what I'm thinking about

at least what makes it way to blogger.

Hi.

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

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

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

Okay, a few link-thoughts for you:

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

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

Friday last

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

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

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

I passed!

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

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

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

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

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

Professor

If you like Lost, go here.

erring on the side of grievance

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

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

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

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

deserved

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

the guilt

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

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

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

the polls are now closed

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

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

Cornell said no.

Utah said waitlisted.

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

- - -

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

Thesis is the Loneliest Number

67 pages

2 number of weeks between scheduling my defense and my defense

3 poets--Osherow, Gluck, Creech

3 committee members

1 graduate student writing her thesis

It's done.

Well, it's not done done. But it is drafted done. Intro, Osherow, Gluck, Creech, conclusion. All jammed together into one pretty little file and shipped off to the chair. I even wrote the acknowledgements.

And now I can't sleep. My brain won't turn off. Except what am I supposed to think about now? Other than sleep? And what revisions Chair will make me make in the morning? It is the morning. Maybe I should revise now. Except I can't. I might start screaming and that would wake the Abby Baby. Who is sleeping in Bountiful tonight.

So here's the plan: 8:00 a.m. Chair flips his way through the thesis. 9:00 a.m. I meet with Chair and listen obediently to what changes must be made before I send this thing on to committee. I'm hoping to be done with it by noon, or slightly after noon. And then I wait for them to tell me I can schedule my defense, which has to be done by Feburary 22. In the meantime. . .

Szymborska's "4 o'clock in the morning" suggests that what saves us from that awful hour is 5:00 a.m. But 5:00 a.m. is just as awful. Trust me. I have experienced it too many times.

Okay, meantime. I am planning a party. I'm not sure what day, but it will be after the defense. It will be a "Pass" party and if I can swing it, it will also be my 25th birthday party. I've wanted to be 25 for forever. Not sure why. But 25 is one I'm going to celebrate. I'm not sure what day (TB and K, this might be subject by any Utah-ward plans you have), but I know the schedule. 7:00 to 8:00: music and drinks. 8:00 to 9:00-ish: poetry reading/open-mic. Hey, it's an editorgirl party and the whole point is the poetry. And then the rest of the night will dissolve into conversation and celebration and more drinks and more music. Maybe cake. Maybe cupcakes.

Because you have to celebrate with cupcakes.

answers (courtesy of YouTube)

According to some of my friends, I haven't been blogging much lately (apparently pictures of the Abby Baby don't exactly count, even if they should). I've kind of written myself out with thesis and poetry attempts. So there's that. And there's the fact that it seems like the only things people want to know about my life are answers I don't have right now. For example, I don't know where I want to go to school next year, other than anywhere I applied that will let me in. (Although please see the poll at right: Where will editorgirl be in one year?). And I don't know when my thesis will be "done." Hell, I don't know what "done" means. I can't conceive of my thesis not being in progress, although I certainly will let you know when it is out of progress.

After this long list, I decided to find some questions I do have answers to. And to make it more fun, I suggest you follow the YouTube links.

The three songs I've been listening to over and over and over again.

I had to check out ABC's Eli Stone because I love Johnny Lee Miller and Victor Garber. This is the moment I decided I gave it two thumbs up.

This was the result of trying to find Victor Garber clips on YouTube.

And this was the result of spending more time on YouTube (skip to 1:40 for the performance).

Okay, so nothing groundbreaking. But it's keeping me up at night.

What's cuter than a thesis?

Answer:

and in conclusion. . .

I have just pulled another all-nighter. I'm sure my therapist and my mother won't approve, in that order, but I'm afraid it was necessary. Apparently my best thesis work happens when I'm not fully cognizant of what's going on.

Everything is now drafted, with the exception of the conclusion. You know, that part where I talk about what I mean by all those pages before. The part where I tell you you should care about all those pages before. The part where I. . .

It's not just tired. It's that I'm not sure what all this amounts to, other than graduation. I know I still feel passionate about contemporary American poetry, I still love these poets, and I think more people should read poetry, but that is a bunch of very general statements only loosely associated with the seventy pages or so that I'm ready to ship off to somewhere far far away.

How does this conclusion thing work, anyway? The Chair has told me to leave all critics behind and write as if I were talking to a class--if I were talking to a class about my thesis, it would be full of bizarre half-funny comments and warnings that graduate work can kill.

But hey, I just used the subjunctive, so I guess grad school taught me something.

No, wait. That was kindergarten.

it is

very very late. or very very early, depending on which direction you're heading. and for most people it wouldn't be either. i, on the other hand, no longer have a recognizable sleep pattern. i just sleep. a lot and at inappropriate times. which is why i didn't sleep last night. i told myself that sleep was not allowed until i have this chapter done. it's closer, but nothing meriting an all-nighter. although, based on this week's sleep, i'm not sure the past 12 or so hours qualifies as an all-nighter.

.

i stole periods from th. for this blog, and for that one poem i wrote a year ago.

.

all applications are in, as of yesterday when i was pretending i was going to have a productive day, which i would then interpret as a good day.

.

i know what i want to write. both in this blog and in the chapter. but everything keeps getting mixed up so Creech's Judas and my sleeping patterns and Kneehigh's A Matter of Life and Death, which I saw in London and read sometime this week, and various TV sitcoms and epithalamions and everything else don't have a clear place.

.

i just want to write poetry. please.

confession/post 500

I just right aligned a poem. And it kind of works.

Dammit.

499

Where do titles come from?

I'll tell you.

I don't know.

********************

Seriously, I need help here. Strong poem, absolutely no title. I'd really like to include it in my manuscript for Denver, but I refuse to not have a title and no one word or phrase really stands out as title material. Can't I just be Dickinson and use numbers?

huh

I'm working on a poem when I hear a knock on my door. Answer it. Find two home teacher-y types from the ward. Invite them in.

They asked what I was working on. I tell them I was writing. They ask what. "A poem." One asks if it's an assignment or if it's "just for fun."

Okay, so the poem wasn't assigned (hi, no classes really). But "just for fun"? No. Not at all.

exactly how it is, everytime

I've had too many thoughts in my head to put any two together for a blog. And a one sentence blog isn't really my thing. Not that it can't be done. It can. I've seen it done. Read it done. Still not me.

So where I am right now: In the Hole (what was once the basement, my apartment, my flat, and the Fen). The Hole is a bit of a mess. Actually, it's a killer mess. Dirty dishes, dirty floor, file cabinet in front of the couch (so it's a loveseat, but so inappropriate). Tomorrow is going to be the day of cleaning. Promise.

Tomorrow is also the day of the thesis. It's coming. Coming coming coming. It will be done. This chapter will be done for Monday.

On a higher note, or a different note, I did get a job. Source checking my brains out. Not my favorite way to pass the time, but I can do it and do it well. Go me.

The best part has been doing reading and writing I don't have to do. I'm sitting in on Kim's classes, reading Summa Lyrica and brilliant contemporary poets (brilliant even if they do insist on right-aligned poetry, which I can't decide if I like). Brilliant classmates as well. (Can I call them my classmates if I'm not technically in the class?)

