The thing is, I check your blogs every night. Some of them during the day. I'm waiting for pictures and for stories and I keep wondering why you're not posting more. And then I remember that I'm not posting more.
In the ongoing battle of EG v. the AC, I won last night, but I think that was more sheer exhaustion than anything else. I also suddenly feel justified in my struggle, as everyone else seems to be fighting the same battle. It's validating. Or something like that.
Yesterday I was so tired, I fell asleep at lunch. While reading Proust and eating a hot dog. I wish I were exaggerating. After work, I headed to the library to do some more reading, and fell asleep again. At least this time I wasn't risking a mustard stain. But I had class from 7:00 to 9:30, the prof lectures like he's running out of time from the word "Go," and I needed to take notes for a friend who wasn't there. Solution: Rockstar. Pounded. Class was this odd hallucination of Proust and memory and time and friends and this sensation that I should be falling asleep, but I wasn't. Luckily that feeling wore off around 1:00 a.m. and I was able to crash.
This is why I live alone.
I'm actually really loving my Proust class. The prof lectures like a mad man, but a mad man who has Very Interesting Things to Say. And the reading is a lot (like too much a lot, and that's saying a lot coming from me), but beautiful in places and ways that you don't expect. Most of the themes are things I'm interested in reading and writing about--art, time, memory. But I realized yesterday that what it's really about, at least the books we've read so far, is adolescence. That age of obsession and confusion and pages and pages of nothing much that will somehow inform our adulthood. What's interesting about this, is that adolescence wasn't really a solid concept when this was written. People went from child to young (wo)man, not from child to teen to young adult. (To single and alone in an apartment full of cats.)
Sitting in class, talking about how we remember things, how we perceive time, how we manipulate our memories, and how real "truth" comes in the unbidden, unmanipulated memory--well, it drags me back to adolescence. To high school, to the first time I realized I had friends in high school. To the boys I watched in high school. (Proust is also all about the relationships--or the wanting of relationships.) High school wasn't easy, but I think part of the point is that adolescence isn't easy. That this time of obsession with ourselves, with others, is necessary to reach some stage of stability in our lives.
Wow. That got kind of serious. I promise I won't do that again.
Also: I won a $20 gift card to Borders in the McC staff raffle today. I'm thinking I'll get something frivolous. Thoughts?
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Ding!
Of course it's one in the morning. Why wouldn't it be? And of course I'm awake. Sleeping is for people who, well, sleep.
That was profound. I'm profound a lot these days. Must be all the late nights. That or the cheese. And the Pop-Tarts.
Here's the thing: it's hot. It's hot, so I turn on the AC unit securely fastened in my window. And that huffs and puffs and blows cold air all night. Yay for cold air. But then--and here's the tricky part--the huffing and puffing keeps me awake. So I turn off the AC. And I fall asleep for a little while. But an hour or so later, and I wake up hot and icky and uncomfortable.
I feel guilty for complaining about this. I'm grateful for my apartment, grateful that I get to live [just north of] Chicago, grateful for that AC unit. But I haven't had a good night's sleep in over a week. I'm starting to look like one of the more disturbing Addams family members. Maybe the fat little boy in the striped shirt. Or the hand. No body, just a hand. He was my favorite.
Here's to round two of EG v. the AC. I'll tell you in the morning who won.
That was profound. I'm profound a lot these days. Must be all the late nights. That or the cheese. And the Pop-Tarts.
Here's the thing: it's hot. It's hot, so I turn on the AC unit securely fastened in my window. And that huffs and puffs and blows cold air all night. Yay for cold air. But then--and here's the tricky part--the huffing and puffing keeps me awake. So I turn off the AC. And I fall asleep for a little while. But an hour or so later, and I wake up hot and icky and uncomfortable.
I feel guilty for complaining about this. I'm grateful for my apartment, grateful that I get to live [just north of] Chicago, grateful for that AC unit. But I haven't had a good night's sleep in over a week. I'm starting to look like one of the more disturbing Addams family members. Maybe the fat little boy in the striped shirt. Or the hand. No body, just a hand. He was my favorite.
