Limited edition salsa. For Sarah (I'm not talking in the third person.)There is a blog post here, but I'm not sure what it is.
I'll sleep on it.
I should be sleeping right now.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
(unrequited) love and salsa
Limited edition salsa. For Sarah (I'm not talking in the third person.)There is a blog post here, but I'm not sure what it is.
I'll sleep on it.
I should be sleeping right now.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
this is just to say
last night my prof described my most recent offering as "precarious," "weird," and "marvelous."
I know the success of a poem doesn't depend on a prof's feedback, but dammit, that felt good.
I know the success of a poem doesn't depend on a prof's feedback, but dammit, that felt good.
Monday, October 12, 2009
wired
This time last week, I kind of wanted to die. Or at least stay in bed for an extended period of time. Which may not have been a bad idea. But tonight--well, like the title says, I'm wired. (This will be a problem when I should actually be in bed. Which is now.)
This weekend was a little crazy, but good crazy, not crazy crazy. Friday night I hit Nevins with Sarah & co. long enough to drink one watered down Diet Coke (sad day) before running out the door, down the street, and to the El. Correction: I sauntered. The train took me to the Book Cellar, where John Koethe was reading. Yes, the poet who caused so much pain and suffering last week. It was penance (and kissing up to my prof). I ended the night with a Little Caesar's pizza and Charity, my favorite criminal defense lawyer.
Saturday I slept in-ish. I'm not sure what counts for sleeping in anymore, but it felt like sleeping in. I cleaned for a little while before hopping on the El again, this time to meet up with Tamry (who said I don't have any friends). We drove to Ikea, which is my kind of Disneyland. We were there at least four hours, which was just plain awesome. We bought lamps and picture frames and tables and chairs and some brilliant bookends in the shape of the letter B (which makes me think of a Muppet Family Christmas when Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street corner Doc from Fraggle Rock and name the letter that every word Doc says starts with. He ends the conversation by saying he's going to make some bunkbeds--"Bunkbeds! B words!" It's got to be on YouTube. . .It is! See bottom of post. Oh, just go there now.). We ended the outing at California Pizza Kitchen. Yum yum yum.
Sunday was another busy/crazy day. I actually woke up early, which was a problem because (1) it was Fast Sunday, and (2) my branch now meets at 3:00, which means eating doesn't happen until 6:00 at the earliest. But I distracted myself with reading and some light cleaning and emailing Seth before my visiting teachers stopped by. And then it was off to the races. The weird thing was, I like this building better and the time isn't as bad as I thought it would be. Church was pretty good, and we had a break the fast. The food was okay, but when you've been fasting all day, it was amazing. (Actually, there was a cheesecake that deserved that adjective.)
This has been a long post, brought to you by the letter B and the number 12, as in what time it is. So I guess we'll just have to wait until tomorrow for the poetry smackdown that was class this evening. Good night.
This weekend was a little crazy, but good crazy, not crazy crazy. Friday night I hit Nevins with Sarah & co. long enough to drink one watered down Diet Coke (sad day) before running out the door, down the street, and to the El. Correction: I sauntered. The train took me to the Book Cellar, where John Koethe was reading. Yes, the poet who caused so much pain and suffering last week. It was penance (and kissing up to my prof). I ended the night with a Little Caesar's pizza and Charity, my favorite criminal defense lawyer.
Saturday I slept in-ish. I'm not sure what counts for sleeping in anymore, but it felt like sleeping in. I cleaned for a little while before hopping on the El again, this time to meet up with Tamry (who said I don't have any friends). We drove to Ikea, which is my kind of Disneyland. We were there at least four hours, which was just plain awesome. We bought lamps and picture frames and tables and chairs and some brilliant bookends in the shape of the letter B (which makes me think of a Muppet Family Christmas when Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street corner Doc from Fraggle Rock and name the letter that every word Doc says starts with. He ends the conversation by saying he's going to make some bunkbeds--"Bunkbeds! B words!" It's got to be on YouTube. . .It is! See bottom of post. Oh, just go there now.). We ended the outing at California Pizza Kitchen. Yum yum yum.
Sunday was another busy/crazy day. I actually woke up early, which was a problem because (1) it was Fast Sunday, and (2) my branch now meets at 3:00, which means eating doesn't happen until 6:00 at the earliest. But I distracted myself with reading and some light cleaning and emailing Seth before my visiting teachers stopped by. And then it was off to the races. The weird thing was, I like this building better and the time isn't as bad as I thought it would be. Church was pretty good, and we had a break the fast. The food was okay, but when you've been fasting all day, it was amazing. (Actually, there was a cheesecake that deserved that adjective.)
This has been a long post, brought to you by the letter B and the number 12, as in what time it is. So I guess we'll just have to wait until tomorrow for the poetry smackdown that was class this evening. Good night.
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
i'm in love
I've decided to use letters in my apartment. I know it's a random decorating choice, but it's one that makes me happy. That being said, I think I need one of these letter pillows (custom made out of retired suit jackets!).
the way you felt yesterday afternoon
I realized, just after I hit "publish," that while I had thought and felt every single thing I wrote yesterday, I didn't necessarily believe what I had written. It would be easier, or at least a different kind of hard, to live a different life. I have a full-time job. I could stop going to school, stop writing, etc. I've made this choice to live this life and I'm going to live it.
I wanted to tell you that I survived yesterday, survived last night. That my line breaks are shoddy and I drift off into adjectival fragments and my writing requires thought and revision. That in the last line of the penultimate stanza, she wrote "ah!" That my writing is worth thought and revision.
Thank you for letting my cry on your shoulder last night. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some writing to do.
I wanted to tell you that I survived yesterday, survived last night. That my line breaks are shoddy and I drift off into adjectival fragments and my writing requires thought and revision. That in the last line of the penultimate stanza, she wrote "ah!" That my writing is worth thought and revision.
Thank you for letting my cry on your shoulder last night. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some writing to do.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
unepiphany
Yesterday I wrote a poem. Considering my level of production over the past few months, this was a momentous occasion.
Or should have been.
It was an assignment. After reading John Koethe, I was supposed to "imitate the features that most interest you." He struck me as a next-generation New York school poet--Frank O'Hara meets the philosophical (which is an obvious reading: Koethe's PhD is in philosophy and the poem I linked you to is about hanging out with Ashbery and O'Hara--but I didn't know that when I read the first set of poems I was given). There's also some lines he's pulled from Eliot, but I'm not sure I was supposed to notice that--it suggests an unhealthy love of Prufrock, which in turn suggest the anti-social status of my existence.
Tangent.
The poem was an assignment, and Koethe had one long, sectioned poem. The stanzas were tercets and each section had a different rhyme scheme. I was intrigued by an "axb bxa" scheme, and set out to imitate that, along with his ten-syllable lines.
This is a complete antithesis of everything I've been writing over the past year. My form has collapsed into what Kim Johnson generously terms "unlineated verse," and what Jeff Tucker dubbed "parastanzas." I love my loose, wandering poems--maybe too much. It was revealing to construct a poem with a strict form, to attempt rhymes and meter again.
I'm not sure what I found. I'm not sure what it is. What scares me is that, without knowing I was headed in that direction, the poem was in a garden. It was concerned with telling a story over and over again, revising and redirecting the reader's attention. It's the same poem I've been writing, only with an obvious, definable form.
I said it scares me, and it does. What if I can only write this poem: the couple in the garden. I know it's a classic subject. It's been done before, it will be done again. But is my mind so preoccupied with relationships and religion that I can't write anything else? If this is all I can write, should I be writing?
Should I be writing? This blog used to be a place where I offered up my worst fears, often the worst version of myself. I'm not asking if I should stop writing. But this career and life that I'm pursuing, am I worthy of it? Is my writing worthy of it? I love teaching, and you don't have to be a writer to teach. I love literature, and you don't have to be a writer to read. Is this MFA, this time I'm taking to "write," is it worth it? Not just for me, but for the people I could be with, the students I could be teaching.
I leave for you my exercise in form and humiliation. I'm terrified of class tonight, terrified to hear my professor--a poet I respect--tell me I shouldn't be a writer. What if she said that? Would I listen?
If I were to tell this story again—
We start our walk slow across the garden,
Our steps lingering on uneven stone,
On the uneven edge of garden grown
To mimic a field, the world uncluttered.
But the grass was trimmed and clean around when
We walked gate to garden, garden to door.
We walked apart, peregrines unaware
Of path, our hands grasped in prayer uncommon
Father, forgive us, Father, know us. Amen.
And in the garden, our grasped hands blossom,
Bloom red, bloom white, bloom and bloom and put your
Hand against my hand. This was the story—
We walked into a garden ungated,
My hand at your elbow, holding where flesh
Meets flesh, tentative embrace—our mouths left
Free to pray. We walked into a garden,
Sat under blooms and trees and somehow we
Watched the world, our garden, fade. Again our
Story. You, me, the garden. An easy
Comparison to everything that came
Before. We walk in the garden, come
To believe in grass uneven, in blooms
And trees and then the winter, in the hour
When our world turns and you are gone. I walk
Into the garden, outline the path
With careful steps, with the white bloom of snow.
My hands chap red, leave markings you would know—
This was our story. We walked into a
Garden. We walked in a garden. We walked.
Or should have been.