The only thing I really want to do now is write. And sleep. Write and sleep. The perfect life.

a post on emptiness

I don't know if I can explain how empty I feel right now. Maybe all you would have to do is look at the posts from last year--so much emptiness. It's that moment at the end of a story when it's not a happy ending, not a sad ending, when life just keeps going and you're left feeling unsatisfied and unhinged. Which is what life is. I keep looking for the "The End" sign for this chapter of my life, but there isn't a sign. There is this emptiness. Not happy, not sad. Empty. No roommate, no job, no friends I see every day, no one who needs me. But there is my thesis, my sister's family, my friends who are still in contact. I feel as if I'm waiting to be filled up. This isn't a religious question so much as a life question, that "So what?" Hickman is so fond of writing on my thesis chapters. What has all this meant? What does all this mean? Am I going to find out? So much happened last year, right down to the final coutdown with K and me holding our henna tattoos away from our sides so they wouldn't smear while the rest of the world ran into each other. So much. Is it right for me to feel empty?

26 Dresses

A few months ago I predicted that 27 Dresses would be my movie for the new year. It doesn't hit theaters until January 11, but yesterday I stumbled upon a sneak preview and I dragged K along. We were late (stupid parking in stupid SLC), so we only saw 26 Dresses (quip courtesy of K), but I still thought the movie was worth blogging about. (At this point, anything is worth blogging about as long as it's not my thesis.)




Please note that there will be spoilers, although none of them should come as a surprise if you've ever seen five minutes of a romantic comedy.



Katherine Heigl plays Jane, a perpetual bridesmaid and the owner of the 27 title dresses. Jane is super-organized, super-efficient, and super-super. She's super in love with weddings and romance and articles written by Malcolm Doyle, a wedding columnist for the New York Journal. She's also super in love with her boss George (note to self: blog about how George is not a sexy name), played by Edward Burns.
As mentioned earlier, K and I missed the 25th and 26th dresses because we missed the first ten minutes of the movie, but while wearing them, Jane meets Kevin Doyle (played by surprisingly adorable and just possibly outdoor material James Marsden). The next day, Jane arrives to work to find flowers on her desk and her sister Tess arrives from Italy and her super-glamourous life as. . . something. Missed that.

We can speed up this next part: Jane goes to party, George goes to party, George mentions he left something on Jane's desk, Jane assumes flowers, George means dry cleaning ticket, Tess shows up for drinks, George meets Tess. Oh, and Kevin sent the flowers.

Tess falls for George, George falls for Tess, and suddenly Jane is planning her sister's wedding to the man of Jane's dreams. In the meantime, Kevin is booking it after Jane--literally. In one of my favorite moments of the movie, Kevin returns Jane's day planner, but only after penning his name in every Saturday for the rest of the year.

Here's the spoiler/twist you may not see coming: Kevin Doyle is Malcolm Doyle. He's writing an article about Tess and George--but he's also writing an article about Jane's state as a perpetual bridesmaid. Hence the booking. Sad, because he really is cute. Cynical and cute make an excellent leading man.


The movie works itself out exactly as it's supposed to, complete with a boat scene and "Benny and the Jets." And most importantly, as K pointed out, Jane gets around to kissing both guys. We awarded the movie 3.5 out of 5 stars, mostly because Marsden wasn't on screen enough. He really was that cute.

Happy Christmas

I know I'm American and that an American who says "Happy Christmas" is pretenious. But if you're reading this blog, you know that at times I can be pretenious. Just a little.

I've been considering a long list of possible Christmas-y posts. Something about how I've given up my Grinch-like ways or how my mom keeps trying to create new Christmas "traditions" or how the baby has taken over Christmas. And then the Christmas Eve present happened and it wasn't pajama pants--it was "Jenkins University" t-shirts. Not sure what message they're trying to send with those. . . but I did promise that I'd walk if they wore them to graduation. I'm just not sure which definition of "walk" I should say I meant.

Speaking of definitions, I took a test yesterday. A test. I haven't taken a test in at least a year. But this was for a job (have I mentioned that I'm currently jobless?) that I'd really love. And I got stuck on the first question: List five of your favorite books and explain why. I had to come back to it.

So what Santa needed to bring me was a job. A job, an acceptance to a PhD program, and, to quote my grandfather, "a fat little friend" (i.e., gentlemen caller). Maybe a car. And a finished thesis.

I did get a chair.

SOS: Millennium Bridge

I'm trying to put the finishing touches on my graduate applications. This is one poem I'm hoping is nearing completion, or at least presentability. Is that a word? Oh well. Please to tell me what you think.

Millennium Bridge

St. Paul’s grows larger, larger until I
am standing on its roof,

the city small at my feet,
the city spiraling at my feet.
I can see from here—

here where breath comes cold,
and draws back to the river,
crawls across the river

to the heat of the Globe,
to the false sun heavy setting.
I hold it between my fingers,

hold it all, let go, wait to disappear
in audience applause.

TMI

Every time this time of the month rolls around, I recite the few lines I remember from a 319 poem: "It's a relief / when the blood comes." I didn't particularly like the rest of the poem--are you supposed to like 319 workshops?--but I can't shake those lines. And the thought that maybe this should be a relief. But right now my legs are cramping up and I know any craving I satisfy will result in stomachaches for what will seem like forever. I'm sure there are worse things. I'm sure I'll experience worse things. But right now, there's no relief.

on chapped lips

I've known what I was going to title this post since just before 9:00 this morning when I was standing in line at Cougar Copy trying not to kick or cuss at the idiots in line in front of me. I'm not sure exactly what the post is about, but I do have an idea of what I want to include:

1. I post pictures--pictures--of John Krasinski and Jake Gyllenhaal and only get two comments? Seriously? Seriously? (P.S. I love Edgy and Th. more than you right now.)
2. My 218 is rocking workshop. I've never been so pleased with a class before. Which brings me to
3. To kick off workshop I brought in a few of my poems that are in progress. After some really smart comments, "Millennium Bridge" is now two poems that I need to work on instead of one. But I can't work on it because I have to work on
4. thesisgradappsacapcaproposal. Who has time fore all this? All this and
5. Christmas shopping. If only more people were as forthcoming and subtle as Grover.
6. Okay, enough of the annoying numbers skipping through sentences.
7. Kapka (aka MLH, but I still think of her as Kapka), Cassie Keller, and Emily Dyer are all reading on Friday. This promises to be the best student reading ever (mostly because I won't be tempted to throw anything at any reader).
8. This week at International Cinema: As You Like It. Next week: Devdas. Can life get any better? Only if IC were open Mondays.
9. I should take the time to make it to 10, but since numbers have never been my thing, I'm not even going to try. I am going to end with one final jubilation: Anna is coming! And staying at my house, which now comes with heat and a vacuumed floor!

P.S. I do have chapped lips, but since its not the result of anything interesting, who cares?

because tomorrow there will be more important things to blog about

Thanksgiving was a success, if Thanksgiving means eating until you pass out. Go turkey!



The rest of the week/weekend is kind of a blur. My family saw Enchanted. Sven and I introduced the rest of the family to Indian cuisine. I spent a few days holed up in the extra office at my dad's law firm working on the thesis. Shopping with Mom, where I saw this:

After this ad, everything paled in comparison. Still does.

Christmas begins in two weeks. . . bring it on.