Here's to round two of EG v. the AC. I'll tell you in the morning who won.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
let's write something happy
I am sitting on my bed. This would not be worrisome, except I am singing. Les Mis. "On My Own," "A Little Fall of Rain." Stop me when I get to "Stars."
I have not been productive this weekend. I have sat on my bed and sang my entire repetoire. I also did my laundry, but that was a sweaty mess. Not my laundry, but me.
Why is this happy? Because someday I'll get to tell these stories with half a smile on my face. Probably in a RS lesson, but any telling is good.
I have not been productive this weekend. I have sat on my bed and sang my entire repetoire. I also did my laundry, but that was a sweaty mess. Not my laundry, but me.
Why is this happy? Because someday I'll get to tell these stories with half a smile on my face. Probably in a RS lesson, but any telling is good.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
cold, cold iron*
Thursday night something happened. The stars aligned, Hulu offered up some inspiration (it happens), and I suddenly knew that I was brilliant and ready to write. But by the time I reached this conclusion, it was almost 2 in the morning and I needed to sleep so that I could go to work the next day. I considered calling in sick, but since Monday had been a holiday, I wanted to put in a solid day of work.
And of course I was too distracted to really work. But I did an excellent job of pretending. (I actually was quite productive while still thinking about the poems I was going to write after work.)
But after work came, and since it was Friday, there was Nevins. I love Nevins. Most of the time. But I was still aching to write. I was zoned out and in my own world most of the time I was with my friends. I couldn't explain to Powers why I wasn't all the way there, but this was it: I wanted to be working, writing.
After Nevins I ran to B&N for a new notebook. I took the bus home. And by the time I got home,
it was gone. Not the desire to write, but whatever fire had been burning in my head--it was gone.
I keep trying to re-create Thursday night, to put that fire back into my head, to put together the pieces. Instead, I'm bouncing back and forth between almost-inspired and definite depresssion. I'm not going to let myself crash, but I'm so close. So close.
I want to write, dammit. Where did it go?
*Thoreau said that writing after the inspiration is gone is like ironing with a cold iron. Just in case you were wondering.
And of course I was too distracted to really work. But I did an excellent job of pretending. (I actually was quite productive while still thinking about the poems I was going to write after work.)
But after work came, and since it was Friday, there was Nevins. I love Nevins. Most of the time. But I was still aching to write. I was zoned out and in my own world most of the time I was with my friends. I couldn't explain to Powers why I wasn't all the way there, but this was it: I wanted to be working, writing.
After Nevins I ran to B&N for a new notebook. I took the bus home. And by the time I got home,
it was gone. Not the desire to write, but whatever fire had been burning in my head--it was gone.
I keep trying to re-create Thursday night, to put that fire back into my head, to put together the pieces. Instead, I'm bouncing back and forth between almost-inspired and definite depresssion. I'm not going to let myself crash, but I'm so close. So close.
I want to write, dammit. Where did it go?
*Thoreau said that writing after the inspiration is gone is like ironing with a cold iron. Just in case you were wondering.
Friday, July 09, 2010
shake it off
You probably won't believe--I'm not sure I believe me--but somehow writing that last post got all those awkward needy feelings out of my system. I'm good to go, at least until the next hormonal up-surge.
In the meantime, I'm finding myself desperate to write and create and art. Art is a verb, people. At least, it is now. I'm at work, looking at numbers, and I just want to be curled up in front of a painting at the Art Institute. Or the Tate Modern. Let's go to London, friends.
I sent some of the poems I've been working on to one of the poetry profs in my program. (This post brought to you by the letter P.) She was enthusiastic about the work I've been doing this past quarter--and so am I. It's something new and very very--well, me. It's the kind of poetry I want to write, at least right now, not some pale imitation of someone else's work. It's all mine. It's a good feeling.
So this is detox. I want to write. I want to talk with people about writing and art and excitement.
Won't you be my people?
