread)

Did I just call Provo home? Well, this year it feels more like home. In Provo I have my own room with my own bed and my own books and my own piles of crap that I will get around to organizing someday.

Well now. What I am thinking about tonight: My Christmas haul included a new bedspread. I've been using a gray plaid flannel quilt that I tied (read: that I started and my mother finished) since I've been in college. Apparently my mother thought my room needed an overhaul, because I got a velvety burgandy bedspread, which, if you look closely, does include the colors I usually decorate with. I decided to try it out and it is now dominating my bedroom. This has lead to at least three minutes of serious contemplation.

This new bedspread, whether I like it or not, is me. Or at least one side of me. It's the me that wears button-up shirts and slacks and over analyzes everything. And the quilt--my lovely flannel nondescript quilt--was the side of me that wears jeans and hooded sweatshirts and, well, over analyzes everything. Hmm. Well, maybe it is time to try something new.

There was an intelligent bent to this when I first started thinking out the post. I'm afraid that's all deteriorated. My apologies.

Give me a call when you're back in Provo.

Zen in the Art of

So Kapka and I had a nice little conversation today while designing inscape. It's going to be beautiful, by the way. The Hampster and I are a lethal combination. Hope everyone else likes black. And white. Maybe a little gray. But that's it.

I had our fearless editor choose the order of the poems so that I could toss (read: tediously place) them into the layout. There are a few poems that occupy a full spread and two were right next to each other. I asked if we could shift them around and quickly got a mini-discussion on the importance of progression in the order she chose. Which I had to agree with.

Anyway, I returned home tonight to finish a CD mix for a friend of mine and Kapka's argument for progression clicked. You can't start off a mix too strongly--you have to build, throw in a few unexpected tracks, and why am I telling you this? This is what happens when there is very limited social interaction. I hate to say this, but I'm ready for classes to start again. Not ready for a 9:00 a.m. with Dean and Gideon in the MSRB, but just the thought of classes and structure sound really really nice. And april meetings. Which reminds me--next Wednesday. Same place, same time. I suppose we should sit down and decide on a uniform time so that means something. Oh well. Good night, sweet dreams, etc.

Land of the Living

Actually, P-town is remarkably quiet. I'm assuming. I actually wouldn't know since all I've seen is my apartment, my office, and the pub. Note to self: must get out more.

This post is to report that I survived Christmas despite the disheartening fact that this year the Christmas tree was in the southeast corner of the front room instead of in the middle of the large paneless window on the west wall, which essentially sets it in the middle of the room. Somehow it seemed less grand this way. My mother argued that it was for the sake of the view, but I've yet to acknowledge that as a legitimate arguement.

This year's Christmas was branded as "the last Christmas we'll all be together as a family (insert sob here)." Next year Stephen will be "on the mission" and during the two years he's absent Lauren will most likely get married. Huzzah. This meant we had to double duty, hosting dinners and watching Christmas specials Dad taped in 1987. It was actually kind of fun. And a note on the 1987 Christmas specials: Garfield's Christmas and Claymation Christmas. We never realized how funny they were until this year when in the opening song for Garfield Lauren shrieked (L has two volumes: loud and louder), "What did he just say?" Rewinding the tape gave us the number one quote of the holiday: "Things. Stuff. Gadgets. Toys. Greed. Avarice. A lot." The Claymation Christmas is equally as funny and as we were sitting five to a couch, Lauren decided to see if it had ever come out on video. It had and at 10:00 that night L and I buzzed down to SLC to snatch up Border's last DVD copy. We were all excited until we realized that half the charm is the fuzzy lines cutting over the picture.

Christmas Eve dawned with all shopping done and everyone sitting around wondering what to do. We cooked. And then around 7:00 my dad turned on his holiday favorite, It's A Wonderful Life. More quotable gems. My brother's favorite: "If you'll point me in the right direction, Mother, I'm going to go do some passionate necking." If you don't remember that, watch it again. I'll join you. The evening ended with my mother giving us our annual pajama pants. I think at one point in time she wrapped them. Now she shoves them in a bag, which she has our father bring out, who then hands the bag to Maryn, who dumps it on the ground and we each try to figure out which pair belongs to which kid. Last year I had to convince Seth that the pair he was holding was mine--it was pink.

And Christmas morning. Not much to say except I was woken up at 7:18 a.m. by my 14-year-old brother standing in my doorway saying, "Luke, I am your father."

Happy New Year, everyone. Although I'm sure to post something before then.