P.S. (Because sleeping is just not happening.)

What Kind of Guy Will You Fall For?
	You would fall for the sensitive guy. You'll find your future man wherever turtlenecks are sold. He will have depth, introspection, and a disturbing knowledge of musical theatre. And he may be a little weird. But hey, while your girlfriends cry over broken hearts, you'll be having Shakespeare read to you every night.
Find Your Character @ BrainFall.com

on thesising

After some half-hearted attempts to thesis yesterday, I made myself wake up early this morning and go to work with my dad today. Sure I'm in downtown SLC, but I'm also in an empty office where I have nothing to do but thesis. And blog. And facebook. But mostly thesis. So far, so good, although I have started a new D list. Currently on the D list is the author of How to Read the Bible as Literature who keeps referencing his past works as the "best" resources available on everything. He also likes to say "someone said this" and then footnote someone's name. Why not kill two birds with one stone? Or is it the same bird?

of blogging blogging blogging blogging blogging blogging

My blog is my homepage. . . which is probably not the best idea. But it is, and when I open my browser, I'm reminded of what I have or haven't posted, what I wanted to post but forgot, what I should be doing that doesn't include blogging.

I'm not always sure who these posts are for. I can't flippantly say "me," because at this point "me" is way off the charts. There are the people I first started blogging with and for--april. There are the friends I've picked up along the way. There are the people I want to impress. There are the people I want to notice what I write. Most of you (dear Reader, to quote Jane Eyre) fit in multiple categories. But I'm not sure that's why I'm writing.

Tonight I knew it was time for a new post, but everything feels the same: I write the poetry, the letter of intent, the thesis. I teach the classes. I make the promises and break the promises to myself. Nothing feels like it's working right now--I'm breaking down. Or I'm broken. I hate that feeling. On my wall I've posted the requirements for each school I'm applying to. I like to think that they're the solution, but I know that's not completely true. I want to be part of that conversation again, but I have to be able to function on my own.

My own. Not to go all Eponine on you, but that's my biggest problem right now. I feel so alone in this fishbowl city. Is Provo even a city? Either way, I miss having someone around--even if it was the crazy engaged roommate. I do have L and her husband and baby, but they're a unit I don't want to impose on any more than absolutely necessary. Maybe that's why I want to move on to a PhD: most of my friends have moved on and I feel left behind. Becoming part of the conversation elsewhere means becoming part of a community, a group of people who want to talk about writing as much as I do.

PhD or Bust.

of kissing

Inspired by Amanda's brilliant visit to my 218 class today, I'm thinking blog titles are going to go Montaigne. At least for a little while.

Here we go.

I posted last time-ish (a related blogthing has appeared since) about a poem I've been working on that I knew involved kissing to some extent. Problem is I haven't kissed anyone since 2002. So what does one do?

Option A: Slap on the red lipstick and hit campus. . . must first buy red lipstick.

Option 2: Keep an eye out for kissing couples. . . not hard, but ew.

Option something: Pull out the chick flicks. And watch the kissing scenes. In my pajamas. With popcorn, Diet Coke, and whatever else I can eat. Now we're talking. Bathroom scene in The Goodbye Girl. The rehearsal kiss in Some Kind of Wonderful. Bathroom scene (again) in 10 Things I Hate About You. Funeral kiss in {Proof}. Rebound boat kiss in Sliding Doors. And the classic geek kiss in Mona Lisa Smile.

My choices are a little unconventional, I know, but it was what was onhand. And you can't beat Goodbye Girl. Elliot Garfield is adorable. And Some Kind of Wonderful? Pretty in Pink done right, complete with the best girl friend offering to kiss the boy before his big date--with another girl.

And (drumroll) the result? The formatting is crazy, so I can't get it to look right, but if you want to see it, email me. And some of you are going to have to read it whether you want to or not.

Kissing Color?

Your Kiss is Pink

For you, kissing is pure happiness... simple as that. You definitely get a little blissed out from kissing, even if you're a bit shy about it. You won't kiss just anyone. Your kisses are special! Young at heart, you still get very excited the first time you kiss someone. Kissing Type: Generous People See Your Kisses as: Sweet You Kiss Best With: A Black Kisser Stay away from: An Orange Kisser

What Color Is Your Kiss?

everything I should be doing right now

does not include blogging. Or watching Project Runway (3, not 4, because 4 hasn't started yet). I could watch Paris, Je t'aime, but I want to save that for another day. Which will start in 17 minutes. Go team. But first I have laundry and Morri Creech and statement of purpose and poetry and tomorrow is conferencing for 218. I've never conferenced with my 218 students so this should be. . . interesting.





So things that make me happy. . .right now.

Prairie Schooner with Kimberly Johnson. And I like reading what other poets are getting published. So that I can be jealous and push myself to submit more.

Brian Doyle is coming Friday. Friday!

The Jane Austen Book Club Saw it yesterday at Movies 8. Stupid thing was out of focus half the time, but Hugh Dancy is adorable. And they did a pretty decent job adapting the book. Problem is, it wasn't a great book. Hmm. Still loved Hugh Dancy. Even if he is an indoor guy. Actually, he's borderline. I wouldn't mind him out in the woods.

"I have this thing about stories. I hate them. I think they're stupid." Robert

bruised

I can't sleep. I've tried so many times and I realize I have to change that statement. I can't sleep at night. I sleep at inappropriate times for inappropriate lengths. I can't sleep, but I'm more afraid that I won't wake up. Not never wake up, but not wake up in the morning or in the afternoon or whenever I've decided I should wake up. I've slept through concerts and parties and meetings and papers and

My head is too full right now. I tried to empty it today, organize it. But it's like organizing my house--I pull everything out, but never manage to put everything in its place. Right now it's all Morri Creech and statement of purpose and this poem I really want to write because I'm pretty sure it will be good but I'm missing the vocabulary because I'm missing the experience. Does that make sense? I became obsessed with pale Regina Spektor and her red red red lips singing. I like lips. I've liked lips ever since a boy told me I had lips that were perfect for kissing. He was my first kiss. Appropriate. Anyway, this poem is--I think--centered on kissing and speaking and the difference in the expressions. But that boy kissed me and then another boy kissed me and then the first boy came back to kiss me again. My last kiss was a long time ago and it was a goodbye kiss.

Ben Lee writes genius lyrics--not complicated, but genius. His lyrics are all messed up with these other words I'm trying to sort out. His words are relaxed, they don't resist the rhythm they've created. Every word I own is tense, is clenched teeth. No red lips, but not brown and quiet and relaxed either. I want the word "bruised" for my poem, but I feel bruised, I don't own bruised right now. Right now it doesn't belong. But then I wonder if I belong. Maybe I'm not the one who's supposed to write this poem. Did I spell write r-i-g-h-t earlier? I do that sometimes. Please forgive.

What I'm in love with right now

courtesy of one fabulous, concert-heavy weekend.

Ben Lee, including, but not limited to, beginning his set with "Begin," ending with "Catch My Disease (That's the Way I Like It)," and "Bruised" (with Ben Folds and Ben Kweller). He's the complete opposite of Regina Spektor in terms of aesthetics, but the same intensity in loving their music. I've been playing Awake is the New Sleep since TB suggested it to me. Heart.