In the meantime, I'm finding myself desperate to write and create and art. Art is a verb, people. At least, it is now. I'm at work, looking at numbers, and I just want to be curled up in front of a painting at the Art Institute. Or the Tate Modern. Let's go to London, friends.
I sent some of the poems I've been working on to one of the poetry profs in my program. (This post brought to you by the letter P.) She was enthusiastic about the work I've been doing this past quarter--and so am I. It's something new and very very--well, me. It's the kind of poetry I want to write, at least right now, not some pale imitation of someone else's work. It's all mine. It's a good feeling.
So this is detox. I want to write. I want to talk with people about writing and art and excitement.
Won't you be my people?
Thursday, July 08, 2010
per the wedding dress
It's back. My wedding obsession. And, by vicious relation, relationship obsession. This is not healthy. I'll be the first to admit. Guilty as crazy. But right now I'm also listening to music and thinking about how brilliant the soundtrack of my pre-wedding party will be and how I'll know how to stop the DIY projects before my wedding looks like a craft fair instead of, well, a wedding.
This has got to stop.
Song: "Addicted to Love" covered by Florence + the Machine
Maryn sent me a video of five EFY guys singing "God Save the Queen." They're reportedly British. I kind of hope they're from Idaho. Just because.
I think I miss those days, when guys were possibilities and adorable. I know that's nice and vague of me to say "I think," but I don't really remember those days (that's right, I'm very very old). I hope Maryn makes the best of them.
This has got to stop.
Song: "Addicted to Love" covered by Florence + the Machine
Maryn sent me a video of five EFY guys singing "God Save the Queen." They're reportedly British. I kind of hope they're from Idaho. Just because.
I think I miss those days, when guys were possibilities and adorable. I know that's nice and vague of me to say "I think," but I don't really remember those days (that's right, I'm very very old). I hope Maryn makes the best of them.
Wednesday, July 07, 2010
noun, noun, noun
I kind of want a tattoo.
Don't worry, Mom, because I also want to build cakes and buy a wedding dress.
Damn you, TLC.
Funny story: I just typed "weeding dress." Freud would be so proud.
Dear Mom, if I ever get a wedding dress, I promise to weed in it. The front hill, just for you. (No I won't. But I'll clean the house to avoid the weeding. Just like old times.)
I've been wondering about growing up. When exactly is this supposed to happen?
Don't worry, Mom, because I also want to build cakes and buy a wedding dress.
Damn you, TLC.
Funny story: I just typed "weeding dress." Freud would be so proud.
Dear Mom, if I ever get a wedding dress, I promise to weed in it. The front hill, just for you. (No I won't. But I'll clean the house to avoid the weeding. Just like old times.)
I've been wondering about growing up. When exactly is this supposed to happen?
Friday, July 02, 2010
Happy 2nd of July!
Sure the 4th of July is the birthday of America, but the 2nd of July is the birthday of two of the most important people in my life: Stephen and Lauren (aka, Stephanie and Larry. . . those names are sticking).
Lauren is the most amazing mother.
And Stephen. . . if the doctor thing doesn't work out, there's always modeling for toothpaste ads.
I love you both. Happy birthday!
Thursday, July 01, 2010
i dream of books
I had to post this, just so that I won't misplace it. Ever. It's that cool.
Now someone just tell me who this "J. Crew" is, and it will all be good.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
in which I ask too many questions
I second guess myself. A lot. Maybe too much. Maybe not enough. But there are certain things that are set in stone. The PhD is one of them.
The PhD is usually one of them. I will apply at least one more time to PhD programs. With any luck, cliches will come true and the third time will be the charm.
Three times. I've never failed three times. I only had to take my driving test twice. Everything else, once was enough. And now I feel like I'm setting world records. I'm the only person I know who keeps putting herself through this gauntlet.
And yes, I am being a little dramatic.
This isn't the problem (my history of failed PhD apps or my tendency toward the dramatic). Today my boss mentioned that a job would be opening up in the school I work for. She joked that I should take it. I knew she was joking, I joked back, and I went on with my day. But I couldn't shake the idea of this job.
