completion

Two blogs in one night after months of silence. Or something like that. I know, it blows the mind. But I had a revelation tonight and I wanted to know what you guys thought of it.

I've been in a lot of lit and writing classes where the issue of the artist being mentally unstable has been brought up. A lot of the greats are thoroughly unbalanced. I'm not even going to give examples because you can supply them for me. And I've taken some comfort from these discussions because we all know I'm crazy. But here's where the revelation comes in--not sure how it ties in to the crazy aspect, but that's what it stemmed from tonight--I feel as if I'm waiting to do my great writing, or any writing at all for that matter. I'm waiting for a sense of completion. And I think that all my life I've expected that sense to come from a steady, serious relationship with a man. Hence all the dreadful blogging about that gender. But now I'm wondering--can that sense of completion come from something or someone or somewhere else? I guess this is a question for me to answer, but I wanted to know what you guys thought.

And Kapka, if you post, I will reply this time. Promise.

Must Love

Confession (that really is just stating the obvious, but it's me finally realizing what I'm about to say): I haven't been editorgirl for a long time. I'd like to pinpoint a certain night in Paris as the cause, but I know it goes back past that. Or maybe not. What has happened to me? I've become boring, quiet, irritable, ornery, snobby. I know I was all those things before, but now it seems to be maginified to a power I can't even enumerate. I blame things around me, things inside me, but tonight I'm realizing that it's just me. I'm not apologizing--no reason to apologize--but I haven't been blogging much because of that. And when I signed on to another discussion board I rejected editorgirl because I'm just not her anymore. I miss her. I miss who I was when I was in that role, even though I hated who I was sometimes as eg.

I went to a movie by myself tonight, something I really needed to do. And for the first time in months, I felt like editorgirl. I had my notebook out, I was writing down quotes, I was getting all giddy and worked up over the screen. Granted, it was John Cusack, but still. I was eg tonight.

I don't know who I'll be this fall. I'm not sure who I am now. But someday--someday, I hope I get to be eg again.

one more river

I spend too much of my time thinking. That's why I'm still awake. I'm not always sure what I'm thinking about.

I'm terrified of the future; I keep trying to postpone it. I'm moving back to Provo on Monday, to live in a house. I'm too little for a house. Let me repeat: there's not enough of me yet for a house. Even if there will be a study.

Please come visit me. sej

Gulp

In an act of impulsiveness completely uncharacteristic of my family, my mother has decided to pilgrimage on down to southern Utah for a few days of grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. oy, the cousins. I'll be back Thursday.
A vendredi, eg

Poetry in poetry

Hey gang. It's late. I'm tired. And for some ridiculous reason, I can't see any new blog posts. Grrr. But I'll keep writing, just for you.

I've spent a lot of time considering how art influences and acts as a catalyst for more and new art. This is purely selfish in motivation, since my best work often comes from considering another piece of artwork, usually non-literary. There will be more blogging done on this subject in the very near future. For tonight I want to leave you with this quote from a novel. The "she" is an artist trying to "see" the art in the people she is portraying. Enjoy. And comment.

"It was a miracle when you looked hard enough, when you really sought out information, there was so much to see, even in a person's tiniest gesture. There was so much feeling, such a dazzling array of things that your words, at least [her] words, could never say. There were thousands of images and memories and ideas, if you just let them come. There was the whole history of human experience somewhere contained in each of the bits, the most universal in the most specific, if you could only see it. It was like poetry. Well, she had never found poetry in poetry, to be truthful. But she imagined this was what poetry might be like for someone who understood it and loved it.
"Either it was like poetry or it was like getting really, really stoned."

Almost

Has it really been a month since I last blogged? I suppose so. Over a month. I stopped checking off the days on my calendar, well, when I last had a calendar to check the days off. Maybe I need to buy a planner or something so that I will recognize the days again.

I haven't wanted to write. There is too much that is too much right now that writing seems inadequate. And then I read a story from Kapka or a poem by K and I realize I'm doing more injury to myself than necessary. But what to write about? There are things on my list: an article for Clark Memorandum (very sterile and simple, but still); a personal essay for Gideon about London (the one I wrote in London was crap and Gideon called me on it); journal entries, poetry, letters. I need to write (platonic) love letters to the world at large and everyone individually.

I keep thinking of poem 5 from Tennyson's "In Memoriam." I probably just botched the title, but it's in the Norton anthologies. Go look it up. I want to use it as an excuse--that writing is always inadequate. But this time I know it's not true. This time writing is the only answer.

I love you (you is plural).

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.