Cary Brothers played just before Ben Lee (the Kahn Brothers opened). How can I not love someone who covered the Thompson Twins' "If You Were Here"?



















And finally. The Skinny Mice. There are so few words, so I took as many pictures as possible. I just plan on going groupie and showing up for every show.

Okay, I love these three. And there are a few other items on my "love" list right now. But for tonight, three is enough. Now go forth and listen.

The Skinny Mice @ Muse

3 Reasons to Love the Skinny Mice

Jimmy D

Laura

Rosie

Wait. . . what is Spencer doing there?

Can you say "Tin Whistle"?

Can you say "Genius"?

a post to send all good vibes to K for tomorrow's reading

even if she didn't tell me about it in time for me to send the cupcakes.

something to burn

I have spent the better part of this excessively long day (no, I didn't know it was Daylight Savings and that I could therefore sleep one more hour) attempting to find a way into this year's statement of purpose/letter of intent. Last year's began with the inspiringly direct "As a poet, I am interested in. . . " which was (I thought) very, well, direct. Possibly effective.

This year, however, that introductory clause just isn't working. Part of this, I think, is that even though I have that letter written, I'm a different person and a different writer this time around. I've taught another creative writing class, I hiked and wrote and taught through England, and, more importantly, I've established one very important truth about myself: I'm still coming into my own as a poet, which is why I want to continue my education. I know what excites me about poetry and why I write poetry, but my interests change and I don't write "about" one thing. I'm drawn to language more than image now. I'm interested in challenging form. I read both poetry and prose for inspiration. Hell, I read song lyrics and watch John Cusack movies and Kenneth Branagh Shakespeare adaptations for inspiration. How do I hand all this over in a neatly-typed page to represent who I am? Or what I am? And, most importantly, who/what I'm in the process of becoming?

Renaissance Girl to the Rescue: For inspiration, consolation, and breathing techniques, read this.

consolation prize: the weekend

Weekend part one: Regina
I have decided that I love the name Regina. More importantly, I loved Regina Spektor and her concert on Friday night. In the Venue was packed, I was smashed behind and between couples who convinced me that concert + lust = annoying (the highlight being when LeatherJacketBoy missed his girlfriend's shoulder, resting his hand on my shoulder). Luckily the couples and the sweat and the leg cramps were worth it. RS is an insane performer, the best kind of artist. She experiments with everything and she's completely in a world she's created. Her music was amazing, and she got bonus points for telling the talkers to shut up and listen.

Weekend part two: The Book
Weekend part two started Friday night after the concert when I drove up to Bountiful to drop off a sweater. My mom had been looking at what I can only refer to as The Book (a project I innocently started helping my grandmother with a month ago) and had found a few things that needed tweaking. The tweaking turned into sleeping over and working until 2:00 this afternoon to finish it. But it's done. Amen and hallelujah.

Weekend part three: Flames
In the process of completing The Book, my mom and I went through some of the family photo albums. In 2002 my grandparents were serving a mission in Nauvoo. At the same time, my ex-boyfriend was serving a performance mission in Nauvoo. Which means that when our family went on vacation to Nauvoo, we took pictures both with my grandparents and with the ex-boyfriend. And now, five years later, when my mom and I flipped through pages and pages of photos, there was ex-boyfriend singing and smiling and playing his guitar.
I asked if we could shred the pictures (the fate of the same ex-boyfriend's wedding announcement sent to my parents).
Mom said no.
I asked if we could throw the pictures away.
Mom said no.
I asked if we could at least move pictures to a location I wouldn't come across for a minimum of 30 years.
Mom said no.
The emergence of the photos of ex-boyfriend continued to plague me until tonight when I shared the (very dull) details of the dating with Kjerstin, who listened patiently. Very patiently. And then she agreed to join me in burning the few pictures I still had of him--although she did stop me from burning the picture from the night of my first kiss (it was the Senior Banquet, so having a picture was not that weird).
I threw in a picture of the now Eight-Year Crush for good measure.
Considering that this just might be at the top of the list of Why No Man Will Ever Love Me, I wish I had more to burn. There's got to be something else. . .

what does this mean?

"some combination of emotional intensity with intelligent clarity in the poetry"

my movie for 2008. . . even though 2008 hasn't happened yet

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0988595/

So my life story.

thesising. . .

There's no real pressure to be here. I mean, sure, there'd be a few snide remarks and then a few pleading ones (I'm pretty sure most of those would be courtesy of the Fobs) and then I'd disappear.



Shoot. This was supposed to be an upbeat post.



I wrote a solid page last night--a solid, Grossman-heavy, single-spaced page. Which changes the whole of my introduction. But I already knew that. I just didn't know I'd enjoy it so much. If enjoy = the manic laughter that ensued once I realized that I am a genius. Or at very least brilliant.



See? That was upbeat. Kind of.



Okay, the good of this past week included seeing K and getting letters of rec squared away for this year's round of please-let-me-in. And I have the schools chosen, although I feel as though I should have one or two more, but I am picky. Picky = not wanting to live in Florida for the next five years.*



The good of next week includes Regina Spektor at In the Venue on Friday and Martian Child, which also comes on Friday but I'll wait until Saturday to see. (Anyone else here the John Cusack hallelujah chorus playing? Because it's there.)



And because no post is truly complete without a picture, here's something for the kids:





PS. November 9th is Ben Lee at In the Venue. Currently I'm going solo for this one, but you are always welcome to join me.

*Jeff has pointed out that my pickiness is worthless at this stage in the game, so I think Florida is a go. Plus I was totally seduced by their course offerings.

I can do this

I am not a brave person. I scare easily--or at least, I convince myself that I scare easily. The first time I went to Lagoon, I decided I was terrified of the white rollercoaster. I refused and refused to go until Meghan forced me into the line.

I loved it. I love rollercoasters now--my heaven will have a park full of rollercoasters and ferris wheels. Hopefully there will be a few people around to ride with me--because that's half the fun--but even if I'm the only one in rollercoaster heaven, it'll be perfect.

I like to think that this experience has taught me to risk experiences that scare. Tonight I rented Death Becomes Her, a movie that watching just a scene from gave me nightmares about ten years ago. Not a monumental fear, but I can still give myself a pat on the back. Next on my list: The Sixth Sense.

There's one important thing I need to get up the courage to do: finish my thesis. I've spent two months making excuses, putting it off, trying to ignore it. I can't do that anymore. I know I'm scared that I'll fail again, but maybe it will be all rollercoasters and ferris wheels.

I laugh in the face of karma

For the brave few willing to risk their souls in order to find out what I think of karma, I will be emailing you in the near future. Granted, that could mean today or two years from now (which would be marvelous for those of you who plan to stop associating with me by then--the random karmic email out of the blue--if you're planning on discontinuing our acquaintance, please let me know so I can plan accordingly).

Tonight's post (because it's 12:20 a.m. and therefore my night) is not about that karmic event or what I think of karma or anything along those lines. Tonight is a tempt-fate, laugh-in-the-face-of-public-opinion kind of post.

My brother is driving me crazy.

Wait for it.