It was an assignment. After reading John Koethe, I was supposed to "imitate the features that most interest you." He struck me as a next-generation New York school poet--Frank O'Hara meets the philosophical (which is an obvious reading: Koethe's PhD is in philosophy and the poem I linked you to is about hanging out with Ashbery and O'Hara--but I didn't know that when I read the first set of poems I was given). There's also some lines he's pulled from Eliot, but I'm not sure I was supposed to notice that--it suggests an unhealthy love of Prufrock, which in turn suggest the anti-social status of my existence.
Tangent.
The poem was an assignment, and Koethe had one long, sectioned poem. The stanzas were tercets and each section had a different rhyme scheme. I was intrigued by an "axb bxa" scheme, and set out to imitate that, along with his ten-syllable lines.
This is a complete antithesis of everything I've been writing over the past year. My form has collapsed into what Kim Johnson generously terms "unlineated verse," and what Jeff Tucker dubbed "parastanzas." I love my loose, wandering poems--maybe too much. It was revealing to construct a poem with a strict form, to attempt rhymes and meter again.
I'm not sure what I found. I'm not sure what it is. What scares me is that, without knowing I was headed in that direction, the poem was in a garden. It was concerned with telling a story over and over again, revising and redirecting the reader's attention. It's the same poem I've been writing, only with an obvious, definable form.
I said it scares me, and it does. What if I can only write this poem: the couple in the garden. I know it's a classic subject. It's been done before, it will be done again. But is my mind so preoccupied with relationships and religion that I can't write anything else? If this is all I can write, should I be writing?
Should I be writing? This blog used to be a place where I offered up my worst fears, often the worst version of myself. I'm not asking if I should stop writing. But this career and life that I'm pursuing, am I worthy of it? Is my writing worthy of it? I love teaching, and you don't have to be a writer to teach. I love literature, and you don't have to be a writer to read. Is this MFA, this time I'm taking to "write," is it worth it? Not just for me, but for the people I could be with, the students I could be teaching.
I leave for you my exercise in form and humiliation. I'm terrified of class tonight, terrified to hear my professor--a poet I respect--tell me I shouldn't be a writer. What if she said that? Would I listen?
If I were to tell this story again—
We start our walk slow across the garden,
Our steps lingering on uneven stone,
On the uneven edge of garden grown
To mimic a field, the world uncluttered.
But the grass was trimmed and clean around when
We walked gate to garden, garden to door.
We walked apart, peregrines unaware
Of path, our hands grasped in prayer uncommon
Father, forgive us, Father, know us. Amen.
And in the garden, our grasped hands blossom,
Bloom red, bloom white, bloom and bloom and put your
Hand against my hand. This was the story—
We walked into a garden ungated,
My hand at your elbow, holding where flesh
Meets flesh, tentative embrace—our mouths left
Free to pray. We walked into a garden,
Sat under blooms and trees and somehow we
Watched the world, our garden, fade. Again our
Story. You, me, the garden. An easy
Comparison to everything that came
Before. We walk in the garden, come
To believe in grass uneven, in blooms
And trees and then the winter, in the hour
When our world turns and you are gone. I walk
Into the garden, outline the path
With careful steps, with the white bloom of snow.
My hands chap red, leave markings you would know—
This was our story. We walked into a
Garden. We walked in a garden. We walked.
Friday, October 02, 2009
epiphany
I had a sudden moment of clarity this morning as I was balancing on the lid of my toilet, trying to angle the mirror over the sink in order to re-consider the outfit I was wearing.
I really need to buy a bigger mirror.
I really need to buy a bigger mirror.
Thursday, October 01, 2009
believe it
So, oh ye of little faith, I'm blogging. Blogging blogging blogging.
Fact: It helps to have something to blog about. For the past I don't know how long, I've been composing posts in my head. Last night I was reciting something brilliant about how the entire world is pregnant (not in a Keatsian "season of mist and mellow fruitfulness" kind of way, but in a pregnant pregnant kind of way). It's all gone now--although the entire world is still pregnant.
What, then, should I blog about? The usual late night angst and anxiety isn't present, which makes little to no sense. I live for, thrive on, my late night angst and anxiety.
Yesterday, at Institute, we discussed talents and gifts, how we develop them, how we maintain them.
Thesis: I have a talent for being alone.
I'm sitting in my studio-ish apartment (we'll take the tour in the near future and you'll see why it isn't a true studio), quite satisfied with the little world I'm slowly creating for myself here. It might have something to do with the vintage Royal typewriter sitting on the desk I managed to reassemble (courtesy of my friend Sarah) or the Belle and Sebastian posters that arrived yesterday. But really, I'm just happy in my space. Happy. Not a word you often see on this blog.
Returning to the world-is-pregnant, I mentioned this to a friend last night. I hope she doesn't mind my repeating this, but her response was "I know. And I keep hoping you'll meet someone and get married and be pregnant too." My first thought was, Please no. Not right now. Future, yes, sure, bring on the offspring. But I'm good alone. I'm trying to understand this life that I somehow find myself living. It's not what I expected--it's nothing that I expected. But it's my life.
Cue Bon Jovi.
And guess what. I'll see you tomorrow.
Fact: It helps to have something to blog about. For the past I don't know how long, I've been composing posts in my head. Last night I was reciting something brilliant about how the entire world is pregnant (not in a Keatsian "season of mist and mellow fruitfulness" kind of way, but in a pregnant pregnant kind of way). It's all gone now--although the entire world is still pregnant.
What, then, should I blog about? The usual late night angst and anxiety isn't present, which makes little to no sense. I live for, thrive on, my late night angst and anxiety.
Yesterday, at Institute, we discussed talents and gifts, how we develop them, how we maintain them.
Thesis: I have a talent for being alone.
I'm sitting in my studio-ish apartment (we'll take the tour in the near future and you'll see why it isn't a true studio), quite satisfied with the little world I'm slowly creating for myself here. It might have something to do with the vintage Royal typewriter sitting on the desk I managed to reassemble (courtesy of my friend Sarah) or the Belle and Sebastian posters that arrived yesterday. But really, I'm just happy in my space. Happy. Not a word you often see on this blog.
Returning to the world-is-pregnant, I mentioned this to a friend last night. I hope she doesn't mind my repeating this, but her response was "I know. And I keep hoping you'll meet someone and get married and be pregnant too." My first thought was, Please no. Not right now. Future, yes, sure, bring on the offspring. But I'm good alone. I'm trying to understand this life that I somehow find myself living. It's not what I expected--it's nothing that I expected. But it's my life.
Cue Bon Jovi.
And guess what. I'll see you tomorrow.
Monday, September 21, 2009
we apologize for the delay
After all the excitement and buildup, I still don't have an internet connection. Which completely ruined my planned weekend of watching everything on Hulu and Netflix and YouTube that I've missed in the past two months. It also means that I didn't get to blog this weekend. Which is sad.
We expect to be moving shortly.
We expect to be moving shortly.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
public service announcement
after a year of sacrifice (read: no consistent internet connection), I'll be back online tomorrow night around 8:30 p.n. (post-Nevins)
which means this blog is back.
see you tomorrow.
which means this blog is back.
see you tomorrow.
Friday, August 28, 2009
wants and needs
I signed the lease for my apt last night. I should be moving in the next week or so. And even though I have a bed (!), there's a list of things I kind of need: a shower curtain, a garbage can. I've been spending free time (read: lunch) on design blogs, and while I may need a shower curtain and a garbage can, I keep putting these on my list of "Things to Buy ASAP for Apt." It's a mental list.
Friday, August 21, 2009
update
I found an apt. (It's a studio, so it doesn't get to be an "apartment.")
I have a bed.
Seth went into the MTC. In 2.5 weeks, he'll be in New Zealand.
Abby had her second birthday.
I celebrated the second anniversary of my Failure.
The apt. will have internet (once I get it set up), so I should return to blogging in a week or two.
I dream in spreadsheets.
I have a bed.
Seth went into the MTC. In 2.5 weeks, he'll be in New Zealand.
Abby had her second birthday.I celebrated the second anniversary of my Failure.
The apt. will have internet (once I get it set up), so I should return to blogging in a week or two.
I dream in spreadsheets.
Saturday, August 08, 2009
a saturday post comes on monday
I’ve never understood how to not love someone anymore. There are movies and novels and songs about learning to let go of one love and accept a new one. They are some of my favorite movies and novels and songs—and maybe they are the reason I don’t understand love. Granted, this is just another theory I’ve been handed from movies and novels and songs (most noticeably, (500) Days of Summer and High Fidelity). But right now (cue self-pity moment), it seems as though the only way I’ll ever be able to experience love, or even Love, is via my need for movies and novels and songs. Even poetry, which I approach with a much more critically discerning eye, feeds that need I have to connect with this—what is this? An emotion? A defining moment? A chance to live a different life? What is love? How do you define it, how do you get it? I feel like I’ve spent my life studying this idea, but without any practical application.
This meditation comes on the heels of my Michael discovery (see this rambling post), finding out a close friend is engaged (via Facebook, which is an another post), and then finding out, less than two months after I heard him talk about being single and disappointed with himself and me being that encouraging pep talk (yes I got the verb right), that Michael is now engaged. Also via Facebook (I really should write that post). All this begs the question: What the hell?
Tonight, however, is my trump card. I gave myself the day to indulge in (500) Days of Summer, which was brilliant and gave me a new appreciation for both The Smiths and Joseph Gordon-Leavitt, who was just plain perfect (every man should dress like he does in this movie). I resigned myself to the feelings and arguments I initiated this post with. I curled up on my couch, watched a few episodes of Freaks and Geeks, courtesy of Netflix, and then decided it was time for bed. I was going to sing myself to sleep with sad stories of my forever-single existence, accompanied by the recitation of men I have liked or loved or just plain wanted watch from a distance.
