where was I?

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

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

There are few words, and none of them appropriate.

in 20 minutes

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

No, it's not the defense.

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



What the hell was I thinking?

losing my mind (again)

the evidence

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

how I will celebrate the returns of Sven and Kapka

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

losing my mind

The evidence:

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

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

I'm back.

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

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

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

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

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

white nights

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

I think I'm in the middle of one.

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

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

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

By George

I think she's got it!


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

Just one question: Who the hell is George?

thoughts at 3:36 a.m.

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

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

Why is the rum* gone?

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

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

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

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

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

And now, the thesis. Oh, the thesis.

for the love

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

I hate it.

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

dilemma

I am moving to the basement.

The moving is not the dilemma. The basement is.

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

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

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

Any suggestions?

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

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


Everybody

Art

The World

Love Affair

things i am regretting today

in no particular order

not blogging more while in England

not finishing more of my thesis before I left

not buying more chocolate in England

not taking more pictures like this one

or this one

choosing to go caps-less for this post

also the whole "hard return between items" choice

not stalking Fiyero after seeing Wicked

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

moving to the basement

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

voting "no roommate" for next year

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

Blogging from England

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

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

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

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

Yeah right.

time to get lost

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

See you soon!

140 songs

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

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

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

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

Happy

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

Except maybe a man after midnight. . .

I can't

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

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

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

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

I don't know if I can do this.

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

Travel Plans

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

A quelle heure?

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