My brother (this is Sven we're talking about here) is smart, handsome, funny, quirky in the kind of way that makes both guys and girls jealous. He's also a rather recent RM, which apparently gives him the excuse to be [fill in your favorite eg derougatory term here], at least according to our parents.

I don't have a problem with a 21-year-old being a little selfish. How much time do we really have in our lives to be selfish--to take time for ourselves and do what we want to do? I don't mind taking him dinner every once in a while. I don't mind sharing the car. I don't even mind him bashing one of my favorite movies or my favorite music--much.

What I do mind (enter karma*) is how he talks about girls. There just seems to be a lack of respect or even simple consideration for--I almost wrote "their feelings," but I won't make that mistake. Forget feelings. Just consider the person. What bothers me the most is that Sven possesses many of the characteristics I'm attracted to in guys (one incest joke and I'll send karma after you). Have guys I've been interested in talked about me this way? I know I've done some of the things Sven talks about--whether it's being interested in a guy who is out of my league or letting a flirtation get out of hand.

Maybe I'm just looking for excuses for why I'm still single--something I do more than necessary on this blog--but right now I don't want to even try.



*How karma factors in: Either this post will get me for gossiping about Sven or this whole experience is payback for Sven being scared of what girls think of him after hearing L and me talking about boys during high school.

my weekly confession

I'm addicted to horoscopes. There's something so intriguing about lining up the stars to suggest your future or your present. And something so brilliant about that vague line horoscope writers have to walk so that every once in a while "My horoscope was exactly right!" Which, of course, brings to mind the scene from Sliding Doors where Anna is attempting to make Helen feel better about her break-up by reading Helen's ex's horoscope--"With Mars. . . you'll be killed in a freak napalm incident, etc." Genius stuff. (If you haven't seen Sliding Doors, you should. Seriously. If only for John Hannah. And what more do you need?)

So my horoscope for today, courtesy of whatever random source Facebook is pulling from:

The past is returning to haunt you or help you, depending on what you were up to
back then. Karma isn't always as obvious as it is today, so it's a good reminder
to stay on the universe's good side.

I've been debating which part of my past they're suggesting. Past evil boyfriend who I should have realized was evil? The past month in which a whopping 0.00% has been completed on my thesis? The hamburger I shouldn't have had today? Okay, these are all haunting pasts. Let's think of a few helping pasts: a new Fob project, which has me writing again; a new CD suggested months ago by Renaissance Girl (The Weakerthans Reconstruction Site). . . if I'm using the word "new," does it still count?

Oh, and what I learned today about karma*: it can kill you. Slowly, softly, sometimes strumming, but it will kill.

* What I really learned about karma can be discovered by emailing me, but I try to keep it PG around here. PG or a very mild PG-13. Hmm. Maybe I should go by the UK's rating system. It just makes more sense.

(almost) a week in review

face masks with Maryn

and Sven.

Sven with the Abby Baby (note how well the mask worked!)

Maryn all vamped up

and Seth ready to sweep Lucy off her feet!

(I know it doesn't look like much, but that black hair is the product of at least 30 minutes of hair products)

asking, answering, and coming home

I spent hours yesterday and today looking for a set of vampire teeth. Not for me. For my sister, who is going to be a vampire a la Twilight, meaning as smoking hot as I can comfortably allow my 12-year-old sister to be. So far we have blood red lipstick and blood red nail polish, or, as an alternative, black lipstick and black nail polish. She's going to decide on one or the other once we've figured out her eye makeup. Seriously.

On the other side of the gender line is my 17-year-old brother who was asked to his school's Halloween dance last week. It's this Saturday and when I showed up yesterday he still hadn't answered. Which was a better place than where he was on Tuesday, when he wasn't sure if he could even go to the dance. Once he found that he could dance the night away with Sally (no nym needed), that was all he needed. But girls need closure, and this is the easy kind. She had asked with the classic "I'd pea my plants if you went to the dance with me," except she somehow managed to use candycorn instead of peas, which ruins the pun. Oh well. We (and by we I mean I came up with the idea, executed it, and drove him to Sally's) answered with a pair of dollar-store Halloween boxers filled with peas and displaying the lines "I was so excited you asked, I pea-ed my pants. Yes."

I'm not sure if this post counts as griping or celebrating. I love being home with Maryn and Seth. And I like helping them plan costumes (Seth is going as Ricky from I Love Lucy--apparently Sally's a redhead) almost as much as I like reading over their English homework or leaving them and the house behind to take the dog on another round-the-neighborhood walk (for the record, our neighborhood consists of two rather steep hills that we live in the "valley" of). The view from the mountain is perfect and I really don't mind getting up at 6:20 to wake Seth up and then being told he needs his eggs.

Really.

It is

raining.

I know there's a poem there somewhere. I've written about dancing in the rain with someone (thank you Tolkien Boy for obliging), but there's a poem about dancing alone. I just don't want to force it, but I have the lines and I get nervous when I think about lines too long. They tend to be, well, overthought and useless.

But it is raining. And I should be dancing.


. . . . . . .

In other thoughts, the song "Such Great Heights" has me confused, specifically the lines, "I am thinking it's a sign / that the freckles in our eyes are mirror images / and when we kiss, they're perfectly aligned." I know it's been a while since I kissed anyone, so correct me if I'm wrong, but for their eyes to align while they're kissing must mean that they have no noses (no noses were there / ever so magnificent -- my apologies to JH). Thoughts?

I don't usually advertise, but

you should check out this post of Sven's

http://educatingarchie.blogspot.com/2007/10/cosmic-with-slice-of-vander.html

Have a nice day.

PS Dinner went well. In a very nostalgic, completely platonic, eat until you can't kind of way.

one word

I was hunting for PhD programs to apply to for next fall (way too many prepositions there) and stopped by Stephen Tuttle's office for the AWP guide to creative writing programs. When I returned it, Tuttle and I chatted for a minute about my plans and his suggestions and then he asked me a question I've gotten a lot lately: "What do you write about?"

How do you answer that? Especially when you feel like you're all over the map? (I'm not, I know, but seriously? Seriously. And only Meghan would laugh at that and she's not here.)

Tuttle sensed my confusion (not that that was difficult) and prompted, "Just give me a word. This is a question you'll need to be able to answer."

I stammered out something foolish, felt foolish, and begged my way out of his office. I don't feel foolish any more, just curious. Should a writer be able to sum up their work with one word? Is there one word for what I write about? Because it's not all disappointment or silence or relationships or modern art or spiders. What I've come up with so far is "tension." It's what's prompting my newer work, so I'm going to go with that next time someone asks me. And then there will be a new question: What the hell does that mean?

I thought this was a good week

I told my therapist it was a good week. He shook my hand. Twice. I've been told that this can be a social indicator of congratulations. Maybe I got that wrong. Maybe he forgot who I was and was re-introducing himself.

I can count the good things: 4/5 classes went well. I began submitting poems to journals. Brooke helped me title some poems I've been working on. Brooke and mlh applauded some of my more experimental poems (unlineated verse with line break indicators--the gods must be crazy). K is coming in one week. Renaissance Girl started a blog. I found my favorite sushi roll at Happy Sumo. A guy who was The Boy three years ago is in Provo, is scruffy, and is going to have dinner with me on Monday night. Oh, and he called me. New meds are working. I found A Knot in the Grain, Emma Thompson's Sense and Sensibility Diaries, The Lovely Bones, and multiple Agatha Christies at DI. Two John Cusack movies to look forward to. And I just ended a sentence with a preposition. I should be on cloud six, at least.