I checked my phone. Which was a mistake. I checked my phone, and Michael had texted me. Twice. Every time we meet up, he brings up writing (or in this text, “writting”) a novel or screen play together. No amount of telling him that I write poetry stops this. And tonight he texted me about it again.
He’s engaged. He’s never been interested in me. I’m sounding like a stalker. I know all this. So why can’t I convince my pulse not to accelerate when I see his name? When will it be my turn to move on? (And does anyone know a cute guy in Chicago to facilitate all this?)
This meditation comes on the heels of my Michael discovery (see this rambling post), finding out a close friend is engaged (via Facebook, which is an another post), and then finding out, less than two months after I heard him talk about being single and disappointed with himself and me being that encouraging pep talk (yes I got the verb right), that Michael is now engaged. Also via Facebook (I really should write that post). All this begs the question: What the hell?
Tonight, however, is my trump card. I gave myself the day to indulge in (500) Days of Summer, which was brilliant and gave me a new appreciation for both The Smiths and Joseph Gordon-Leavitt, who was just plain perfect (every man should dress like he does in this movie). I resigned myself to the feelings and arguments I initiated this post with. I curled up on my couch, watched a few episodes of Freaks and Geeks, courtesy of Netflix, and then decided it was time for bed. I was going to sing myself to sleep with sad stories of my forever-single existence, accompanied by the recitation of men I have liked or loved or just plain wanted watch from a distance.
I checked my phone. Which was a mistake. I checked my phone, and Michael had texted me. Twice. Every time we meet up, he brings up writing (or in this text, “writting”) a novel or screen play together. No amount of telling him that I write poetry stops this. And tonight he texted me about it again.
He’s engaged. He’s never been interested in me. I’m sounding like a stalker. I know all this. So why can’t I convince my pulse not to accelerate when I see his name? When will it be my turn to move on? (And does anyone know a cute guy in Chicago to facilitate all this?)
Thursday, August 06, 2009
still in love
with Zooey Deschanel, She & Him, and now this music video. (I really want to see (500) Days of Summer.)
Monday, August 03, 2009
i really should mention
I got a job. A real-live job.
Which means I get to stay in Chicago, and in Northwestern's MFA program.
Go team.
Next adventure: editorgirl finds an apartment. More chills, more thrills, but it better not take 11 months.
Which means I get to stay in Chicago, and in Northwestern's MFA program.
Go team.
Next adventure: editorgirl finds an apartment. More chills, more thrills, but it better not take 11 months.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
samuel baby
I used to roll my eyes at friends who showed off their nieces and nephews, and now I'm one of them. As of 10:30 yesterday morning, Stephen and Ashton are now the proud and totally stylish parents of Samuel Martin Jenkins. 
And Abby is one very excited cousin. I'm sad I missed the special day, but I'm excited to hit H&M for baby Samuel.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Oh My Abby
I just found this picture on Lauren's blog. I miss this little girl, but how cute is she?
And Maryn took and photoshopped this pic. She (Maryn) is on her way to being a genius photog. Having such a perfect model can't hurt.
showing off
I posted a few months ago about the chapbook project I was working on for my poetry workshop. This is a small collection of poems, most of them written in Chicago. I asked a friend to paint a watercolor of an orange tree--she brilliantly sent me three different options, and this one was exactly what I was hoping for. I printed the first cover page on vellum (classic copy guy question: "You know that you'll be able to see your title page through the vellum, right?" My cranky answer: That's the point), with the second cover page on a linen-textured paper. I spent way too much time cutting the paper down to the write size (yay, Xacto knife!), then folding and sewing the books together (look, Mom, I'm sewing!).The moral of this story is that I have a few extra chapbooks. So, if you're interested, I'll mail them this week to the first four people who ask for them.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
I might be getting ahead of myself
but I have a job interview in 30 minutes. When I left the apartment this morning, I didn't have a job interview today. So I left the house in an old Tshirt (not gross old, but clearly not new) and a skirt. And flip-flops.
Here's hoping the interviewer has a good sense of humor.*
*It ruins the shock value, but for the record, I told her I wasn't dressed for an interview and she said that was fine, as it was so last minute. But I'm still wearing flip-flops. At least I shaved my legs last night.
Here's hoping the interviewer has a good sense of humor.*
*It ruins the shock value, but for the record, I told her I wasn't dressed for an interview and she said that was fine, as it was so last minute. But I'm still wearing flip-flops. At least I shaved my legs last night.
Monday, July 13, 2009
all is not lost (yet)
Two of my poems are going to be published.*
*"and now they came like rain and were real" and "There are no wings in Ecclesiastes." I guess they like long titles. And I'll post the link (it's an online journal) as soon as they're up.
*"and now they came like rain and were real" and "There are no wings in Ecclesiastes." I guess they like long titles. And I'll post the link (it's an online journal) as soon as they're up.
dis-couraged
I don't know what to do.
I just spent an hour tailoring my resume and writing a new cover letter for a position that was pretty much my dream job. I felt good about my application, I was excited that maybe something good was going to come from all these weeks of waiting. I sent the email and got started on the homework I was supposed to be working on.
On a whim, I checked the website again, just minutes after sending my application. The job is no longer posted.
I know that the employment situation is awful for everyone right now. I know talented, awesome people who can't find a job. I happen to be one of them. But I am so frustrated. How many times am I going to go through the nervousness, the anticipation, the interviews, the waiting, only to find out that I'm still unemployed?
I had this moment last night where I felt like life was looking up. I'm trying so hard to hang on to that feeling and the belief that something will work out. I just don't know how long I can stay this course.
I just spent an hour tailoring my resume and writing a new cover letter for a position that was pretty much my dream job. I felt good about my application, I was excited that maybe something good was going to come from all these weeks of waiting. I sent the email and got started on the homework I was supposed to be working on.
On a whim, I checked the website again, just minutes after sending my application. The job is no longer posted.
I know that the employment situation is awful for everyone right now. I know talented, awesome people who can't find a job. I happen to be one of them. But I am so frustrated. How many times am I going to go through the nervousness, the anticipation, the interviews, the waiting, only to find out that I'm still unemployed?
I had this moment last night where I felt like life was looking up. I'm trying so hard to hang on to that feeling and the belief that something will work out. I just don't know how long I can stay this course.
Friday, July 10, 2009
crash course
I need to write a long question-answering post. The problem is I don't have any answers just yet. So here's a pic from my Utah visit--my very fun Utah visit. We danced in the rain, went shopping (a few times), hit Yogurt Stop (a few times), made Chuck Bartowskis (sandwiches), went to the Oquirrh Mountain Temple open house. . . played with sparklers. . . it was a long, awesome weekend.
Friday, June 26, 2009
so you're on, but you're not on
It feels really good to be blogging again. I know I'm studying writing, but I forget how satisfying it is to write something just for fun, just for friends, just to write. What follows is a collection of random bits and pieces from my so-called life, not starring claire danes.
I wrote a birthday card this week that made me realize I have developed "my Chicago" in my head. My Chicago is spring/fall when it's green or turning to autumn and suddenly you can't help but be acutely aware that you're alive. My Chicago involves lazy walks down Michigan Ave, stopping at Borders and the Disney Store (for Abby and Jesse), window shopping, finding new stones at the Tribune building to be impressed by, staring into the curved reflective surface of the Cloud Gate (aka the Bean), watching kids wait to be hit by the Crown Fountains, and finally arriving at the Art Institute, where I could die happy. It also includes rides on the Red Line, when you time your connections perfectly; shopping at the Devon Market; Friday nights at Nevins; etc. I'm not having such an awful time here after all.
Now that I've said how much I love Chicago, I'll add that I love the city, I love my program, I love the friends that I've made here. I do not love not having a job. After six months working in a temp position with the possibility of full time employment, I maxed out my hours and am now unemployed. I enjoyed the first few days of unwinding--I didn't realize how burnt out I was after running the Winter-Spring quarters gauntlet. But now I am bored. I have been applying to every job that seems like even a remote possibility. And there was one job that seemed very possible, but it turns out it was another dead end. I have the money to survive a little while longer in Chicago, but I can't justify another year of debt and no certain income. I'm giving myself to the end of the summer, and then I'm seriously considering leaving the program, Chicago, etc, to couch surf in Utah.
Well, that wasn't happy. This is. It's currently the wallpaper on my desktop, and even though there isn't really a "you" right now, it's the possibility of feeling this way that makes me smile. Actually, what it does is make me want to write a novel, the silly cheesy summer reading kind that I so desperately need right now. Maybe a rom-com that would later be made into a movie no man will watch. Claire Danes could star in that.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
a story of two sweaters
Hell isn't a sauna. Chicago is. My lovely Chicago spring has turned into sweltering sweaty heat. I never feel dry. I do, however, feel damp, sticky, frizzy, etc. Who in their right mind lives here?
No, I am not in my right mind. Never have been, never will be. And now: the story.
Last Friday I woke up to rain. Rain and cold-ish-ness. I got myself showered and dressed (an admirable accomplishment, I thought) and out the door to have lunch with an MFA friend. We were meeting about a 10 minute walk from my apartment, so I braved the rain wearing a long-sleeved sweater, pashmina, light jacket, and shoes with enough heel to help me avoid completely soaking my pant legs.