Happiness is

Somewhere between witnessing the pig head roasting shindig of the century and participating in a brilliant evening of ramen and Shrek 2, I picked up photos from the april evening of madness, aka, editorgirl feeds the masses. A few of them are now happily framed in my happy little room. A few more are sitting in envelopes in anticipation of giving them to the aforementioned april members. But a week and a half (okay, I'll see K tomorrow night) is just too long. If patience is a virture, it's one I didn't get. That sounds like a line from a poem just dripping with that fake plastic cheese. So, the poet formly known as editorgirl will again take on the guise of captiongirl and give you a quick preview to the beauty awaiting you upon returning to the fair land of Provo. In no particular order:

K, Kapka, Day, and yours truly piled on the couch, with Kapka artfully displaying the defunct dating god of the apartment. All of us are smiling, with the exception of Kapka, who looks as if she is preparing yet another question for Allen regarding Rilke and dance moves.

Steve looking like the master academic/scholar/poet/bum that he is, casually sitting back with his wife, who happens to be the only one smiling. K is also in the picture, sticking her tongue out in commentary on either the institution of marriage or institutions in general.

HMP and Steve in yet another contest of masculinity, this time. . . walking around the room balancing books on their heads? Yes, ladies and gentlemen, april is not only a writing group; it also doubles as a finishing school!

Another one of HMP looking pensive. . . or is it thoughtful?

One off-angle shot displaying Steve's shoe, K's knee, HMP (gasp) clearing plates away, and Kapka and me laughing on the LoveSac.

And finally, we return to the original configuration of the april ladies (or chicks if you prefer) kicking it on the couch. But what's different here? Why, it's someone's abnormally long middle finger. I wonder whose finger that could be. . . one more picture I won't be showing my mother.

I know I could scan these in and post them, but that's no fun. This is. Happy Christmas everyone.

Well you know that it's going to be all right. . .

. . . when we go shopping. (BNL)

While HMP has had philosophical conversations with his father, I have been shopping with my mother, resulting in a new skirt, sweater, beanie, and two pairs of black flats. This is how we bond. I tried mentioning poetry the second day I was home. Apparently it gives her a headache.

I'm trying to describe this without sounding snobby. I have found that my parents have absolutely no problem touting my applications to grad school--to the point that the entire law firm knew and Mary Anne (the founding partner) shouted across the room during introductions, "And where is Sarah applying, Larry?" which allowed my dad an extra two minutes of bragging time about all of his children--Sven is pre-med and pre-mission, Lauren has been accepted for a Mexico sociology program, Seth is a singing sensation, and Maryn is the best of all worlds. Have I said this before? I think we all just keep reminding ourselves how wonderful we are.

Anyway, they enjoy talking about my going to grad school, but if I attempt to bring up why I'm going to grad school, they can't quite handle it. I excitedly announced to my mother that I had a new project--meaning a new poetry project--and she immediately launched into her favorite lecture about how I'm wearing myself out with all the things I'm involved in and I don't really have time to take on a new project. I tried to explain that it was a writing project, but I wasn't given that many words to defend myself. All this on the way to the car on our way to the stores.

Stay on the sunny side

My brother has been sitting on the couch for over an hour watching and screaming at a computer-generated football game. My father has just joined him. Chalk one up to another masculine characteristic that I personally will never understand.

One-and-a-half days into Christmas break. Lauren and I left Provo around 1:30, drove the speed limit most of the time home, and pulled into our driveway around 2:45, only to see our next door neighbors roasting a pig's head on a spit in their driveway. I kid you not. Apparently they had been at it all day, beginning with two piglets and climaxing with an adult head. Joy to the world.

This morning was the famous and infamous law firm Christmas party. Saturday morning brunch at Little America in Salt Lake. To quote my brother, "Bacon, eggs, sausage, and ham. As much as you want." Not to mention the neverending fount of hot chocolate.

An entire family excited to go to Dad's work party probably isn't something anyone ever hears about, but this is something we all look forward to all year. Massive amounts of food. Playing the crystal water glasses. Did I mention the food? And Santa. The bonus this year was that someone finally made the executive decision that the older kids--specifically the older girls--did not have to sit on the jolly elf's lap to get their present. I'll let you draw your own conclusions.

The other addition to this year's festivities was the Santa's announcement that no one could open their presents until everyone had theirs. I guess he was getting back at us for the "no girl over 12" rule. Sven and Lauren solved this by opening each others.

So that's day 1.5, with the noted exclusion of my night life, which has consisted of making ramen or some other form of pseudo-pasta with my 10-year-old sister, watching a movie (last night was Shrek 2), and crashing before midnight. What is this world coming to?

Uber clutch

Hi everyone.

I fell asleep on the couch last night after to talking to K about I can't remember what. And sometime between my crashing there and my waking up this morning I made it to my bed and burrowed under the clothes and books and CDs in a manner that I'm sure would impress our resident hampster.