This job would require a sizable committment. I'm not even sure I'd be qualified for this job. But what about other jobs like it? Jobs that would keep me employed at a steadily increasing salary over the next five years, instead of teaching comp classes while paying yet another university to give me a piece of paper saying that I'm qualified to write poetry.
Poetry. The world doesn't really need more poetry.
I could write poetry while holding another job. A job that pays. A job that would pay for poetry.
I'm writing this, and I'm thinking that I'm crazy. I'm just not sure if the craziness is me doubting my PhD plans, or thinking I should grow-up and get a real job.
Maybe the worst part of my current job is that I'm good at it. That I know I could keep being good in other admin positions. That I could still work at a university, just not as a professor. That I could grow up and join the rest of the world in growing up. There is nothing like school and a studio apartment to make you feel as though your adulthood has been postponed indefinitely.
So: job or school? And what if I send out my applications, and they make the decision for me? What do I do then?
The PhD is usually one of them. I will apply at least one more time to PhD programs. With any luck, cliches will come true and the third time will be the charm.
Three times. I've never failed three times. I only had to take my driving test twice. Everything else, once was enough. And now I feel like I'm setting world records. I'm the only person I know who keeps putting herself through this gauntlet.
And yes, I am being a little dramatic.
This isn't the problem (my history of failed PhD apps or my tendency toward the dramatic). Today my boss mentioned that a job would be opening up in the school I work for. She joked that I should take it. I knew she was joking, I joked back, and I went on with my day. But I couldn't shake the idea of this job.
This job would require a sizable committment. I'm not even sure I'd be qualified for this job. But what about other jobs like it? Jobs that would keep me employed at a steadily increasing salary over the next five years, instead of teaching comp classes while paying yet another university to give me a piece of paper saying that I'm qualified to write poetry.
Poetry. The world doesn't really need more poetry.
I could write poetry while holding another job. A job that pays. A job that would pay for poetry.
I'm writing this, and I'm thinking that I'm crazy. I'm just not sure if the craziness is me doubting my PhD plans, or thinking I should grow-up and get a real job.
Maybe the worst part of my current job is that I'm good at it. That I know I could keep being good in other admin positions. That I could still work at a university, just not as a professor. That I could grow up and join the rest of the world in growing up. There is nothing like school and a studio apartment to make you feel as though your adulthood has been postponed indefinitely.
So: job or school? And what if I send out my applications, and they make the decision for me? What do I do then?
Thursday, June 24, 2010
san juan by proxy
So before San Juan I got a new little toy: a Fujifilm Instax Mini. Basically a polaroid-style camera with credit card sized pictures. I'm kind of in love. I brought a bunch of film to San Juan, and well--had fun with it.
I like to take pictures of my food. And then tear its little heads off.
san juan family portraits
No, not that San Juan. San Juan Island, Washington. State. Where it's cold. And where my family would spend every vacation if we could. (Maybe every other vacation. Got to get Europe in there sometime.)
Hmm. I guess this doesn't really show you want San Juan looks like. Or why go to San Juan. I guess that means I'll need to post more pictures. Dang.
Thursday, June 03, 2010
success is a hard word to spell
Here's what happened today: two men set up the window AC unit in my apartment, and I ate a really good hamburger. With feta.
Here's what's happened every other day: this summer will be divided into pre-AC and post-AC. I'm predicting post-AC will be like unto the garden of Eden, only with clothes. Pre-AC was dreadful, painful, and sweaty. And IL hasn't really experienced summer yet. But there were nights when I had my (small) fan aimed directly at me, while I slept on ice packs. Ice packs, people. They're not feather pillows, that's for sure.
In other, non-AC news, the spring quarter is ending. On Tuesday I presented my completed essay on books. I'm working to compress the Quicktime file so that I can post it here and you can all finally find out the one sentence in Gatsby that puts me in my happy place. (It's a rather small happy place.) I got some good feedback on my essaying. Perhaps my favorite moment was when my prof told me he didn't expect "a poet to come screaming out of nowhere." I kind of like to think of my writing as screaming out of nowhere.