Lunch was a success--damp, but a success. The dampness was acceptable, since it was pouring all sorts of beasts (really what it was pouring was tree limbs, etc.). I then missed my bus, waited 40 minutes for the next one (delays due to flooding and tree limbs), and eventually arrived in Evanston for a stop-over at the library. All this time wearing a now-very-damp long-sleeved sweater.
When I left the library two hours later, the sun had come out, full force. The rain had stolen my spring and left the beginning of summer-hell in its place. And I was wearing a long-sleeved sweater. If I had just planned on going home, I would have braved the heat and the sweater, but I wasn't going home. I was meeting Sarah & co. at Nevins for drinks (just Diet Coke for me, I promise) and dinner. It's one of my favorite parts of the week, if not my favorite and I wasn't going to miss it, even though I was a sodden sweaty frizzy mess.
So on my way to the bar, I stopped at the Gap. Grabbed everything my size on the sale rack, tried everything on, and found a short sleeved sweater that I thought could work (I actually quite like it). Did I mention I was wearing a cami? I was wearing a cami. I paid for the short-sleeved sweater, ran across the street to CVS to buy a comb and some cheap headbands, and then ran across the street again to Barnes & Noble to change (you can always count on B&N and Borders to have a bathroom). I smoothed myself out, put on the sweater, put up my hair, and headed back out into the heat for my weekly round of Diet Coke.
The end.
No, I am not in my right mind. Never have been, never will be. And now: the story.
Last Friday I woke up to rain. Rain and cold-ish-ness. I got myself showered and dressed (an admirable accomplishment, I thought) and out the door to have lunch with an MFA friend. We were meeting about a 10 minute walk from my apartment, so I braved the rain wearing a long-sleeved sweater, pashmina, light jacket, and shoes with enough heel to help me avoid completely soaking my pant legs.
Lunch was a success--damp, but a success. The dampness was acceptable, since it was pouring all sorts of beasts (really what it was pouring was tree limbs, etc.). I then missed my bus, waited 40 minutes for the next one (delays due to flooding and tree limbs), and eventually arrived in Evanston for a stop-over at the library. All this time wearing a now-very-damp long-sleeved sweater.
When I left the library two hours later, the sun had come out, full force. The rain had stolen my spring and left the beginning of summer-hell in its place. And I was wearing a long-sleeved sweater. If I had just planned on going home, I would have braved the heat and the sweater, but I wasn't going home. I was meeting Sarah & co. at Nevins for drinks (just Diet Coke for me, I promise) and dinner. It's one of my favorite parts of the week, if not my favorite and I wasn't going to miss it, even though I was a sodden sweaty frizzy mess.
So on my way to the bar, I stopped at the Gap. Grabbed everything my size on the sale rack, tried everything on, and found a short sleeved sweater that I thought could work (I actually quite like it). Did I mention I was wearing a cami? I was wearing a cami. I paid for the short-sleeved sweater, ran across the street to CVS to buy a comb and some cheap headbands, and then ran across the street again to Barnes & Noble to change (you can always count on B&N and Borders to have a bathroom). I smoothed myself out, put on the sweater, put up my hair, and headed back out into the heat for my weekly round of Diet Coke.
The end.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
this living
I've been processing this thought for a few days now. And it could start a onslaught of comments, so I'm beginning with this caveat: I know that I am single, that I don't know what a real relationship is, etc. But I also know that I'm in a different place in my life, and this realization is important enough that I am returning to my blogging.
A month ago I got a letter from a friend in my home ward. She's a lawyer with a sweet husband and three cute/crazy boys. But she met her husband and got married later in life. Not crazy late, we're going to spend our retirement together, but later--post degrees, etc. Which means she understands, to some degree, where I'm at in my life. It's nice to have that. It's brought up some new ways of thinking about my life and my current situation.
On Sunday, another friend was in Chicago. We had a few hours to hang out, walk up and down Michigan Ave, and did I mention that it was that guy I've had the world's longest crush on? I realized as we were talking that I've had a lot of frustration and anger, etc, directed not just at this guy, but at all single men, really. And I thought it was just the stereotypical bitter/cynical single girl in me. But I've felt that way for a long time--threatened by men, angry with them.
I read the letter again on my way home from meeting Michael. She wrote about all the things she was able to do before getting married and starting a family, so now she doesn't mind spending her time watching kids movies, etc. And I realized that I'm not frustrated or angry with men, but with me. Because I knew that when I found the right man, I would have felt the need to give everything up for that relationship.
I know I don't have to do that. But part of it is because I have this time to live my life. To get my education, to live in Chicago, to travel, etc. And, realizing all this, I feel like I can let go of that resentment and anger and everything.
A month ago I got a letter from a friend in my home ward. She's a lawyer with a sweet husband and three cute/crazy boys. But she met her husband and got married later in life. Not crazy late, we're going to spend our retirement together, but later--post degrees, etc. Which means she understands, to some degree, where I'm at in my life. It's nice to have that. It's brought up some new ways of thinking about my life and my current situation.
On Sunday, another friend was in Chicago. We had a few hours to hang out, walk up and down Michigan Ave, and did I mention that it was that guy I've had the world's longest crush on? I realized as we were talking that I've had a lot of frustration and anger, etc, directed not just at this guy, but at all single men, really. And I thought it was just the stereotypical bitter/cynical single girl in me. But I've felt that way for a long time--threatened by men, angry with them.
I read the letter again on my way home from meeting Michael. She wrote about all the things she was able to do before getting married and starting a family, so now she doesn't mind spending her time watching kids movies, etc. And I realized that I'm not frustrated or angry with men, but with me. Because I knew that when I found the right man, I would have felt the need to give everything up for that relationship.
I know I don't have to do that. But part of it is because I have this time to live my life. To get my education, to live in Chicago, to travel, etc. And, realizing all this, I feel like I can let go of that resentment and anger and everything.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Saturday, June 06, 2009
I've been
internetless as of late. I'm working to remedy the situation (I'm in a nice little restaurant right now), but I'll be back as soon as I can.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Ever
I love CN for posting this. And I love that I aced it. (Please note that I'm stealing her entire post. Because it was that awesome.)
1. The hit 1999 tween romantic comedy, Drive Me Crazy, was based on what fabulous tween book?
A. How I Created My Perfect Prom Date
B. The Boy Next Door
C. Makeover Madness
2. The prom scene from the hit 1999 tween romantic comedy, Drive Me Crazy, was filmed in what state capitol's rotunda?
A. California
B. Utah
C. Florida
3. What famous hobbit was supposed to co-star with Sabrina/Clarissa in the hit 1999 tween romantic comedy, Drive Me Crazy, but was cut because of his baby face?
A. Pip
B. Rudy
C. Frodo
Answers: 1. A 2. B 3. C
Editorgirl's trivia questions (I'm sending out prizes to people who answer)
Easy. Which classic tween sitcom did Melissa Joan Hart star in from 1996-2003?
Medium. Who played Chase Hammond's ex? (Hint: She later showed up in Heroes.)
Kind of Hard. Which band appeared as The Electrocutes?
1. The hit 1999 tween romantic comedy, Drive Me Crazy, was based on what fabulous tween book?
A. How I Created My Perfect Prom Date
B. The Boy Next Door
C. Makeover Madness
2. The prom scene from the hit 1999 tween romantic comedy, Drive Me Crazy, was filmed in what state capitol's rotunda?
A. California
B. Utah
C. Florida
3. What famous hobbit was supposed to co-star with Sabrina/Clarissa in the hit 1999 tween romantic comedy, Drive Me Crazy, but was cut because of his baby face?
A. Pip
B. Rudy
C. Frodo
Answers: 1. A 2. B 3. C
Editorgirl's trivia questions (I'm sending out prizes to people who answer)
Easy. Which classic tween sitcom did Melissa Joan Hart star in from 1996-2003?
Medium. Who played Chase Hammond's ex? (Hint: She later showed up in Heroes.)
Kind of Hard. Which band appeared as The Electrocutes?
Hard. In what novel was Dee Vine the main character?
Bonus. Which actor later showed up in (gasp) God's Army?list
Lately my life has been feeling like the biggest To Do List I've ever faced.
To Do: Find a full-time job (with benefits, etc.). Find a ride to church (failed that this week). Reading for poetry workshop. Writing for poetry workshop. Reading for Prose for Poets. Writing for Prose for Poets. Laundry. Grocery shopping. Emails. Waking up. Cleaning the bathroom. Taking out the trash. Designing a chapbook. Editing poetry for chapbook.
There's no decent organization there, but that's how my life feels. I start on one To Do, and then get distracted by another. And more than once in a while, I give up and watch Leno (actually, it's usually Jimmy Fallon) and dig myself deeper into the List.
The List is stressing me out.
I can start explaining where I'm at for each item on the list, but what's the point. My writing is good, the revisions are hell (and that's what they're supposed to be), and my genius friend just painted the cover of my chapbook for me. I'm excited for the chapbook. I just need the poetry to come together. . . I'm not as confident as I was fall/winter. Now I'm just burned out.
Blame the List.
To Do: Find a full-time job (with benefits, etc.). Find a ride to church (failed that this week). Reading for poetry workshop. Writing for poetry workshop. Reading for Prose for Poets. Writing for Prose for Poets. Laundry. Grocery shopping. Emails. Waking up. Cleaning the bathroom. Taking out the trash. Designing a chapbook. Editing poetry for chapbook.