I woke up to my brother Sven calling for the car. I found my coat and hairbrush and headed out the door. It's probably a good thing he called--it was already 9:00 and I had to be to work as soon as he was done with the car. I spent the next hour showering and making myself pretty. I was doing the dishes from last night's soiree when Sven returned with short short hair and asked if he could use my printer. The tempermental thing wouldn't work, so we headed up to his apartment to try. On the way, Sven finally told me that he had a final at 11:00 and wasn't ready for it--it was some sort of presentation. So we spent 30 frantic minutes of me putting together a handout and running to get copies while he wrote up an outline. We finished just in time and as I dropped him off for his final his one comment was "Thanks. You're uber clutch."

I don't pretend to understand my brothers and sisters most of the time. We all have similar worldviews, but they've all been distorted to some extent. I sometimes think that as the oldest I should have set some form of precendent, but that didn't really happen. We've all taken on our roles in the family and in society without directly relating to each other. Does that make sense? A lot of people would delineate their sibling roles as the oldest, the middle, the youngest, but in my family there's this bizarre sense of equality, from me to my 10-year-old sister. I'm the academic; Sven is the cool one; Lauren is the bubbly one; Seth is the performer. Maryn is still too young to have a definite role, but she's becoming this eclectic mix of everything good about the rest of us. She's smart, beautiful, funny, and currently obsessed with dogs.

I've written a lot on this blog about the roles we play and the titles we give ourselves and others. I don't mean to be cheesy or sentimental, but somehow this semester I forgot that while I was playing little sister or whatever role with my friends, I'm the big sister who can be there whenever, even if it means giving up an hour's pay. That's a role I like.

The hap-happiest time of the year

I'm done. Done. DONE. Oh heck, one more time. DONE!!!

And the time is finally right on this thing. Life cannot get much better than this.

Hmmm. . .

I already showed this to K, but I was wondering what everybody else thought. And I don't think K has seen this draft.

Captions: Three Photographs

When sitting side by side
you give something up.

In one minute
the conversation will begin.

The sky is blue. The sea
is blue. There is no blue
in this picture.

The man holds her
between his fingers—
The woman, in turn,
turns, rotating herself
away from him.

Is there a God in this picture?

A conversation stops
every seven minutes.

When standing face to face,
you give something up.

Waiting up for Prince Charming

I am one caffeinated coma away from being done with finals. Tomorrow at this time I will be done with rhetoric, the history of the English language, Irish drama, and that one other class I had. Yes!

It's been mentioned that I need to look on the positive. In rebuttal I'm going to quote one of my favorite poets, Lance.

I don't see myself as being melancholy, at least not unusually so. G.J. Nathan once said, "Show me an optimist and, almost without exception, I'll show you a bad poet." Why? Because bad poets don't usually wade into trouble; they don't dive. If the scriptures and classic literature can be trusted, and I think they can, only trouble is of much interest. At heart I'm a romantic---but a romantic who believes that visions aren't worth much if they aren't tested by everyday living.

Note: my happiness level has just shot through the roof on account of that block quoting tool.

I've been described as a cynical romantic, or a romantic cynic, take your pick. I've also been described as Galadriel-esque, but that's another story. Anyway, this quote resonated with me because I do have that negative, cynical, bitter, angsty edge to a lot of the stuff I write. But who honestly wants to read about butterflies and rainbows and that boy who said something nice to me? Not that anyone wants to read about ex-boyfriends and finals, I'll give you that. But there is discord there and tension--there is something there. To be perfectly honest, I'd rather feel something than feel nothing. Nothing begets nothing, and whether that's art or tantrums, it's still nothing.

The name of the game is surreal.

First off, let's define surreal for any non-English major people out there.

Surreal, noun, a serious tropical or subtropical disease of domestic animals that is caused by a trypanosome, is transmitted by biting flies, and is marked. . . Whoops. That's "surra." Try again.

Surreal, adj., marked by the intense irrational reality of a dream. Thank you Merriam and Webster. Actually, Merriam is not a single person. It's a family or something that bought Webster's dictionary after he died. Crummy people.

"Surreal, but nice."

The weirdness of my life keeps piling on. And although I can't remember portions of last night, I'm pretty sure it started before I had a Mountain Dew Live Wire Slurpee at 12:30 while driving around Provo with my roommate looking for Christmas lights and good cheer of any kind. I had made the mistake of turning on boyfriend number one's demo CD. Here's a tip: if he writes a song for you called "Good-bye" before you even ever kiss, it's a bad sign. Eventually "good-bye" will have to be said, which was actually the point of the whole damn song. Of course, he got most everything else wrong. I'm the one who left. I'm the one who's had "to be a man out on his own." Seriously.

Anyway, the paper of death needs to be read and I have a take home final due at 2:30 that I finally looked at around 4:30. I didn't understand it completely then and I have little hope for now, but it must be done. Tune in later tonight when I describe the excruciating pain of sitting through Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. BF1 played that role. Ack. Go away. Let me alone.

Maybe I just need to write poetry.

Oh happy day!