I have one final school-related task in front of me. Or at least one immediate school-related task. I need to pull together my portfolio for workshop. Roberson (or EdR, as he signs his emails) gives the best assignment for the last poem we workshop in class: write the poem you haven't written yet. Meaning, look at the poems you have written, and see what's missing. This was more obvious for me because I'm currently working on a project, and I can see the holes. For Tuesday, I wrote a poem titled "Song." I know there are at least five or six other poems that need to be written to round this project out. Maybe more. But they're there. The next one will be called "Essay."
I'm sorry I haven't been posting. I've been thinking about posting, but I'm discovering that Kim was right when she asked me why I blogged, if it took up writing energy. It does, when you're actually writing--when it's more than a hobby. It hurts to blog sometimes, as if you're letting go of words you might need later on.
But that's not right. Maybe it was when I was thinking so much about essay, but the blog is good for me. It's good for me to connect with people.
Hello, people.
Here's what's happened every other day: this summer will be divided into pre-AC and post-AC. I'm predicting post-AC will be like unto the garden of Eden, only with clothes. Pre-AC was dreadful, painful, and sweaty. And IL hasn't really experienced summer yet. But there were nights when I had my (small) fan aimed directly at me, while I slept on ice packs. Ice packs, people. They're not feather pillows, that's for sure.
In other, non-AC news, the spring quarter is ending. On Tuesday I presented my completed essay on books. I'm working to compress the Quicktime file so that I can post it here and you can all finally find out the one sentence in Gatsby that puts me in my happy place. (It's a rather small happy place.) I got some good feedback on my essaying. Perhaps my favorite moment was when my prof told me he didn't expect "a poet to come screaming out of nowhere." I kind of like to think of my writing as screaming out of nowhere.
I have one final school-related task in front of me. Or at least one immediate school-related task. I need to pull together my portfolio for workshop. Roberson (or EdR, as he signs his emails) gives the best assignment for the last poem we workshop in class: write the poem you haven't written yet. Meaning, look at the poems you have written, and see what's missing. This was more obvious for me because I'm currently working on a project, and I can see the holes. For Tuesday, I wrote a poem titled "Song." I know there are at least five or six other poems that need to be written to round this project out. Maybe more. But they're there. The next one will be called "Essay."
I'm sorry I haven't been posting. I've been thinking about posting, but I'm discovering that Kim was right when she asked me why I blogged, if it took up writing energy. It does, when you're actually writing--when it's more than a hobby. It hurts to blog sometimes, as if you're letting go of words you might need later on.
But that's not right. Maybe it was when I was thinking so much about essay, but the blog is good for me. It's good for me to connect with people.
Hello, people.
Monday, May 24, 2010
books (an essay in progress)
I'm not sure where this is going. I'm not sure where I want it to go. But it must go somewhere. So I'm looking to my best readers to tell me, of all things, why we read. And, of course, buy books. (Note: This is a video essay, which is why it's sparse on the concrete, physical details you all crave.)
.
on books
When I moved to Chicago, I brought five books with me. Maybe it was seven. Maybe ten. Maybe I shouldn’t count the books about Chicago I brought to Chicago.
Two days after I moved to Chicago, I bought two books—sequels to the book I had read on the plane. The same book I read again the first night in Chicago.
I bought books for class.
I bought books that I already owned in Utah. Books that I didn’t feel comfortable without. One book that I never owned, but checked out from the library at least twice a year. Books that were strictly guilty pleasure reading.
Maybe every book is a guilty pleasure.
Thin volumes of poetry. More substantial anthologies, all of them with the same poets, the same poems.
The three books by Anne Carson that I bought at a reading, and one I had brought from home. When I asked her to sign all four, she wrote “For Sarah, respectfully,” four times. She never looked at me.
The biography of Virginia Woolf by Hermione Lee I bought at a store where they sell books by the pound.