There's no decent organization there, but that's how my life feels. I start on one To Do, and then get distracted by another. And more than once in a while, I give up and watch Leno (actually, it's usually Jimmy Fallon) and dig myself deeper into the List.
The List is stressing me out.
I can start explaining where I'm at for each item on the list, but what's the point. My writing is good, the revisions are hell (and that's what they're supposed to be), and my genius friend just painted the cover of my chapbook for me. I'm excited for the chapbook. I just need the poetry to come together. . . I'm not as confident as I was fall/winter. Now I'm just burned out.
Blame the List.
Friday, May 22, 2009
and she's whining again
Prose for Poets. I'm actually taking a class titled Prose for Poets. It's required, for the poets. We read prose (shocking), our prof tells us why it's good prose (not helping), and now we're supposed to write a 10-ish page prose "montage."
Yeah.
Here's my problem: Out of the four students in the class, two are prose writers taking the class for elective credit and one is doing cross-genre work. Which leaves little old me as the only non-prose-writing writer. I've tried to communicate this to the prof, but I'm not sure he even knows we're in the classroom with him. (Geniuses can get away with that, can't they?)
Tomorrow I'm supposed to turn in a draft. I have maybe 700 words. It's this weird essay-poetry hybrid on (shocker) Barnett Newman's Adam and Eve paintings and the creation myth and my relationship issues. Now I need, oh, a few thousand more words. But I've written out on Newman and creation. At least for this piece. Since it's "montage," I can piece disparate things together, but I want there to be something holding them together.
Here's my idea. And right now, it's not working.
Part of the A/E essay is a poem I wrote that begins "We met in an orange tree. In an oak tree where you held an orange. You held an orange. . . "
Anyway. I'm thinking of using the end of Frank O'Hara's "Why I Am Not a Painter" poem, meaning a collection of essays that aren't about oranges, but use orange at some point in time. Is this too weird?
Maybe I should sleep on it.
Note: I just had the thought that I could use the first line "I am not a painter, I am a poet" as the title for the Newman piece, and then use other lines for the other pieces. I'm overthinking this assignment. . .
Yeah.
Here's my problem: Out of the four students in the class, two are prose writers taking the class for elective credit and one is doing cross-genre work. Which leaves little old me as the only non-prose-writing writer. I've tried to communicate this to the prof, but I'm not sure he even knows we're in the classroom with him. (Geniuses can get away with that, can't they?)
Tomorrow I'm supposed to turn in a draft. I have maybe 700 words. It's this weird essay-poetry hybrid on (shocker) Barnett Newman's Adam and Eve paintings and the creation myth and my relationship issues. Now I need, oh, a few thousand more words. But I've written out on Newman and creation. At least for this piece. Since it's "montage," I can piece disparate things together, but I want there to be something holding them together.
Here's my idea. And right now, it's not working.
Part of the A/E essay is a poem I wrote that begins "We met in an orange tree. In an oak tree where you held an orange. You held an orange. . . "
Anyway. I'm thinking of using the end of Frank O'Hara's "Why I Am Not a Painter" poem, meaning a collection of essays that aren't about oranges, but use orange at some point in time. Is this too weird?
Maybe I should sleep on it.
Note: I just had the thought that I could use the first line "I am not a painter, I am a poet" as the title for the Newman piece, and then use other lines for the other pieces. I'm overthinking this assignment. . .
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Sunday, May 03, 2009
dirty little secret
My name is [editorgirl] and I like weddings.
I love weddings.
Not going to weddings, but thinking about weddings. Reading about weddings. Planning (fictional) weddings.
You can read more about this problem here.
I love weddings.
Not going to weddings, but thinking about weddings. Reading about weddings. Planning (fictional) weddings.
You can read more about this problem here.
imitate
Simone (Muench, workshop prof) has given us the option of writing imitations instead of annotations for the poets we're reading this quarter. Wright, Komunyakaa (told you I could spell in my sleep), Kristy Bowen (I have no idea if that's spelled correctly), Robyn Schiff. . . I'm missing one, I think. Anyway.
An annotation is a two-page paper that focuses on one element of a poem: line breaks, punctuation, repetition/phrases, etc. They're required by the program.
An imitation is a poem that imitates the language and structure of another poem. You keep the form and use the same parts of speech, but the idea is to get away from the original language to create a new poem.
Almost everyone has been writing imitations. I tried my hand at it. I felt awkward and I couldn't seem to get far enough away from the original subject of the poems. Sigh. So I have been writing annotations.
This has brought up a whole new concern for me. There's a few poets I like to read to inspire me, but while I want to write as well as those poets, I don't want to write like those poets--where is the line? Is there a line? Should I go looking for new inspiration? Or should I just go one step further and try using Simone's imitation idea?
What do you think?
An annotation is a two-page paper that focuses on one element of a poem: line breaks, punctuation, repetition/phrases, etc. They're required by the program.
An imitation is a poem that imitates the language and structure of another poem. You keep the form and use the same parts of speech, but the idea is to get away from the original language to create a new poem.
Almost everyone has been writing imitations. I tried my hand at it. I felt awkward and I couldn't seem to get far enough away from the original subject of the poems. Sigh. So I have been writing annotations.
This has brought up a whole new concern for me. There's a few poets I like to read to inspire me, but while I want to write as well as those poets, I don't want to write like those poets--where is the line? Is there a line? Should I go looking for new inspiration? Or should I just go one step further and try using Simone's imitation idea?
What do you think?
Saturday, May 02, 2009
mormon fun fact no. 34
(Almost) Every Friday after work, I find myself at Nevin's Bar with a few friends from work. And (almost) every Friday, Jesse asks me how many hours of church I'm going to attend on Sunday. Most of the time the answer's 3. Explaining General Conference was fun, because it was 8 hours of church, but I got to wear jeans/my pajamas. (I also got to eat yummy Charity-popped popcorn, but I didn't tell anyone that).
What follows are random "Do Mormons __________?" questions, scattered throughout the few hours we're there. Occasionally they alternate with "Do you have _______ in Utah?"
Last night Jesse asks, with a completely straight face,
"Do Mormons eat nachos?"
What follows are random "Do Mormons __________?" questions, scattered throughout the few hours we're there. Occasionally they alternate with "Do you have _______ in Utah?"
Last night Jesse asks, with a completely straight face,
"Do Mormons eat nachos?"
Thursday, April 30, 2009
farewell
I just read this on RG's blog. I don't think I've ever loved an Elizabeth Bishop poem as much as I love this poem right now. It's a nice way to end April and National Poetry Month.
Casabianca
Love's the boy stood on the burning deck
trying to recite 'The boy stood on
the burning deck.' Love's the son
stood stammering elocution
while the poor ship in flames went down.
Love's the obstinate boy, the ship,
even the swimming sailors, who
would like a schoolroom platform, too,
or an excuse to stay
on deck. And love's the burning boy.
--Elizabeth Bishop
Casabianca
Love's the boy stood on the burning deck
trying to recite 'The boy stood on
the burning deck.' Love's the son
stood stammering elocution
while the poor ship in flames went down.
Love's the obstinate boy, the ship,
even the swimming sailors, who
would like a schoolroom platform, too,
or an excuse to stay
on deck. And love's the burning boy.
--Elizabeth Bishop
Monday, April 27, 2009
why yes, i am a rockstar
I just busted out a two-page paper in 20 minutes. And I can now spell Komunyakaa in my sleep.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
26 and counting.
I have failed both National Poetry Month and Utah. Which is a shame, because I love National Poetry Month (or at least the idea of National Poetry Month) and I had a wonderful time in Utah last week. I should be blogging in favor and praise of both.
That isn't going to happen, at least not tonight.
I went to Utah because I needed a break. Also because I wanted to see my family, but mostly the break thing. Six months in Chicago and I'm still uneasy, trying to figure out why I'm here. Or rather, I spend my sleepless nights trying to remind myself why I'm here: education + MFA + poetry. I'm not here for a job, although I'd appreciate one, or anything else, although that list is long and varied.
While in Utah, well, I summed in up in Relief Society today as "Babies! Babies! Babies!" Lauren has beautiful crazy Abby and Sven will soon have what we can only hope will be a beautiful crazy son. Add to that Meghan's little girl Kaitlin, and the entire week seemed to be steeped in Babies! Babies! Babies! And I thought I was behind on the marriage thing.
There's a very sane part of me that is saying not to worry. I'm in a good place right now. Not a comfortable place, but a good place. But I never thought I'd be 26 and single, never thought I could do the math and think my baby sister could be married and raising a family before me. I want my education, I want a PhD, I want a career. I think what's getting to me tonight is knowing that all of this is out of my hands. I didn't get to choose between relationship/marriage/family and MA/MFA/PhD.
Somewhere in my apartment, a faucet is dripping. I have no idea which one and I really don't want to find out.
I want to label this crisis as something, name it so I can deal with it. I considered being cliche and using the Quarterlife Crisis, but the experts tell me this is a bad idea. Well, that and I don't trust anything in a John Mayer song anymore. Maybe I can call it the Good Mormon Girl Crisis. Would I be feeling this way if I weren't part of a culture where we're supposed to aspire to be wives and mothers? I have no problem aspiring, but I do have a problem when a guy gives me that look when I tell him I'm in grad school. Never mind the second time through grad school, with a third on the way.