The paper is death is almost completed. I'm too tired tonight to give it a thorough reading, but other than that it is done. If it wasn't four in the morning, I'd be singing and dancing throughout my apartment. Oh, what the heck. "Oh happy day. . . oh happy day. . ."
Next up: the final, a painful evening at CSMT, my paper for my internship (yuck), and the exegesis of death (yes, they were two different things). Only three more days and then party time! (Please note that I've expended two of my lifetime's 50 exclamation points. I must be tired.)

Hobgoblins and yellow roses

I have fallen from my plastic throne.

I have prostitued my pride.

I have. . . this is getting excessive.

Last Monday my roommates and I were eating a fine gourmet feast at the Brick Oven in honor of one roommate's birthday. Somehow we started talking about our most embarrassing moments--don't ask me why when girls get together we feel the need to re-live our pre-teen sleepovers, but we do. But I didn't really have a "most embarrassing moment" and the conversation moved on to guys we like and what color of toenail polish is the sexiest.

I would now like to amend that conversation--as of tonight I have a most embarrassing moment.

I am still working on the paper of death. In a moment of frustration, I'm afraid I threw a first-rate tantrum, complete with stomping and squealing and all manner of two-year-old behavior. At one point I stood on the couch in front of the very large window and screamed and slammed my fists into the glass. And then the glass broke and I fell through the window.

Kidding. What really happened was that I noticed how fabulous my butt looked in my jeans and I called my roommate's attention to it with a few dance moves. And then I jumped off the couch into the LoveSac and the tantrum was over.

A minute later there was a knock at the door and Cute Boy walked in. Cute Boy is a guy in my ward who I happen to be mildly interested in and who my apartment is pretty tight with. So I come out to talk to him and open with the line, "You should have been here a minute ago. You missed the greatest tantrum."

"Actually," he casually replied, "I caught most of it from the street."

Oh well. Happy finals everyone.

Blog abuse

I have a confession: yes, I deleted some posts. Think of it as ripping pages out of my journal (which I happen to leave on the coffee table for everyone to read). Not for the same reasons I rip pages out of my journal, but something like.

I have been in this crummy self-centered mode lately and I apologize to all who have so patiently put up with me. I spent yesterday sitting in a hall of the JKHB talking to applicants for a study abroad program. It was a smack-eg-upside-the-head kind of moment where I realized that I've been so focused on myself and april that I've ignored, oh, I don't know, the film majors and the dance education people. Am I making sense? It was just nice to talk to people about themselves: where they were from, what they were studying, why they were interested in this study abroad. People are (or at least can be) cool.

To all a good night

April always leaves me with a million thoughts milling about in my head. Usually they are literary with some social commentary thrown in for good measure. Tonight they are completely personal.

I had a panic attack tonight when Aaron was reading Rilke. I suppose that's a poem in and of itself. But I haven't had a panic attack for a little while, and though I'd like to think it was brought on by my possibly overdue library books, of which there are 30, I had to consider the situation in order to calm down.

I adore april. I love the way we interact and communicate and write. But even with a roomful of friends, I think--I know--I function best one on one, especially when I'm playing hostess. This isn't a mandate to april that we find a new meeting place, it's just me thinking. Promise.

On the flip side, and combining Trent's accusation that I really love Christmas and Aaron's statement that he was going to be breathtakingly honest on his blog, I have a confession. I love Christmas. The whole season, from sledding to hot chocolate to caroling, if anyone ever convinces me to go. But I love Christmas my way. I love the Christmas tree that stands in my parents' front room, perfectly decorated by my mother, with at least one present under the tree addressed to "Sarah Elizabeth." I love the porcelain nativity that we put up in our front entry way, the one that I've been responsible for every year since I was eleven. I even love the four foot elf/gnome/hobbit that my brother named Lars who stands guard over our front door. My favorite place in the world--to write, to read, to think, to kiss--is in the front room when the only light comes from the white lights on the tree. Every year I spend at least one night on that familiar uncomfortable couch just looking at the tree and the lights. I am passionate about white lights, placed in a tight line around the ceiling--not too fond of the draping action going on in my apartment this year. I even have the first two lines of a poem complete with white lights. My only problem is that it's a love poem and I don't know what comes next yet.

So there you have it--editorgirl is a peculiar kind of Grinch who likes Christmas, but likes it her way. I suppose that's terribly spoiled of me. But I can't wait for a good snow and a silent house and the night before Christmas, when I'm the one who can't fall asleep, even though I threatened my youngest siblings that if they wake me up before 7:00 I won't get up until 9:00. And the next morning Seth will send Maryn in at 6:30 to say, "We've been up for hours. Can we please go get the others?" And I'll get up, because I've been awake since Maryn climbed off the top bunk at 4:30. We'll get the others and then wait for Mom to line us up in the hallway for another dreadful Christmas morning picture--by height instead of age now that Sven is taller than I am--and then we get to see what Santa brought us. Because he really does exist.