Oh well. I'm just going to content myself with hyperlinking the hell out of this post.

Please tell me

what is wrong with this picture:

more reasons I love my brother-in-law

His comments directed to other cars in the Talmage lot:

"And now we have to stop to switch places because I'm a man and I have to drive everywhere."

"It's good that you love each other. Just don't do it on my time."

you should buy this

Really. You should. It's even on sale.

love may transform me to an oyster

I have written about my love for Beatrice and Benedick before. Specifically here and here and here. Oh, and, of course, here. So tonight when I read Grover's quick reference (here), I was happy to see someone else appreciate one of my favorite plays. Reading through my posts, however, I realized that what I was usually writing about was Benedick, not Benedick and Beatrice. I decided to return to the text. And then, being too lazy to find the texts among my many many stacks of books, I went to the (brilliant) 1993 film. Hooray for Kenneth Branagh. And Emma Thompson.

Tonight it's more than brilliant acting and brilliant-er lines that holds my attention. (Is it not strange that sheep's guts should hail souls out of men's bodies?) I'm thinking about the relationships in the play. Gideon Burton would have us believe the text is a study of homosocial relationships (Claudio and Benedick, Hero and Beatrice), but I'm going to stick with my love story. You have Claudio and Hero, who knew of each other before Claudio left for war, but who don't fall in love until he returns, when he sees her for the first time. And once they do see each other, and fall in love, the Prince proposes for Claudio and they prepare to marry in a week's time. Benedick and Beatrice have known each other for a much longer time. They pick at each other, but my favorite lines indicate they really have seen each other (You always end with a jade's trick. I know you of old.) Benedick puts aside his wit when Beatrice needs him. They may be embarrassed by admitting they love each other, but they do love each other. And I, at least, read it to be a more mature love than that of Claudio and Hero's.

Why this sudden outburst? Other than my love for all things Benedick? I'm watching marriages start and end all about me. Marriage appears to be a scary, scary, wonderful thing. And I have no problem with the Hero/Claudio marriage, provided it matures. But I'm hoping for a Beatrice/Benedick romance and marriage. With both the wit and the . . . well, whatever it is.

I should do this more than once a week.

The last minutes of Sunday and I finally feel up to writing.

I was checking my blog, K's blog, the guy who reads K's blog's blog, thinking about Bennion's ever-expanding explanation of webs and connections and wondering how the broken fit into the web, when a spider descended inches from my eyes. I watched it descend, pause, and begin its ascension (and it's a pity no one from Kim's 519 reads this blog because this image is so AA's cheeky yet imagined piece of work). I was on the brink of a Charlotte's Web moment, began talking to the spider, complimenting its thin legs, its dexterity, when I realized what would happen should the spider return for another chat with the roommate present. The roommate who is deathly afraid of spiders. So I excused myself from our conversation, grabbed some toilet paper, and put one of us out of our misery.

tension

or lack thereof. not in my life. my poetry. which apparently results in crappy poetry and lowercased blog entries. anyways, i'm offering up the following for diagnosis.

Market: Florence, Italy

A pig is speaking
our wishes.

It doesn’t matter
if you whispered it
one wish
or twenty

it remembers them,
sends them running
out of its lips

left to be collected
by streetsweepers at dawn.

fine

I am not fine. And I am about to write a blog that will later go down as "too honest" or simply "too much," but this is the next in a long line of remedies.

I've been seriously depressed for the past month--I've been depressed since I was 11, but never this severely. This time there hasn't been a solution or a repreive, although I am working on that with a doctor, a psychologist, and (in the near future) a psychiatrist. There are moments when I feel like myself--like Sarah or even like eg--when I'm teaching every morning, when I spent a day with my cousin Meghan, and one night when I couldn't stop writing poetry that I finally looked at again today. It's actually not too bad. The poetry, not the depression. The depression never leaves and I find myself taking odd opportunities to get emotional: crying, raging, pretending I don't exist.

Today is actually the one month mark. I know the day this started. It was the day I pulled my last all-nighter, attempting to bring my thesis to a level worthy of defense. I worked frantically all day, all night, all day. And in the end, I came up short. I haven't touched my thesis since then, which I know is weak but I also know that it gives me a headache, among other undesirable side effects. It was also the day Abby was born. She's beautiful, perfect. And I didn't want to admit to my failure in the middle of the celebration. So I waited. And when I finally allowed myself to wallow in my third-year grad student status, I couldn't stop wallowing. I haven't stopped. I haven't written much, excepting that one night of manic poetics.

I'm not sure why I'm writing this, other than the responsibility I feel to those who read or used to read this blog. Most of you are friends, some of you my most important friends. I'm sorry if I've somehow let you down this month. I promise I'm trying to make it better.

Happiness is

buying twenty-three books for $37. And most of them are poetry. In the name of celebration (and bragging rights), I will now list my new friends. In alphabetic order.

Bang, Mary Jo. The Downstream Extremity of the Isle of Swans.
Brodsky, Joseph. Conversations. Ed. Cynthia L. Haven.
Brown, Lee Ann. The Sleep That Changed Everything.
Clary, Killarney. Potential Stranger.
Davidson, Chad. Consolation Miracle.
Eady, Cornelius. Brutal Imagination.
Fried, Michael. The Next Bend in the Road.
Levin, Phillis. The Afterimage.
Morgan, Frederick. The One Abiding.
Pavese, Cesare. Disaffections: Complete Poems 1930-1950. Trans. Geoffrey Brock.
Pratt, Minnie Bruce. The Dirt She Ate: Selected and New Poems.
Ratiner, Steven (ed.). Giving Their Word: Conversations with Contemporary Poets.
Redel, Victoria. Swoon.
Rubin, Steven J. (ed.) Celebrating the Jewish Holidays: Poems, Stories, Essays.
Shaw, Robert B. Solving for X.
Sholl, Betsy. Late Psalm.
Transtromer, Tomas. The Half-Finished Heaven. Trans. Robert Bly.
Ungaretti, Giuseppe. Selected Poems. Trans. Andrew Frisardi.
Wieseltier, Meir. The Flower of Anarchy: Selected Poems. Trans. Shirley Kaufman.

Additionally I bought The Spirit of Terrorism by Baudrillard, Reporting the Universe by Doctorow, an edited series of essays on Jewish American and Holocaust Literature, and a small book titled Grand Canyon Place Names by--ready for this--McNamee.

Can life get any better than this? I submit that it cannot.

collaboration and charisma

Yesterday's blogging was fun. I forgot that blogging was fun. But picking up Grover's idea and wreaking poetic havoc with it was . . . fun. I like working with other people, or at least other people's ideas. Last year's "Light" show was fantastic: trading ideas back and forth with Zack, rearranging my language to work with his art, finding elements of his art that created new language. He probably thought I was crazy, but I had fun. And last night my favorite Jim called to tell me that there's the possibility of a new collaboration this semester, working with the artist AA worked with in the Light show. This artist does funky cool plaster heads--that isn't the right way to describe it, but I'll post pictures if I ever can.