It's late. I should sleep. (How many times have I said this on my blog?) I considered taking off the comments box for this one, and maybe I should. I know I have wonderful brilliant friends who are Mormon and single. I have wonderful brilliant friends who are Mormon and married. I know some of you are with me, wishing we were married (not to each other) and raising families along with writing dissertations, and others are wishing that they had had the time to get a grad degree or two.
There are no easy answers. Just once, I wish there were. Then maybe I'd get to sleep at night.
That isn't going to happen, at least not tonight.
I went to Utah because I needed a break. Also because I wanted to see my family, but mostly the break thing. Six months in Chicago and I'm still uneasy, trying to figure out why I'm here. Or rather, I spend my sleepless nights trying to remind myself why I'm here: education + MFA + poetry. I'm not here for a job, although I'd appreciate one, or anything else, although that list is long and varied.
While in Utah, well, I summed in up in Relief Society today as "Babies! Babies! Babies!" Lauren has beautiful crazy Abby and Sven will soon have what we can only hope will be a beautiful crazy son. Add to that Meghan's little girl Kaitlin, and the entire week seemed to be steeped in Babies! Babies! Babies! And I thought I was behind on the marriage thing.
There's a very sane part of me that is saying not to worry. I'm in a good place right now. Not a comfortable place, but a good place. But I never thought I'd be 26 and single, never thought I could do the math and think my baby sister could be married and raising a family before me. I want my education, I want a PhD, I want a career. I think what's getting to me tonight is knowing that all of this is out of my hands. I didn't get to choose between relationship/marriage/family and MA/MFA/PhD.
Somewhere in my apartment, a faucet is dripping. I have no idea which one and I really don't want to find out.
I want to label this crisis as something, name it so I can deal with it. I considered being cliche and using the Quarterlife Crisis, but the experts tell me this is a bad idea. Well, that and I don't trust anything in a John Mayer song anymore. Maybe I can call it the Good Mormon Girl Crisis. Would I be feeling this way if I weren't part of a culture where we're supposed to aspire to be wives and mothers? I have no problem aspiring, but I do have a problem when a guy gives me that look when I tell him I'm in grad school. Never mind the second time through grad school, with a third on the way.
It's late. I should sleep. (How many times have I said this on my blog?) I considered taking off the comments box for this one, and maybe I should. I know I have wonderful brilliant friends who are Mormon and single. I have wonderful brilliant friends who are Mormon and married. I know some of you are with me, wishing we were married (not to each other) and raising families along with writing dissertations, and others are wishing that they had had the time to get a grad degree or two.
There are no easy answers. Just once, I wish there were. Then maybe I'd get to sleep at night.
Friday, April 24, 2009
shake it like a polaroid picture
a post on utah, poetry, etc. is coming soon. in the meantime, enjoy.
you can thank T.O.S. for the video.
you can thank T.O.S. for the video.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
poemed
Lance Larsen, Backyard Alchemy.
Once in a San Jose park, on vacation, I asked
my daughter, Where are we?
She looked up at me: My dolly sits
on mine lap, I sit on yours, you sit
on the chair's lap, the chair sits
on the world's lap. There are a million
ways to say "California." Only a few promise rest.
(from "The World's Lap")
Think small. Think redundant and gossipy
in a cramped hand, with cross-outs
indicating an Ur-text that wavers between Byron's
"We're a sad jar of atoms" and a grocery list.
On lucky days, it spills itself as haiku drama.
(from "Reading Old Journal Entries")
Once in a San Jose park, on vacation, I asked
my daughter, Where are we?
She looked up at me: My dolly sits
on mine lap, I sit on yours, you sit
on the chair's lap, the chair sits
on the world's lap. There are a million
ways to say "California." Only a few promise rest.
(from "The World's Lap")
Think small. Think redundant and gossipy
in a cramped hand, with cross-outs
indicating an Ur-text that wavers between Byron's
"We're a sad jar of atoms" and a grocery list.
On lucky days, it spills itself as haiku drama.
(from "Reading Old Journal Entries")
Monday, April 06, 2009
33 minutes to midnight
and I almost didn't post today. Would have been tragic. Tragic and completely anticipated.
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
(from "The Burial of the Dead," The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot)
In a Station of the Metro
Ezra Pound
The apparation of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
(from "The Burial of the Dead," The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot)
In a Station of the Metro
Ezra Pound
The apparation of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
Sunday, April 05, 2009
how to celebrate
I always begin poetry month with the best of intentions: posting a poem each day, reading a poem each day, writing a poem each day. And then I find myself six days in and--well, I've been reading poetry each day, but since it's for class, I'm not sure if it should count.
There are a lot of great blogs and websites posting a poem each day. And there are blogs with daily writing prompts, etc, for "NaPoWriMo" or National Poetry Writing Month. If you're interested, I'll start posting some links.
All that being said, I'm burned out. Shocker. And I can't get the poems to format the way they should on this blog, which angers me. So. . . instead of a poem a day or a writing prompt a day, you're going to get lines of poetry each day. Some from me, some from "real" poets. I know you wouldn't usually excise lines from a poem, but there are lines that fascinate me and I'm going to use them in celebration of everything poetry is for me.
All explorers must die of heartbreak.
(from "Lives of the Saints," Charles Wright)
Later, I like to sit and look up
At the mythic history of Western civilization,
Pinpricked and clued through the zodiac.
I'd like to be able to name them, say what's what and how who got where,
Curry the physics of metamorphosis and its endgame,
But I've spent my life knowing nothing.
(from "Looking West from Laguna Beach at Night," Charles Wright)
In the thin leaves incendiary--
(from "An Ordinary Afternoon in Charlottesville," Charles Wright)
There are a lot of great blogs and websites posting a poem each day. And there are blogs with daily writing prompts, etc, for "NaPoWriMo" or National Poetry Writing Month. If you're interested, I'll start posting some links.
All that being said, I'm burned out. Shocker. And I can't get the poems to format the way they should on this blog, which angers me. So. . . instead of a poem a day or a writing prompt a day, you're going to get lines of poetry each day. Some from me, some from "real" poets. I know you wouldn't usually excise lines from a poem, but there are lines that fascinate me and I'm going to use them in celebration of everything poetry is for me.
All explorers must die of heartbreak.
(from "Lives of the Saints," Charles Wright)
Later, I like to sit and look up
At the mythic history of Western civilization,
Pinpricked and clued through the zodiac.
I'd like to be able to name them, say what's what and how who got where,
Curry the physics of metamorphosis and its endgame,
But I've spent my life knowing nothing.
(from "Looking West from Laguna Beach at Night," Charles Wright)
In the thin leaves incendiary--
(from "An Ordinary Afternoon in Charlottesville," Charles Wright)
Monday, March 30, 2009
brace yourself
Someone (Dad) mentioned that I haven't blogged in, oh, two weeks. I was simply going to say nothing happened in two weeks, but here are the highlights.The day after my last post, I wrote a ten-page paper on Ezra Pound's poem Hugh Selwyn Mauberley, turned it in, bid farewell to the quarter and said hello to spring break, which I kicked off by hanging out with my co-worker friends at an Evanston bar (yes, I suppose "editorgirl goes to the bar" would have been a rather entertaining piece), nursing a Diet Coke and sharing a blissful piece of chocolate cake with The Other Sarah, and then confusing the party-happy friends by ending my night at the bookstore, where I picked up The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova (a rec from Anna, The Only Anna). The Historian turned out to be 908 pages and most of my spring break, accompanied by a bad cold and hours of uninspiring television. I'm pretty sure I also went to church and a branch "talent" show, where the highlights were a Flight of the Conchords parody (the mind reels), a man singing "I'm Big in Japan" while solving two Rubick cubes, and a boy (if such distinctions can be made) singing "Starlight Express" accompanied by his girlfriend on rollerblades waving sparklers.
Of course, I could have made all of that up.
I promise more postings in April, especially since I'll be celebrating National Poetry Month and my not-25th birthday. Oh. . . and did I mention I'm Coming Home?
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
a St. Patrick's Day apron
So by 10:30 at night, my face is less than picture worthy, but I did promise the apron.
And I just liked the lighting on this one.
And yes, I did put on a skirt and heels for these pics. I plan on putting them on every time I cook wearing this apron.
This one shows how cute the apron is.
And I just liked the lighting on this one.
And yes, I did put on a skirt and heels for these pics. I plan on putting them on every time I cook wearing this apron.Monday, March 16, 2009
this is commitment
I'm usually inclined to be annoyed and dismissive when a teacher or speaker at church "challenges" the class/congregation to do something over the week. Imagine my surprise, then, to hear myself challenging the class to "speak kind words to and about each other" during my lesson. Inspiration, it was not, but I've decided it is something I need to work on. I was planning on keeping it in mind during work and class today; I failed, rather miserably. So I've come up with an alternative I kind of like: blogging nice things about people (specific people, not in general). I decided to start with the people who commented on my last post, and then move on from there tomorrow. One post for each day this week. Here we go.
Theric: I have this secret sadness that I wasn't fobbing (in Provo) when Theric was fobbing (in Provo). The workshopping comments and critiques I've received from him are some of the most perceptive, intelligent, encouraging--I could keep going, but my adjectives tend to get away from me. Plus he's Thmazing--you don't get better than that.
Anna B: Anna and I have this plan. And in our plan, we are not in separate states, or even in a single state--we're in London. Anna is the type of person you want to travel to London with. She's hilarious and kind and brilliant and can keep up on the Diet Coke count. Someday we'll execute the plan: London, then living in close proximity, because I hate living in different time zones. Hate hate hate it. (Oh wait. This is supposed to be a happy post.) She's also the coolest fan of American Idol--and those are hard to come by.