Everyone's favorite crayon

This month I have been matronly, sick-as-a-dog, a saga, and a little sister, the last being quite a feat seeing as how I'm the oldest of five. Tonight I am just tired. Last night I pulled my first all-nighter of the semester, managing to write an eleven page paper, watch Finding Forrester, eat my weight in potatoes, and cut myself shaving, all within a twelve hour period. I finally crashed for a whole hour around 5:31 only to be woken up by my dear sweet roommate at 6:30 with the reminder that if I didn't get up, not only would I not finish my paper, but I would probably be the last to shower. This last was enough to get me off the couch and into the shower where I enjoyed less than five minutes of hot water before the stupid thing went ice cold. Fact: there are few things in this world I hate more than cold showers (although HMP could probably name two of them). I'm afraid this unfortunate event culminated with me stomping in the shower and cursing at my roommates as I rinsed the shampoo out of my hair.
The result of this thrilling day and a day and a day was that HMP walked up to me before my 12:05 class and asked if I was still on cold medications. Nope, ladies and gentlemen (are you gentlemen?), I am not. I now have another reason not to be lucid and to post long rambling blogs for my own entertainment.
Anyway, I am posting to (1) acknowledge that I survived and will survive (no singing please) and (2) respond to something HMP said on his blog, about people being those who ask questions or those who answer.
This month I've also been "cute, thoughtful, and quiet." I believe that's a direct quote. I'm not the type of person to ask questions unless I feel that they are necessary. And they're only necessary if you can't make a connection or need to know unknown information--as Forrester puts it, a soup question. And I'm afraid I'm proud enough to assume that if I don't know it right away, it's stored somewhere in my brain and there is no need for me to ask a question. While this sometimes results in embarrassingly after the fact questions, I usually do figure out an answer. Or I just don't care.
At the same time, I don't seek to enter every argument. Last Saturday I sat stirring marshmallows into my hot chocolate as HMP and my roommate discussed. . . something. I remember thinking about my opinion regarding whatever it was, but I didn't feel like voicing my opinion at that time and I didn't. When HMP and I eventually headed back to his place so he rescue his roommate from the grasp of some evil female (or so his roommate could rescue him from the grasp of some evil female. . . ), we started on a completely different topic. And once again, I wasn't saying much.
Because I don't seem to be fitting into the binary, I propose a triptych (I love that word). The third is, well, whatever I am. The listener, the describer, the analyzer. The person who sits back and doesn't answer until there is something whole.
Now, that being said or at least written, can anyone tell me why I pronounce crayon "crown"? My roommates thought I was on a hunt for some tiaras the other day. Terribly funny. If you were there, that is.

Role Call

Hmm. Last night was a phoentic transcription of a Neal A. Maxwell conference address--I kid you not--and tonight is a paper on some aspect of contemporary Irish drama, which just happens to be my English major capstone course. It's due in 12 hours and I've got nothing. This is only a slight exaggeration. So here's the plan: I'm going to type my little heart out here, in happy self-indulgence, and then see if I have any ideas worthy of a paper.

I am fascinated by drama. It started with Shakespeare (I read Taming of the Shrew when I was 9 or 10) and has since turned into anything in script form. I was about to type "anything on the stage," but that's not true. Some of my favorite plays are those I have yet to see staged, like Stoppard's Arcadia.

There are, of course, certain elements that interest me more than others. High on my list--and the topic of tonight's all-nighter--are plays that require actors to play more than one character. I'm not talking about companies that choose to double cast characters a la A Midsummer Night's Dream (the actors playing Oberon, Titania, and Puck are often also cast as Theseus, Hippolyta, and the butler--not remembering his name right now--Philo-something I believe), but plays that are specify this multiplicity of roles explicitly in the play.

The first play of this nature that caught my attention was Stewart Parker's Heavenly Bodies. It's a Faustian play about the life of a Victorian Irish playwright named Dionysus Lardner Boucicault--completely serious here. Boucicault, or B as I will from now on affectionately refer to him as, is two days away from his death, teaching drama classes in New York City. Jimmy Patterson, an Irish "clown" of sorts, appears to him telling him that he is dying and that his soul has been assigned to limbo. B argues for the chance to defend his life. Parker then escorts us through B's life and plays with B and Patterson assuming different roles and the drama students from the beginning of the play fleshing out the plot. So you have a drama student playing B's second wife Agnes, who then takes on different roles in B's plays.

It gets rather complicated, but I think my arguement is that this is done for at least two reasons: 1) to focus the attention on B; 2) to highlight the theatrical nature of B's life. This method of telling it is very appropriate. And I think I'll come back to my other arguements after I tell you about the second play.

