april withdrawals

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

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

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

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

I vote yes and yes

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

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

re naming

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

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

Check and check

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

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

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

DONE

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

The ABBA Way of Life

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

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

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

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

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

People needing other people. . . damn them

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

Your mutter is like somebody else's banshee scream.

Mike said this to me during staff meeting today.

That is all.

That Darn Cat

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

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

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

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

3. april.

4. April.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers, sej

iocaine powder

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

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

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

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

is anyone else terrified?

The Play's the Thing

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

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

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

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

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

Misinterpretation

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

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

Any opinions?

Tuesday as Monday or Monday as Tuesday or. . .

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

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

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

Cheers. And april tomorrow.

Losing My Voice, or Questions of the Universe for 200

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

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

Just Duckie

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

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

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

Duck Sonnet 1

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

Charybdis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

While the iron's hot

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

"DC" can stand for so many things

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

A Series of Inexplicable Events, or Everything Tastes Like Soap

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

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

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

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

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

Reality! is overrated! [sic]

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

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

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

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

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