Lekili: I'm not sure if she wants me to out her, but this is my blog, and Lekili is my mom. My super awesome, beautiful mom who manages to be all things to all her children. We spend hours on the phone, and would probably spend more if our cell phone batteries didn't overheat. Did I mention that she's been sewing aprons recently? Stay tuned tomorrow for my cute green St. Patrick's Day apron!
Ginsberg: Sometimes I wonder if Ginsberg is the best nym for him, but that's what you get when you're a genius poet (seriously genius) who decided to play with "Howl." I love Ginsberg's writing voice, whether in his poetry or in blog comments or IMing. It's charming and consistent and genius (that word again)--even if he doesn't appreciate The Bird and The Bee the way he should. (Listen to it again, man.)
So, Day One is Done. Stay tuned for more happy thoughts and one very cool St. Patrick's Day apron. (I don't know if I'll be wearing it, but I promise pictures!)
Theric: I have this secret sadness that I wasn't fobbing (in Provo) when Theric was fobbing (in Provo). The workshopping comments and critiques I've received from him are some of the most perceptive, intelligent, encouraging--I could keep going, but my adjectives tend to get away from me. Plus he's Thmazing--you don't get better than that.
Anna B: Anna and I have this plan. And in our plan, we are not in separate states, or even in a single state--we're in London. Anna is the type of person you want to travel to London with. She's hilarious and kind and brilliant and can keep up on the Diet Coke count. Someday we'll execute the plan: London, then living in close proximity, because I hate living in different time zones. Hate hate hate it. (Oh wait. This is supposed to be a happy post.) She's also the coolest fan of American Idol--and those are hard to come by.
Lekili: I'm not sure if she wants me to out her, but this is my blog, and Lekili is my mom. My super awesome, beautiful mom who manages to be all things to all her children. We spend hours on the phone, and would probably spend more if our cell phone batteries didn't overheat. Did I mention that she's been sewing aprons recently? Stay tuned tomorrow for my cute green St. Patrick's Day apron!
Ginsberg: Sometimes I wonder if Ginsberg is the best nym for him, but that's what you get when you're a genius poet (seriously genius) who decided to play with "Howl." I love Ginsberg's writing voice, whether in his poetry or in blog comments or IMing. It's charming and consistent and genius (that word again)--even if he doesn't appreciate The Bird and The Bee the way he should. (Listen to it again, man.)
So, Day One is Done. Stay tuned for more happy thoughts and one very cool St. Patrick's Day apron. (I don't know if I'll be wearing it, but I promise pictures!)
Thursday, March 12, 2009
love love love
Note: I didn't think this would cause any confusion. I was wrong. I just like the ring (from Blue Poppy, if you were wondering). I don't own the ring and I am currently "violently single." Any changes, and you'll be the first to know.
Also: The original text with this post was "Now I just need a man." But I don't know if I believe a man should be the one to buy the ring, even a diamond ring. Maybe I'll buy it for my right hand for my birthday (one month from tomorrow, in case you need to get shopping).
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
And the unborn is
a dude. This courtesy of the text my brother sent me today (exact quote: "It's a dude.") In case I haven't mentioned this, Sven's wife (and my sister-in-law) Ashton is pregnant and due in July.
I guess this means the blue tutu Grandma (Mom) bought will have to wait for the next grandbaby.
I guess this means the blue tutu Grandma (Mom) bought will have to wait for the next grandbaby.
Monday, March 09, 2009
Sunday, March 08, 2009
I wish you weren't charming.
This is post 621. (I'm almost typed "This is poet 621," which would have been a completely different kind of entry.) I keep thinking I should "celebrate" the big numbers, but I never think of it when it is a big number. Maybe at 1000 I'll find something worthy of post 1000. (Please feel free to suggest what would be worthy of post 1000.)
This post (and poet) has nothing to do with the number 621. This post, before I realized it was too late to be writing such an argument, was about men. Men and their gift for sudden moments of charming-ness. And these are real men too--no fictional characters on the stage tonight.
This post (and poet) has nothing to do with the number 621. This post, before I realized it was too late to be writing such an argument, was about men. Men and their gift for sudden moments of charming-ness. And these are real men too--no fictional characters on the stage tonight.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
tagged
Thank/blame Lauren.
8FavoriteTVShows
1. Bones
2. NCIS
3. The West Wing/Studio 60
4. House
5. Lie to Me
6. Psych
7. Numb3rs
8. Project Runway/Top Chef/ANTM
8ThingsIDidYesterday
1. woke up
2. transferred to the Purple Line at Howard
3. processed 31 DPRs
4. two-and-a-half hour job interview including
5. a 45-minute writing "task"
6. stayed awake for Modernist poetry/poetics class
7. found out A.Poet.Classman likes American Idol
8. stayed up too late watching Jimmy Fallon/Cameron Diaz dance off
8ThingsILookForwardTo
1. The weekend
2. The weekend being over
3. Next quarter's poetry workshop
4. Niece/nephew #2
5. Going to sleep
6. Summer vacation in Utah
7. Christmas vacation in Utah
8. Sleep. Lots of sleep.
8FavoriteRestaurants
1. Mandarin
2. Cafe Rio
3. Settebello
4. Sushi in Joy
5. Happy Sumo
6. Macaroni Grill (only in Provo)
7. Chipotle
8. Chili's
8ThingsIWishFor
1. Utah to not be so far away from Chicago
2. A reason to enjoy this weekend
3. A full-time job
4. Another chance to meet John Cusack
5. Abby to know who she's talking to on the phone
6. Cute guys in Chicago
7. The El to run on schedule tomorrow
8. London, visiting or living
I refuse to tag anyone. (*cough*Anna*cough*)
8FavoriteTVShows
1. Bones
2. NCIS
3. The West Wing/Studio 60
4. House
5. Lie to Me
6. Psych
7. Numb3rs
8. Project Runway/Top Chef/ANTM
8ThingsIDidYesterday
1. woke up
2. transferred to the Purple Line at Howard
3. processed 31 DPRs
4. two-and-a-half hour job interview including
5. a 45-minute writing "task"
6. stayed awake for Modernist poetry/poetics class
7. found out A.Poet.Classman likes American Idol
8. stayed up too late watching Jimmy Fallon/Cameron Diaz dance off
8ThingsILookForwardTo
1. The weekend
2. The weekend being over
3. Next quarter's poetry workshop
4. Niece/nephew #2
5. Going to sleep
6. Summer vacation in Utah
7. Christmas vacation in Utah
8. Sleep. Lots of sleep.
8FavoriteRestaurants
1. Mandarin
2. Cafe Rio
3. Settebello
4. Sushi in Joy
5. Happy Sumo
6. Macaroni Grill (only in Provo)
7. Chipotle
8. Chili's
8ThingsIWishFor
1. Utah to not be so far away from Chicago
2. A reason to enjoy this weekend
3. A full-time job
4. Another chance to meet John Cusack
5. Abby to know who she's talking to on the phone
6. Cute guys in Chicago
7. The El to run on schedule tomorrow
8. London, visiting or living
I refuse to tag anyone. (*cough*Anna*cough*)
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
sad sad bunny, part two
So I tried to find a clip of the Arthur minstrel singing "Sad Sad Bunny," but no luck. A friend did have a YouTube link to the Sendak classic "A, Alligators All Around," but it's not really applicable here.
I have spent a day trying to ignore, well, everything. It's incredibly easy when you work in data entry. All I need are pages of numbers and a computer screen and a second computer screen to play videos on so that my thoughts don't wander too far from the first computer screen and, of course, the numbers. But now I'm back in my yellow apartment (have I ever mentioned that the living room of my apartment is various shades of yellow? it is. and while nothing else is actually yellow, this room colors everything else), now that I'm back, it's a little harder to pretend that I don't exist.
Tomorrow I have a final interview for a job I would really really love. I'm not worried so much about the interview as I am about what happens after the interview--the part I can't control. I'm not sure I could handle another disappointment, another failure. Because--and I know no one else sees this--my life for the past year-and-then-some seems to me to be a series of failures. Somehow the plan that was my life, the plan that was going forward, fell out from under me. And I know this happens in life. And there are days when I can philosophize it away. I can say things happen for a reason, and look at the person I am because of what has happened, but it's really all still very fresh. It will be years before I can say that in earnest.
So here's where all this leads. And I say this with all sincerity. I'm really very scared for tomorrow, and for the days that follow, waiting to find out what happens. Please pray for me. Going forward has never been this terrifying, or required this much faith.
I have spent a day trying to ignore, well, everything. It's incredibly easy when you work in data entry. All I need are pages of numbers and a computer screen and a second computer screen to play videos on so that my thoughts don't wander too far from the first computer screen and, of course, the numbers. But now I'm back in my yellow apartment (have I ever mentioned that the living room of my apartment is various shades of yellow? it is. and while nothing else is actually yellow, this room colors everything else), now that I'm back, it's a little harder to pretend that I don't exist.
Tomorrow I have a final interview for a job I would really really love. I'm not worried so much about the interview as I am about what happens after the interview--the part I can't control. I'm not sure I could handle another disappointment, another failure. Because--and I know no one else sees this--my life for the past year-and-then-some seems to me to be a series of failures. Somehow the plan that was my life, the plan that was going forward, fell out from under me. And I know this happens in life. And there are days when I can philosophize it away. I can say things happen for a reason, and look at the person I am because of what has happened, but it's really all still very fresh. It will be years before I can say that in earnest.