Marie Jones' Stones in his Pockets is difficult to read. Luckily I saw it, oh, three years ago in London. It's the story of a small rural Irish town that is playing host to a Hollywood movie production. Only two actors play fifteen parts. It's amazing to watch. My arguement here will be that this forces the reader/audience to focus on the story as opposed to any one character, because each character is communicating the futility and hopelessness of life up until the end of the play.

My overarching arguement is that this theatrical device of having actors take on multiple roles not only very pointedly directs the audience/reader's attention, but it also mimics reality in the many roles we are called on to fill. I know I'm sounding like a broken record, but I continue to be fascinated by this. Add in the history of Irish drama to use stock characters and mythical characters and I think I can write this paper.

Merry Finals to All, and to All a Good Night.

Am I attracting the man I hope to someday marry?

When I saw that this was the subject of my ward's RS lesson today my only reaction was a helpless "please no." When the Guy Smiley EQ president started the lesson off, I'm afraid my reaction was "hell no" and I tuned out, which was probably a blessing for every sister sitting, well, in that room. Had I listened I probably would have started screaming out of pure torture.

So: am I attracting the man I hope to someday marry? My instant response was to turn to my friend and say, "Yes, I am. He just doesn't exist." But it has led to about 30 seconds of deep contemplation tonight about my relations with guys in general, which in turn has prompted this entry to my blog when I should, as always, be writing yet another paper.

Since I came of age in this great Utah society, I have dated exactly two guys who were both ambition-free and short. I don't know what it is about an intelligent, ambitious, cynical chick that turns guys heads, but they all seem to find me--that is, if they have nothing better to do.

Among certain circles of friends (read: my roommates and other similar girls) I am known for having a new "crush" every other week. But in the past month or so, I have become crush-less. I'm actually quite happy with who I am and what I'm doing and where I'm going. Sure, I wish that I never got sick or had homework, but that I can deal with. There are a few guys who remain on my short list as "guys who I would date if they expressed a desire to date me," but none that I am, forgive me for this phrase, actively pursuing, which basically boils down to chats over ice cream with my girl friends.

This momentary time of clear headedness is allowing me to really evaluate what I am hoping for out of that distant future spouse that everyone tells me is looming on my horizon. And while my joking answer is that someday I'd really like to kiss someone taller than myself (a girl can dream, can't she?), my requisite characteristics are surprisingly few. I am hoping and expecting someone educated, motivated, and honest who expects the same things from me. Read: a guy who respects my education and ambition and isn't cowed by them. I honestly don't know if a guy like that exists. After boyfriend number two I was sure he didn't. But this semester has introduced me to some guys who have somewhat restored my faith in the opposite sex.

This is yet again the late night ramblings of a girl who is, in all honesty, supremely confused with life right now. The things I was always taught I was supposed to be I'm not and I'm realizing that's okay. The latest realization came when my grandfather told me that he was proud of me for wanting a PhD and that he hopes "the young man" will just wait for me to get it. I admit that I had thought for some time that my not being married by age 20 was an extreme disappointment, along with the fact that dating had been a non-issue in my life since age 19.

I'm not writing this for pity or applause. I'm just writing it to write. Mostly to get myself to stop analyzing my current crushlessness and get back to my paper. Boyfriend number two always accused me of prefacing things. He thought it weakened whatever came next. Maybe he's right. And maybe this epilogue is weakening everything I said. But this is me. A little tired, a little doped up (still on that cold medication), but me all the same.

Good night.

Grrrr.

I'm afraid that's as articulate as I'm going to get tonight. I went to Divine Comedy with a good friend of ours and (this is the weird part) my bosses. As in the people I work for. I was paranoid beyond belief--and I know you all can picture me paranoid. What if Friend didn't enjoy himself? (I always feel responsible when I ask people to movies or plays and they don't like it. I about drove my siblings crazy when I chose a ride with a long, boring line at Disney World this summer. I don't like amusement parks. They don't amuse. Just give me roller coasters. That's all I need.) What if my bosses didn't enjoy themselves? What if they didn't let me write the DC article after seeing the show? It was just all too dreadful to comprehend.

And you know what: nothing happened. Friend laughed, my bosses laughed, I get to write the article, Friend and I had hot chocolate before I drove him home. Brilliant evening. And then my roommate and I went to the store. And while we were at the store, or maybe it was on the ride home, she got on a "I don't get the point of Divince Comedy" kick. And it felt like a kick. She was questioning why so many smart people would devote themselves to a non-profit group just to get people to laugh. Why wouldn't they be focusing on social commentary? So I argued that comedy can be seen as social commentary. Hell, it is social commentary; some is just more pointed than others. And, while I don't necessarily believe it to be the case for DC, can I just point out that entertainment for entertainment's sake is perfectly okay? We don't have to be uplifted or informed by everything we watch/read/whatever. But she had made up her mind and Friend was no longer there to help me argue. Which I don't know if he would have helped me anyway.