Three copies of The Great Gatsby. I’m not overly fond of The Great Gatsby, except for a single line:
.
on books
When I moved to Chicago, I brought five books with me. Maybe it was seven. Maybe ten. Maybe I shouldn’t count the books about Chicago I brought to Chicago.
Two days after I moved to Chicago, I bought two books—sequels to the book I had read on the plane. The same book I read again the first night in Chicago.
I bought books for class.
I bought books that I already owned in Utah. Books that I didn’t feel comfortable without. One book that I never owned, but checked out from the library at least twice a year. Books that were strictly guilty pleasure reading.
Maybe every book is a guilty pleasure.
Thin volumes of poetry. More substantial anthologies, all of them with the same poets, the same poems.
The three books by Anne Carson that I bought at a reading, and one I had brought from home. When I asked her to sign all four, she wrote “For Sarah, respectfully,” four times. She never looked at me.
The biography of Virginia Woolf by Hermione Lee I bought at a store where they sell books by the pound.
Three copies of The Great Gatsby. I’m not overly fond of The Great Gatsby, except for a single line:
Sunday, May 02, 2010
sleep isn't on the agenda
I should be exhausted. And I am. But I'm not sleeping.
It might have something to do with the sirens that blew past my building 20 minutes ago, but that's just silly. Silly sirens.
Today was quite lovely: errands, schoolwork, laundry, grocery shopping. The kind of Saturday where you get things checked off your list and ready for the coming week.
Last Saturday was not that kind of Saturday.
Actually, last week was not that kind of week. The last two weeks. When did my life get to be so busy?
I have back-to-back classes again, this time Tuesday/Wednesday. And Tuesday's class is the most homework I've done in the MFA. It's awesome, I love it, it's killing me homework.
So Tuesday and Wednesday are always done for. (Wednesday wouldn't be so bad, except that it's in Chicago, which means an hour bus ride. An hour each way.)
Two weeks ago Monday I left work sick, got some medicine, took a nap, and went back to campus to finish a homework assignment for Tuesday. Tuesday class. Wednesday class. Thursday I left work early to meet up with my more-than-adorable cousin Kimber at the Art Institute. I dragged her around the building before sending her off to a show and myself off to do laundry. Friday night I had dinner with my work friends, and then my favorite work friend (and the only one who also lives in Evanston) and I went to see The Losers. Our review: hot men and explosions. Go team.
Saturday was actually a very good day. I begged a ride to the eight-stake YSA activity, which is something I never do, but I did do this time (I meant that sentence to read awkwardly) because MTA Kimber was performing with her vocal group from BYU-I and I wanted to cheer her on. She was awesome, the dancing (my dancing) was awkward, and the night ended with one of the most perfect moments of my life--Kimber did some dragging of her own to get her group to sing "Scarborough Fair" to me and a few friends (and the rest of the YSA-ers who were still around) after the concert/dance. Kimber's pretty cool for a cousin.
The night actually had two endings--the amazing singing, and then some punchy-it's-too-late entertainment at White Castle. My branch headed over to the chain so that two 19 year-olds could say that they had been there. (And one 29 year-old.) I wish I had been filming, because we thought we were pretty funny.
Sunday was church, and then more homework. On campus. Because Tuesday is evil.
(More sirens, if you're wondering.)
Monday night might have been the best time I've had in Chicago. It's hard to follow up Kimber's visit, but two of my MFA friends and I got to teach an undergrad advanced poetry workshop. It was awesome. I love teaching, so much. I know it's where I'm headed, but I wish I could get there a little faster. Oh well. We were brilliant. Hell, I was brilliant. The classroom is my stage and I owned. But enough of my modesty.
And that brings us back to Do--I mean, Tuesday and Wednesday. Thursday was the first free night I'd had in two weeks, and I spent it doing nothing. No thing. Maybe dishes.
Maybe.
It might have something to do with the sirens that blew past my building 20 minutes ago, but that's just silly. Silly sirens.
Today was quite lovely: errands, schoolwork, laundry, grocery shopping. The kind of Saturday where you get things checked off your list and ready for the coming week.