In other news, Possession and The Goodbye Girl. I've read Possession once a year since the contemporary Brit lit class that introduced it to me. It's the story of two academics discovering and unraveling the story of an affair between two Victorian poets. But it's more than that. Lit theory, poetry, essay, language. It's fascinating. As is the film The Goodbye Girl, but for different reasons. The writing is still brilliant, just a different kind of brilliant. Witty and romantically-inclined and hilarious. And Richard Dreyfuss. So you should watch it. Seriously.

Synchronicity, or Fall is Coming

A brilliant essayist, who still resides in my mind as Grover, posted a beautiful piece yesterday, endnoted with the comment "This is how an essayist writes this. How would a poet do it?" I'm not sure if this is a partial answer to his question, but his post woke me up. Since that hasn't happened in a long time, here is my (rough) take on his essay.

A Poem after "Synchronicity, or Fall is Coming"

Buried at your heart
is October, refusing
to line up and pass neatly by
with other months.
You will avoid the frost of February,
the sweat of August--
October's campfire clings to your hair
and the marching of ghosts and goblins
accompany your steps.

Fall is coming. We hold hands
against the cold, bracing ourselves
for the flames.

eg, girl genius

Okay. Story time.

I bought an insanely expensive hair straightener/curler, mostly because I can't say "no" to people I know when they ask if I want to buy something. The good thing is, I love this little appliance. It heats up fast, it does nice messy curls, etc. Life is good. Or life was good until one day it decided to quit on me.

I sent it back, got a new one. Life is good again. Until last night, when I'm trying to turn it on and it just won't work. Again. The sadness, the despair, the pure frustration which has been building ever since I drove through campus on the first day of classes. I gave up yesterday, until this morning when I decide to have hope. I plug it in, turn it on. Nothing. I try seven different things, and am ready to throw in the towel, when I glance at the label "Do not something something Dryer." I had plugged in my hair dryer, not the straightener/curler. I found the plug for the instrument I wanted, plugged it in, and voila. I got back to damaging my hair.

where was I?

My alarm went off at 7:00 this morning, which means I was out of bed around 8:25--just enough time to get ready for 9:00 church. I ran out the door, a bit apprehensive because today is the day they kick some people out and bring new people in. I don't like change. It's taken me two years to get used to this ward. And now the rumor is that the male/female ratio will now be 1:1. I suppose I should be ecstatic. I'm not. I'm annoyed.

Anyway, out of bed 8:25. Out the door by 8:50. I arrive at the chuch just a few minutes later and notice a sign on the door of our usual chapel announcing a ward that's not mine. So I walk upstairs to the appropriately-named upper chapel--another ward that's not mine. I'll spare you the details that should be between this discovery and the discovery that my ward is not only changing people, we're changing time this week. To 12:30. In the afternoon.

There are few words, and none of them appropriate.

in 20 minutes

three people are going to decide my fate for the next year.

No, it's not the defense.

It's the meeting where they discuss their "serious reservations" regarding the defense.



What the hell was I thinking?

losing my mind (again)

the evidence

1. I have started responding verbally to the questions my chair has written on the draft of my thesis. I've also scribbled answers on the pages before writing the revision. The most common answer has been "Fine dammit."

how I will celebrate the returns of Sven and Kapka

1. Drinking Apple Beer.
2. Letting my students watch an entire episode of The Office.
3. Buying Circumstance. (K and I already have the Pomp taken care of.)

losing my mind

The evidence:

1. Yesterday I ordered a pizza. I kept working on my thesis at my kitchen table, which happens to be near the front door. I forgot about said pizza, becoming engrossed in the archival mess of contemporary American poetry. Almost an hour passes. There's a sudden banging on the door. I scream. And then laugh, awkwardly, because I think it must be my sister or someone I know. I answer the door saying "I'm going to kill you." The dark-glasses-wearing, scruffy pizza guy answers "It said to knock loudly."
2. I just spent an unreasonable amount of time just now trying to decide between "Alfred Einstein" and "Albert Einstein."

the world's first unmanned flying desk set--all over again

I'm back.

Maybe you didn't notice that I was missing, but I did. A lot. It's hard to be with yourself when you're gone. My gratitude and apologies to those who were present when I wasn't. A sentence that doesn't make much sense--I am so back.

I started unpacking tonight. Not just books and movies--those things are always with me, I shelved them immediately. But tonight I started designating places for things. I think I'm finally ready to move into this basement, finally ready to live here, rather than just stay here. It's far from perfect, but so am I. I think we'll be just fine. (Especially if we find ourselves a few friends who don't mind that my apartment is personified.)

Today's class went really well too. Not that it was too hard to beat Friday's class--which, for the sake of my job, I won't post about here, but email me and you'll get all the gorey details. But they were talking and they were excited and they were laughing and I was in my element. I like my element.

The "flying desk set" metaphor first came up my freshman year on a day when everything finally clicked--I distinctly remember me strutting through the leaves on campus, toward the JSB, feeling like I could do anything, take on anything or anyone. For the record, I was wearing a long-sleeved sky blue shirt. Tonight I'm feeling exactly that. Tomorrow I'll tackle my thesis and some more unpacking.

Ladies and gentlemen, the world's first unmanned flying desk set.

white nights

L.M. Montgomery always describes her heroines (Anne, Emily) having "white nights": nights where there life comes to a crisis, where they have to examine their souls and decide what they want.

I think I'm in the middle of one.

The thesis is, of course, not done. It's also not as close to done as I was hoping it to be. I'm having immense problems with will power and focus and carpal tunnel and poetry and just being able to do this right now. It's come down to one night to do as much as I can. Tonight. In the morning I'll deliver what I have to Trent's door.

I've actually been composing funny blog posts about this subject. How I'm going to make it look longer (pull quotes, illustrations), "how to write a thesis" without doing any real work, etc. But tonight is panic time and I'm scared for my life. For my future. Because this is what I've always said I wanted to do: write, teach. You have to write to teach, but what if this isn't what I'm cut out for? And then the teaching goes away. I suppose there's always creative writing, but I'm seriously doubting my ability in that arena right now. I'm looking at three brilliant poets. I'm too scared to send anything out. I'll just be a girl with an MA who teaches part time and writes reviews of real poets.

White night, here I come. See you in the morning.

By George

I think she's got it!


Well, at least for the Lee chapter. Now I'll have the rest of the week to freak out over Osherow and the ghastliness of the intro.

Just one question: Who the hell is George?

thoughts at 3:36 a.m.

Have I come this far to fail, and fail miserably?

Do you tell him? Should you tell him? Does he already know?

Why is the rum* gone?

*And by rum, I mean chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate.

Little did he know? I taught a class on "Little did he know."

Yes, I am avoiding the thesis. Even though I don't have time to avoid it any longer. I did add my face to facebook, courtesy of TB's influence and my curiosity regarding the marital status of various friends. This turned out to be oh so true.