So I come back home and write up a review. Fact: It took me a little while. And fact: I enjoyed the show immensely. I had also been so focused on the people I was with that I didn't note things that didn't work. If there were any, they were such that I don't remember them now. I just remember a thoroughly entertaining evening. This resulted in an uncharacteristically positive review of the show. But it was their "Best of" show. There wasn't room for trash and therefore no reason for a critique of the performance. Just me enjoying myself remembering my favorite sketches. So I asked my roommate to listen to the review--I catch most of my mistakes when I read whatever I wrote out loud. And I get done and her comment is that it's disgusting--too sweet--I wasn't firery enough. What the hell is going on? I wasn't looking to please anyone. I was looking to write my opinion of the show. Does no one expect me to have positive opinions? I know a "real" review would include some of low points. . . but I didn't think there were any. Truly. Madly. Deeply.

I'm hurting my fingers slamming them into the keys like this. I'm going to go slam them into something else. Good night.

P.S. Friend: thank you again. And Kapka, you are super wonderful.

Forts, Shakespeare, and What I Do Best

Good morning everyone. My roommates and I just finished watching a movie with the girls who live directly below us. Hooray for socialness. We got down there and they had constructed a fort--the couch and love seat and coffee table were all turned on their ends and covered with sheets and blankets that they had stapled to the ceiling. It was brilliant and just a little bit insane.

That has decidedly been the high point of my day. I actually intended for this to be an actual diatribe about the people with dreadful theater etiquette who seem to abound at BYU. I sat by at least 20 of them tonight as my roommate and I watched The Taming of the Shrew. I know not everyone who reads this is a fan of Shakespeare, but the guy did write some brilliant stuff. So imagine my annoyance when the words of one of Katherine's best speeches was altered to reflect the agenda of the director. This is Shakespeare. Actually, I don't believe in altering Wilde, Shaw, Stoppard, or Parker for that matter. They wrote it; it's their words. Cutting for the sake of time I understand. Altering pronouns so that suddenly Katherine is "free" and "happy" is trash. And this is turning into some diatribe.

I went to see Taming because one of my good friends was Lucentio. He's one of those guy friends who you can just love without everyone expecting the two of you to pair up or accusing you of "crushing" on each other. Why can't I just have a conversation with a guy? Just because I am single and living in Happy Valley doesn't mean I'm on the hunt every minute of every day. And even when I am interested in a guy, I don't hunt. I just obsess for about a week and then I get over it. It's very much like a cold in that aspect. Oh, and for the record, my Lucentio friend is not gay.

So Em and I remove ourselves from our seats after applauding a few times--no standing ovation--they're severely overdone in Provo--and head home. As we leave I turn on my phone to find a few missed calls and one text message reading "Where are you? Nate so-and-so has been here twice looking for Emily." Nate So-and-so happens to be a high school friend of Em's who is 100% jerk. If I was feeling charitable I'd say he was just insecure. And I probably would be feeling charitable if we hadn't walked in the door to find him kicking it on our couch. He waited an hour for Em to get back.

I've talked about how I can be a brat or a snob, but I don't think my april friends have seen me in jerk mode. Trent would probably enjoy it too much. But this guy pushes just the right buttons for me to go on the defensive. The word creep is too nice a label for him. And he followed us down for our movie night. It's hard to watch a good chick flick when a guy is snorting at every other line (we snort too, just in our heads) and saying asinine things. The best part was that he was laying right next to me, so I was completely aware of myself the whole time--I couldn't relax for fear of touching him. I hate to sound so third-grade-ish, but ew.

Well, my happiness of the couch fort (and getting a chance to see my friend's very cute photographer brother) seems to have been overtaken by these brief diatribes. It's interesting how that can happen. Oh well. Tomorrow is a Divine Comedy night, so I'm sure to be in a good mood. Won't that be a novelty?

Rushed writing

Because I'm tired of writing blogs about how I'm sick (I think I'm getting better), I thought I'd post this rush write from my work writing group. The topic was, as you'll soon figure out, "a fear." I also want to note that I exagerated about Emily. . . I've seen that girl put away more food than most guys can. And that statement will all make sense after you read this.

Every time I enter the Marriot Center I have the same vision—me tumbling down the full length of cement steps, crashing at the bottom in a pitiful heap, and breaking my nose. Actually, I have this fear when I approach any flight of stairs, the Marriott Center is just the most dramatic. And I’m never worried about breaking a leg or an arm—which would be death for me—just my nose. I can picture this wide gash across my face, a dent breaking the surface where the bridge of my nose begins. It makes me feel vulnerable and a little foolish. The best part is that I’m not what you would call a clumsy person most of the time. I mean, I have my moments, but I’ve only slipped on icy steps and tripped up steps, never actually tumbled down a flight of stairs. But, and I hate to dwell on this, but maybe it’s cathartic, is that the right word, and maybe I’ll be able to sit closer to the front during Devotionals now, I still see myself, watch my back roll over and over, my head bouncing off the steps. Even when I’m falling asleep I’ll suddenly feel that I’m falling—not asleep, literally falling—and I jerk in bed to catch myself. Which freaks my roommate out. Granted, freaking Emily out isn’t that difficult. All it takes is a large hamburger and shake and the girl feels queasy. Katie next door is even easier—she hates the sight, smell, sound, etc. of teeth-brushing, which makes no sense. How does she maintain her personal hygiene?