So here's where all this leads. And I say this with all sincerity. I'm really very scared for tomorrow, and for the days that follow, waiting to find out what happens. Please pray for me. Going forward has never been this terrifying, or required this much faith.
Monday, March 02, 2009
sad sad bunny
So I've been working on this series of poems. 12 poems. In my head they're titled as "Ecclesiastes." So far there are eight poems written out, with pieces of the last four in my notebook and in my head.
I was supposed to workshop the eight tonight. Didn't happen. I know sometimes profs run out of time, etc., but tonight I was just tired and frustrated. I still am. (Hence this post.)
The poems are not happy poems. They are sad poems. No way around that. It's a 12-poem elegy of sorts, but I want it to break from that tradition. And it's not. At all.
I got my prof's notes. Most of them are gentle pushes, but at the end, he compares the series to Miss Havisham sitting in her wedding dress, going no where. So much for the gentle. The worst part is that he's right, and that I'm stuck in these poems. I'm numb in them.
Danny has just told me to stop thinking for tonight (or my translation of his advice is to stop thinking). I think he's right. He usually is.
Oh: Sad sad bunny is from Arthur. Just in case you were wondering.
I was supposed to workshop the eight tonight. Didn't happen. I know sometimes profs run out of time, etc., but tonight I was just tired and frustrated. I still am. (Hence this post.)
The poems are not happy poems. They are sad poems. No way around that. It's a 12-poem elegy of sorts, but I want it to break from that tradition. And it's not. At all.
I got my prof's notes. Most of them are gentle pushes, but at the end, he compares the series to Miss Havisham sitting in her wedding dress, going no where. So much for the gentle. The worst part is that he's right, and that I'm stuck in these poems. I'm numb in them.
Danny has just told me to stop thinking for tonight (or my translation of his advice is to stop thinking). I think he's right. He usually is.
Oh: Sad sad bunny is from Arthur. Just in case you were wondering.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
resistance is futile
I try to restrain myself--this is my blog, not the Abby Blog (we should start one)--but this picture kills me.Also killing me: Abby reciting her animals to me over speakerphone--moose, buffalo. . .
Lauren left me a message that Abby had discovered coloring on walls. When she asked her why, (I think I have this right) Abby showed her where I had written a Bernard Cooper quote on the bedroom wall (in pencil--it was late and I didn't have paper handy).
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
oh happy day
I just found out
- I can petition to waive the teaching practicum requirement. And it will (most likely) be approved.
- Big Name Poet will be teaching workshop in Fall.
- Give me enough time, and I will be able to petition for an independent study to replace the fifth workshop (which would keep me in Chicago longer than I want to be). If I'm accepted into a PhD program, it will be that much easier.
- And last, but definitely not least, I have a final round job interview next Wednesday. I really want this job. (I really want a job, but this particular job would be totally brill.)
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
space*
Tonight we consider the setting of my quarterlifecrisis. (I actually composed an introduction to a series of posts on this subject, while on the walk from my apartment to the El. I was wearing heels that day.)
Actually, I'm not so much concerned with the setting. I'm sure one day I'll look back at this apartment with a certain amount of nostalgia and amusement, but right now I am attached to very little. I exist in a space between my laptop, the TV, the couch, the short kitchen counter, and, at night and in the mornings, my bedroom. I lock the door as soon as I enter the apartment, and spend most of my time on the aforementioned couch, although I occassionally enter the kitchen to cook on the stovetop (no mircrowave and the oven reeks), to wash dishes, or to inspect my lack-of-options in the refrigerator.
What I'm interested in is space. I know how I fit in this apartment, where I belong. Despite the intrigue and mystery (and open invitation) of the long hallway (the apartment's only hallway) leading to my roommate's (I use this in the loosest sense of the word) bedroom, I rarely enter that space. I begin at the doorway, turn into the living room, and then pace between living room, kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom before declaring it bedtime. I know it sounds lonely, and it is, but it's also routine. I'm not happy, but I'm comfortable and accepting. Someday, sooner than later, I'll find a place that I will look back on with nostalgia and wish I could live that time again. Right now I'm surviving.
Perhaps this--the survival, the comfort, the fit--is why I don't have visitors. I mean, part of it is that I don't know very many people in this particular area of Chicago, but if I asked, I could probably get people here. But I find this rather distasteful. All of this came to a head on Saturday, when a guy in my ward showed up at my apartment to help me cook for a branch activity that night. I didn't have much for him to do--I hadn't been planning on his help (although he had given me enough of a heads up that I had "cleaned" the part of the apartment he would see)--so he sat on the couch, assembling "recipe books" for the activity. He wasn't wandering around the apartment, he wasn't asking questions, he wasn't doing much of anything except cutting out paper squares and making informal small talk. But I felt exposed and uncomfortable and completely incapable of handling myself in this space with another person. Things had shifted, and I couldn't adapt fast enough.
I will now make my way from the couch and my laptop to the kitchen, and then to the bedroom by way of the bathroom. Good night.
*To my Fobbing friends: I promise I wasn't ignoring you just to blog. I've found if I can get the window open, I can compose a blog, and then publish when I have a signal. I'll be back to Fobbing as soon as the internet lets me (or I finally get a full-time job and can afford an internet connection of my very own).
Actually, I'm not so much concerned with the setting. I'm sure one day I'll look back at this apartment with a certain amount of nostalgia and amusement, but right now I am attached to very little. I exist in a space between my laptop, the TV, the couch, the short kitchen counter, and, at night and in the mornings, my bedroom. I lock the door as soon as I enter the apartment, and spend most of my time on the aforementioned couch, although I occassionally enter the kitchen to cook on the stovetop (no mircrowave and the oven reeks), to wash dishes, or to inspect my lack-of-options in the refrigerator.
What I'm interested in is space. I know how I fit in this apartment, where I belong. Despite the intrigue and mystery (and open invitation) of the long hallway (the apartment's only hallway) leading to my roommate's (I use this in the loosest sense of the word) bedroom, I rarely enter that space. I begin at the doorway, turn into the living room, and then pace between living room, kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom before declaring it bedtime. I know it sounds lonely, and it is, but it's also routine. I'm not happy, but I'm comfortable and accepting. Someday, sooner than later, I'll find a place that I will look back on with nostalgia and wish I could live that time again. Right now I'm surviving.
Perhaps this--the survival, the comfort, the fit--is why I don't have visitors. I mean, part of it is that I don't know very many people in this particular area of Chicago, but if I asked, I could probably get people here. But I find this rather distasteful. All of this came to a head on Saturday, when a guy in my ward showed up at my apartment to help me cook for a branch activity that night. I didn't have much for him to do--I hadn't been planning on his help (although he had given me enough of a heads up that I had "cleaned" the part of the apartment he would see)--so he sat on the couch, assembling "recipe books" for the activity. He wasn't wandering around the apartment, he wasn't asking questions, he wasn't doing much of anything except cutting out paper squares and making informal small talk. But I felt exposed and uncomfortable and completely incapable of handling myself in this space with another person. Things had shifted, and I couldn't adapt fast enough.
I will now make my way from the couch and my laptop to the kitchen, and then to the bedroom by way of the bathroom. Good night.
*To my Fobbing friends: I promise I wasn't ignoring you just to blog. I've found if I can get the window open, I can compose a blog, and then publish when I have a signal. I'll be back to Fobbing as soon as the internet lets me (or I finally get a full-time job and can afford an internet connection of my very own).
Monday, February 16, 2009
Saturday, February 07, 2009
a trip to the lake
Lake Michigan is a short 15-minute walk from my apartment--a short, hellish 15-minute walk in the winter. I haven't gone since September or October, but today it was 51 degrees--51 degrees!--so I took a walk.
I've been wanting to photograph this bench since I first saw it. Each summer the community paints it up, and every time I go to the lake, I spend a long time walking along, smiling over the bench.
Monday, February 02, 2009
best. idea. ever.
Happy Groundhog Day everyone.
I have no idea if the glorified rodent has seen his shadow or not. I don't really care. I'm still going to be frozen for another month either way. What should be celebrated on this day is the Bill Murray movie of the same name. When I expressed this yesterday, someone said he was going to download "I Got You Babe" and wake up to it this morning.
I don't know if he did, but I sure did. Best. Morning. Ever.
I have no idea if the glorified rodent has seen his shadow or not. I don't really care. I'm still going to be frozen for another month either way. What should be celebrated on this day is the Bill Murray movie of the same name. When I expressed this yesterday, someone said he was going to download "I Got You Babe" and wake up to it this morning.
I don't know if he did, but I sure did. Best. Morning. Ever.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
This is January
If I were as smart as I think I am, I would have posted this, oh, in January. But that's the fun of it all.
.
Last year, sister Lauren put together a family photo calendar. It was stunning, memorable, thrilling. And Mom decided the calendar was a new Jenkins tradition. This year, with Lauren sunning it in Alabama, I was default calendar girl. It took way too much time, but when Dad decided all children away from home got their own calendar, it was all worth it.
.
So tonight, I salute January. It was a long, cold month, but looking at this every morning made it survivable. I was a little sad to turn the page to a (very) pink February this morning, but it had to be done.
.
See you next month.
.
(Paragraphs are off, hence the Th.-style periods.)
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