Last Saturday was not that kind of Saturday.
Actually, last week was not that kind of week. The last two weeks. When did my life get to be so busy?
I have back-to-back classes again, this time Tuesday/Wednesday. And Tuesday's class is the most homework I've done in the MFA. It's awesome, I love it, it's killing me homework.
So Tuesday and Wednesday are always done for. (Wednesday wouldn't be so bad, except that it's in Chicago, which means an hour bus ride. An hour each way.)
Two weeks ago Monday I left work sick, got some medicine, took a nap, and went back to campus to finish a homework assignment for Tuesday. Tuesday class. Wednesday class. Thursday I left work early to meet up with my more-than-adorable cousin Kimber at the Art Institute. I dragged her around the building before sending her off to a show and myself off to do laundry. Friday night I had dinner with my work friends, and then my favorite work friend (and the only one who also lives in Evanston) and I went to see The Losers. Our review: hot men and explosions. Go team.
Saturday was actually a very good day. I begged a ride to the eight-stake YSA activity, which is something I never do, but I did do this time (I meant that sentence to read awkwardly) because MTA Kimber was performing with her vocal group from BYU-I and I wanted to cheer her on. She was awesome, the dancing (my dancing) was awkward, and the night ended with one of the most perfect moments of my life--Kimber did some dragging of her own to get her group to sing "Scarborough Fair" to me and a few friends (and the rest of the YSA-ers who were still around) after the concert/dance. Kimber's pretty cool for a cousin.
The night actually had two endings--the amazing singing, and then some punchy-it's-too-late entertainment at White Castle. My branch headed over to the chain so that two 19 year-olds could say that they had been there. (And one 29 year-old.) I wish I had been filming, because we thought we were pretty funny.
Sunday was church, and then more homework. On campus. Because Tuesday is evil.
(More sirens, if you're wondering.)
Monday night might have been the best time I've had in Chicago. It's hard to follow up Kimber's visit, but two of my MFA friends and I got to teach an undergrad advanced poetry workshop. It was awesome. I love teaching, so much. I know it's where I'm headed, but I wish I could get there a little faster. Oh well. We were brilliant. Hell, I was brilliant. The classroom is my stage and I owned. But enough of my modesty.
And that brings us back to Do--I mean, Tuesday and Wednesday. Thursday was the first free night I'd had in two weeks, and I spent it doing nothing. No thing. Maybe dishes.
Maybe.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
dear world
I am not sad, nor shy, nor serious. (I am, however, resisting the urge to quote Much Ado.)
I am just very very overwhelmed. And yes, I know that that was redundant.
I'll see you on the other side of this:
I am just very very overwhelmed. And yes, I know that that was redundant.
I'll see you on the other side of this:
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
don't you fret
My head is way too full tonight. I have poems to write and a movie remix to figure out. And I have tonight to figure out the poem, and a week to figure out the remix, and of course my mind is working in reverse.
I was reciting Les Mis to myself last night. Not the whole book, and not the musical. Just the part where Eponine dies (oh--SPOILER ALERT) in Marius's arms because she just stepped in front of a bullet that should have killed him (MAJOR SPOILER ALERT) and before she dies she says something to the effect of "You know, I think I was a little bit in love with you."
Maybe I've just rewritten Les Mis. I haven't read it since I was in tenth grade. But I like that idea.
I think I was a little bit in love with you.
How many men could I say this to? I mean, I'd have to be dying in their arms to get up the nerve, but there is a handful of men this would apply to.
Am I making this up?
Not just the quote from Les Mis*, but the handful of men. Have I ever been a little bit in love with anyone? I want to say yes**. And I think I can claim yes now,
but will there be a day when I brush aside those "loves" for something much more real? And by saying this, am I suggesting Eponine's love wasn't real? (Do not debate this--I love Eponine. I love her broken hand and her desparate eyes and her worry that even now he doesn't see her.)
I have a poem to write.