I've been in Bountiful for the weekend. One cousin wedding, one sister baby shower. I won't bore you with the details, mostly because I don't want to bore myself with the details. I will say that the wedding will forever and ever be known as the Fiddler on the Roof wedding (the bride was Jewish and I'm afraid that FotR is the only exposure most of the family has had to Jewish wedding traditions), and that my name came up during the toasts, but only because the best man had written a poem for his toast and joked about not knowing I would be there. I confess to being amused.

The baby shower went off without a hitch, unless you consider my parents' living room looking like the inside of a PeptoBismal bottle a hitch. This baby will be well-dressed and well-diapered.

And now, the thesis. Oh, the thesis.

for the love

I didn't know I could be this bored. Not that I should be bored. Teaching, putting away all of my stuff (I moved Saturday), writing my thesis. I'm happy that I'm living by myself. I mean, I can walk around in whatever I want--or not in whatever I want. I can stay up late, not do the dishes. There is noone to make me feel guilty that I'm not aware of their needs, space, whatever.

I hate it.

Right now I'd take 20 girls in a nasty Holland Park YHA over this.

dilemma

I am moving to the basement.

The moving is not the dilemma. The basement is.

The basement is fairly spacious, at least for one person. And I will be the only one down there (except when you all come for mercy visits). But it feels tight, close. The ceiling isn't very high, there is a short narrow hall formed by the end of a flight of stairs. I'm worried it will turn into eg's cave of unwonders.

(Side note: I'm going to kick my brother-in-law if he doesn't stop with the annoying laugh and the baby talk.)

The solution to this dilemma, I think, is to decorate. First step: remove Sister's kitsch. Second step: paint the long wall* in the "living room." But what color should I paint it? I've been thinking blue, but most of my favorite art that I'll want to hang feature deep reds and yellows and oranges. Is there a better color option? And did I mention the really ugly green carpet? No? There is really ugly green carpet.

Any suggestions?

*Actually, I'm only going to paint half of the wall--the top half. The bottom half is going to be white--not off-white, but white. And then I'm going to get creative. It's going to be hecka cool. Just you wait.

P.S. Is Andy Warhol cliché? Because I'm really liking this series:


Everybody

Art

The World

Love Affair

things i am regretting today

in no particular order

not blogging more while in England

not finishing more of my thesis before I left

not buying more chocolate in England

not taking more pictures like this one

or this one

choosing to go caps-less for this post

also the whole "hard return between items" choice

not stalking Fiyero after seeing Wicked

not emailing Eleka to tell her I saw it on the front row

moving to the basement

promising that I wouldn't choose paint for said basement based solely on its name

voting "no roommate" for next year

not having the guts to get Edgy to choose the color scheme for the basement

Blogging from England

I'm here! Here, of course, being England. And I have just five minutes to blog the greatest travel blog entry of all time. . . excepting, of course, all Fob travel entries. Because the great and powerful Fob knows no opposition.

And now I don't know what to say. It's beautiful here. Beautiful and hot. The hottest April on record. Except it's May. So the hottest April and May on record. Which means all my fleece and wool and such are getting minimal use.

So far we've hiked into Rowardennan, up Ben Lomond, out of Rowardennan, up Scafell Pike (although I took the slightly less steep option up Sty Head Pass). And today the gang is marching up Hellvelyn. I'm not, because, well, I'm the team wimp. Not so wimpy to pass on a hike that goes up and up and up on a very hot day. Especially when you're prone to heat exhaustion. (At least that's what I'll tell myself when the group starts talking about how it was an insane hike, "but so worth it".)

The clock is ticking. I'll be better prepared to blog next time.

Yeah right.

time to get lost

Tomorrow morning I'm jumping on a plane and sleeping away a good 12 hours of my life on the way to Glasgow via Atlanta and London. I'll spend the next five weeks or so making my way through the English countryside to my personal Mecca, London. I'll be with 26 of the greatest people alive (well, 25 and Spencer). I'll be blogging as I go, but you can also follow our progress at Green and Pleasant Land. And no, not my idea.

See you soon!

140 songs

For my birthday my parents gave me an iPod shuffle. I admit at first I wasn't too thrilled, but this is the way I listen to music--I rarely listen to one CD. I either make my own mixes/playlists or I tell iTunes to shuffle for me. Usually it hits the spot and I can move from song to song. So I'm happy.

Here's my little problem: The iPod is coming with me to the UK (in a week!). It holds about 130 songs depending on what it puts on. I've been compiling a playlist for it to draw from, but I'm not sure what I want on there. Some Shins, some Death Cab, but what Shins, what Death Cab? And what about Rachel Yamagata, KT Tunstall, Jem, Andrew Bird, Midlake, Mika, etc? I love my music. It's kind of like walking into a bookstore that's all poetry--it's overwhelming and you have no choice but to ask for help.

Yes, I'm asking for help. What music would you take? What music should I take? I don't need your top 140, but a top 5 or 10 would be nice. Or music you wouldn't hate listening to while walking 200 miles.

And don't let me forget to put some About a Boy on there. That would be sad.

Happy

There is nothing as wonderful as listening to ABBA's "Gimme Gimme Gimme (A Man after Midnight)."

Except maybe a man after midnight. . .

I can't

I don't trust myself. My trust is dangerously in other places--some traditional, some not so much. Tonight, I'm waiting for a first line. I trust my first lines. They usually launch genius--or at the very least, passable work. I don't have a first line right now. I have a list of things I need to do, a post-it note covered book, and a large Diet Coke suffering from too much ice, but no first line.

I'm wondering why I chose Li-Young Lee. Other than that a treatment of the tradition of the sacred in contemporary American poetry would seem incomplete without him. His poetry is beautiful--mind-numbingly so. Maybe that's why this first line seems impossible right now.

Lee reminds me of Trent. So does England, pink gerbera daisies, speedos, and Riki Tiki Tavi. And wings, although I'm moving from angels to birds.

I've decided to not go to grad school next year. I decided this before I heard from Ohio, and I asked them to take me off their waiting list.

I don't know if I can do this.

I know this doesn't qualify as a "real" blog post, but just do it.

Travel Plans

1. go to www.google.com
2. click on "maps"
3. click on "get directions"
4. type "New York" in the first box (the "from" box)
5. type "London" in the second box (the "to" box)
6. scroll down to step #23

A quelle heure?

Please don't ask why I am still awake. Not that it's that unusual. It's just that I'm going to have to wake up in time to wash and style and get dressed before church (they make such a fuss when you come naked--not sure why) and so I should be asleep. Right now. Of course, I should be a lot of things that I'm not. And that's a list that I'll let you make.

time for a change

So for the past year-plus, Brooke's been telling LadyJane and me to go see Davi. Davi is her hair stylist at the Jagged Edge in Salt Lake, who is apparently a life-changing genius. We finally listened.





Consider our lives changed.

please pardon me

I am absent everywhere.

Results Show

Ohio University (Athens, Ohio; faculty include Mark Halliday and J. Allyn Rosser; current student Joe Plicka; alumnus Pat Madden).

Ohio says: Wait listed.

Stay tuned for more results (I hope).

Somebody please explain to me

why the school whose deadline was December 15 is saying "we'll know sometime mid-April," while the schools who didn't make me send anything until January 15 are saying "middle of March" and "close to March 1."

By the way, it's close to March 1. And I would like an answer.

Please.

this week they got it right

swiped from postsecret