So fears. Check. My other fear is not being able to communicate. I spend all my time writing or exclaiming or diatribing (good verbage) or just plain old talking. I like talking and I like listening and I like communicating ideas. Which is why, in a very roundabout way, I’ve never traveled to a non-English speaking country, unless you count Wales, which you can’t because more people speak English than Welsh.

Rule One for Reading Your Own Poetry: Don't be sick

I really wish I had Aaron to read this in his amazing Heston voice. As I do not (nor do I have audio with this thing) you'll just have to imagine it. Have fun.

I mention Aaron because today we had our poetry workshop and Aaron was on one. He brought 2 lbs of chocolate covered cinnamon bears and kept going off. I think if he didn't have an audience he'd die. Anyway, he's belting out statements in that classy Heston voice as we workshop some of the most painful offerings of the semester. And then its my turn. Workshopping goes like this: The poet reads their poem and then has to remain silent as everyone hashes out the meaning and the problems. And of course, there's always at least one person who brings up something that isn't there, isn't relevant, and that is what the class latches onto.

So I read, beginning with a revision of "Thanksgiving Day." Just one little problem: I am oh so slowly losing my voice due to that lovely cold of mine. So this poem of mine suddenly becomes a eulogy, the most lamentable and merry comedy of my take on family get togethers. Ack. When I finish reading, I quickly tacked on, before Lance could sush me, "I have a cold, so that came out all wrong." After they attacked that poem (mostly the Legend part--I knew that didn't belong there--new poem), we moved on to "Sum(marry)", which, in my opinion, requires a certain tone of voice, certain pauses. And I botched it. I botched my own stupid poem because I can't breath. It came off sounding like some melodrama, which, somebody please tell me I''m right to think this, it isn't.

I've typed myself out. I am now going to Sonic. Cheers. eg

Post-april thoughts

1. I like Frank O'Hara. There's something nice and deceptive about his simple sentences and word choice and his immersion in the popular culture of that time. I don't know if I got around to saying all of that, so there it is.

2. A cool quote from Simic: "You throw everything out of poetry except what really makes poetry distinct--which is metaphor, one metaphor after another, wild flights of imagination. It's a risky business."

3. A cool quote from Rita Dove (even though we didn't talk about her tonight): "If they don't find themselves compulsively reading--print as they walk by a shopping mall, anything--then I don't think they're really a writer. . . because inherent in the idea of being a writer is to have the whole continuum, have the whole circle be completed. That feeling as a writer that you are writing, someone else is going to pick this up and read it and it's not completed until that person reads it. If you haven't taken part in that continuum, how can you even know how it's going to work?"

4. I like april.

5. I like Miss K's pjs, Kapka's burrowing, Day's quiet amusement, and T-bone's bizarre laugh. And I live the LoveSac.

6. Thank you for putting up with my cold.

7. Would the Sunday after reading days work for everyone to do dinner at my place? I'll cook. . . provided that I've stopped coughing over everything.

Good eye?

My history of the English language class finally made it to the 20th century. . . sort of. The brilliant thing is our textbook and the accompanying workbook were written by excessively old British gentlemen, which makes the sections on slang quite entertaining. Before we got to slang, however, we had to talk about self-explaining compounds. My very nice and very odd professor paced in front of our 10 person class saying "If a horse doctor is a doctor for a horse then a city park. . . " We were expected to complete her sentence with "is a park for a city." It's cake, but it's also 3:00 in the afternoon, so a few people mumble on each one. After a few of these, everyone was falling asleep or daydreaming or doing something with slightly more academically profitable. Except for one guy, who enthusiastically kept up with "a dispute about borders." Our prof was either so surprised or so grateful that she cried out, "Good eye! Good eye!" And they kept going with "a mill which uses wind," etc.
Calling out "good eye" during this exercise is like calling out "good eye" during a T-ball game. Do you remember that stage of your athletic development? I never developped athletically, actually, but I attended more than my fair share of T-ball games. It's the first stage of softball/baseball, where the kids swing at a ball sitting on a plastic prop directly in front of them. And for some reason when they miss, by either swinging above into the air or below into the plastic "T", the stands fill with shouts of "Good eye! Good eye!" No, bad swing. Get your kid off the field. End the humiliation now. Try soccer or tennis or ping pong. Forget the hopes of your kid playing "ball which uses bases."