--------------------------------------------
*I found it: “Et puis, tenez, monsieur Marius, je crois que j’étais un peu amoureuse de vous.”
Translation: “You know, Monsieur Marius, I think I was a little bit in love with you."
** I know, I edited this. But that line was too sad. And it made my mother worry. I try to avoid that.
I was reciting Les Mis to myself last night. Not the whole book, and not the musical. Just the part where Eponine dies (oh--SPOILER ALERT) in Marius's arms because she just stepped in front of a bullet that should have killed him (MAJOR SPOILER ALERT) and before she dies she says something to the effect of "You know, I think I was a little bit in love with you."
Maybe I've just rewritten Les Mis. I haven't read it since I was in tenth grade. But I like that idea.
I think I was a little bit in love with you.
How many men could I say this to? I mean, I'd have to be dying in their arms to get up the nerve, but there is a handful of men this would apply to.
Am I making this up?
Not just the quote from Les Mis*, but the handful of men. Have I ever been a little bit in love with anyone? I want to say yes**. And I think I can claim yes now,
but will there be a day when I brush aside those "loves" for something much more real? And by saying this, am I suggesting Eponine's love wasn't real? (Do not debate this--I love Eponine. I love her broken hand and her desparate eyes and her worry that even now he doesn't see her.)
I have a poem to write.
--------------------------------------------
*I found it: “Et puis, tenez, monsieur Marius, je crois que j’étais un peu amoureuse de vous.”
Translation: “You know, Monsieur Marius, I think I was a little bit in love with you."
** I know, I edited this. But that line was too sad. And it made my mother worry. I try to avoid that.
Monday, April 19, 2010
definitionally
Remember how I said I was going to quit posting late at night?
Today I taught a lesson for RS. It was okay. The brilliant opening I had ready was less brilliant once I heard the words coming out of my mouth. But at least it was entertaining. And I think I tied it in eventually.
The opening used the idea that names mean something. I'm always a little shocked that people don't know what their names mean--your name is a word. It means something more than "Hey you." It has a definition, an etymology.
Editorgirl, if you're wondering, means a girl who edits.
I should have said "surprised" instead of "shocked." I'm shocked when someone's bleeding. I'm surprised when someone doesn't know what their name means. Especially the Biblical names. The second counselor asked me after the lesson if his name was in my book. His name is Joseph.
This whole idea of naming/names, definition of, has been showing up in my poetry lately. A lot. Almost as much as the wings of 2005 (to 2009). But I like it. Other poetry recurrences: I keep using the title "Elegy." I'm still thinking of using my chapbook title as my thesis title (Inadvertent Elegies), so maybe this all makes sense.
Maybe.
I'm looking forward to the day when I can tell Abby that her middle name came from a TV show and not the Bible.
Also, I'm naming my first daughter after my grandmothers. Consider this dibs, Sven and Lauren. And Maryn, if you care yet.
Today I taught a lesson for RS. It was okay. The brilliant opening I had ready was less brilliant once I heard the words coming out of my mouth. But at least it was entertaining. And I think I tied it in eventually.
The opening used the idea that names mean something. I'm always a little shocked that people don't know what their names mean--your name is a word. It means something more than "Hey you." It has a definition, an etymology.
Editorgirl, if you're wondering, means a girl who edits.
I should have said "surprised" instead of "shocked." I'm shocked when someone's bleeding. I'm surprised when someone doesn't know what their name means. Especially the Biblical names. The second counselor asked me after the lesson if his name was in my book. His name is Joseph.
This whole idea of naming/names, definition of, has been showing up in my poetry lately. A lot. Almost as much as the wings of 2005 (to 2009). But I like it. Other poetry recurrences: I keep using the title "Elegy." I'm still thinking of using my chapbook title as my thesis title (Inadvertent Elegies), so maybe this all makes sense.
Maybe.
I'm looking forward to the day when I can tell Abby that her middle name came from a TV show and not the Bible.
Also, I'm naming my first daughter after my grandmothers. Consider this dibs, Sven and Lauren. And Maryn, if you care yet.
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