Thursday, May 31, 2012

French Braids

I'm home! I'm back from my senior trip.
49 of us (6, for various reasons, did not come) went river rafting the past three days. And it was an entirely lovely time. I really do know some incredible people.
There were, of course, water fights. It was HOT so that was just what the days called for. There was also sun burn. My lips look botoxed right now because they're sad and burned. My shoulders are red, but I'm almost positive they'll turn tan by the time I'm wearing my childbride dress onstage at graduation.
There was also a literal shit bucket (and a pee one). They had us shit in a bucket instead of in the wilderness. I did not like that. I avoided using the shit bucket. Sometimes I am prissy. I'm really quite good at peeing in the wilderness (if there's one thing Kili taught me, it's that). But an entire bucket of shit is one of the most disgusting things I've ever been around. That was the worst part.
The cook was vegetarian-friendly. We camped on a beach. We slept under the beautiful stars. We sat around the fire and sang songs while Stevie played guitar at night.
And I remembered that my hair is long enough to french braid if I do two. French braiding my own hair is one of my favorite things in the world.
All and all, it was a really wonderful time.
Graduating isn't sad. Saying goodbye is.

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Life Advice

So last week was our last week to be students at Waterford. (Do you like how I use we all the time to refer to the seniors without clarifying it? Senior is a huge part of my identity right now.) Incidentally, we were kinda treated as adults, and we got to ask our teachers for final advice. I wish I had asked more, but here's five really excellent pieces that I heard:

1. Always go to sleep angry. Don't try to talk through it at midnight. And don't let yourself be backed into a corner. Know when it's time to say "I'm sorry, I was wrong."

2. There is no such thing as a singular soul mate for each person. Relationships are all about timing. So when the right timed relationship comes around, don't run from it. If you do, you'll never get it again, but also don't settle.
And women wield all the power in a relationship.

3. The most important choice you make is your life partner. Not because you're stuck with them, but because a good one will make you all the better.

4. It's never too late to start over.

5. The only way anyone ever gains any confidence is by doing something difficult well.

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Life in Instagram

Picking costumes for Shrew. 

Fuck yes this boy was my prom date. 

Once upon a time, I read poetry.

Post-AP Nordstrom Cafe field trip

Superhero day.... tipping Captain Underpants


Failed nerd day/ Last day of school ever

It was a real shame when it rained and we had to have our campout inside.

And now we're off on our trip!

Monday, May 28, 2012

Memorial Day

I don't really have anything to say for memorial day. I think it's a bad holiday.
I suppose there must be people who actually lose people they love on memorial day. I think that would be horrible. To every couple of years have this mass day of mourning/recreational activity on that day that hurts extra a lot personally. I suspect it feels a lot like the people who, on the tenth anniversary of 9/11, were upset that the whole country mourned a loss that was so personal to them. I don't know, that's just what's on my mind today.
I'm going on my senior trip tomorrow, but, since I can't bear to not post every day, I've pre-written and scheduled posts for the next three days. So that's neat (hope it works).

Anyway, here's a poem by Susan Sample that I'm thinking about today:

Anniversary of the Diagnosis

When the snow stops
falling and the vast sky
is ground into silence,
I have nowhere
to look

but here: inside
where the black metal casement
of the window
is a retractor holding open
the walls of my chest; pushing
aside my ribs
until I am forced to

see fear so raw
it still fails to bleed. 

Sunday, May 27, 2012

Quote Sunday

We read this poem on Friday in English. It made us all cry, because turning into adults hurts a little bit and we hope we have enough. Really, is there ever enough?

The Summer-Camp Bus Pulls Away from the Curb

Whatever he needs, he has or doesn't
have by now.
Whatever the world is going to do to him
it has started to do. With a pencil and two
Hardy Boys and a peanut butter sandwich and
grapes he is on his way, there is nothing
more we can do for him. Whatever is
stored in his heart, he can use, now.
Whatever he has laid up in his mind
he can call on. What he does not have
he can lack. The bus gets smaller and smaller, as one
folds a flag at the end of a ceremony,
onto itself, and onto itself, until
only a heavy wedge remains.
Whatever his exuberant soul
can do for him, it is doing right now.
Whatever his arrogance can do
it is doing to him. Everything
that's been done to him, he will now do.
Everything that's been placed in him
will come out, now, the contents of a trunk
unpacked and lined up on a bunk in the underpine light.

-Sharon Olds

Saturday, May 26, 2012

When I'm sad I bake

Yesterday was a sad day. Maybe I cried for a little over an hour. Maybe it was a little pathetic. Maybe there was mascara all over my face.
Nevertheless, it was a good way to leave. Leaving in the right way is important you know.
When I'm sad, I bake. Aside from dark chocolate, baking is one of the best ways to combat sadness. There is a certain rhythm to baking that buries sadness. I think it's because it takes just the right amount of conscious attention that my brain can't run around, but not so much that it requires energy. Yes, baking is the cure to sad days.
So Thursday night, when I was feeling sad, I made 30 cupcakes. The domestic goddess cupcakes. And then I made 30 cupcake toppers with different quotes from Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. It took just long enough, and I didn't cry or curl up in the fetal position even once!
I forgot to take pictures of the second box, but check this out:

Friday, May 25, 2012

Heavy Boots

Last day of high school ever. Ouch.
Here's the piece I wrote that's my last high school English essay ever. Double ouch.

             heavy boots about
drunk drivers & teen smokers, pronouns without proper antecedents, North Korea’s nuclear weapons, tyrants, paper cuts (because
nothing beautiful should draw blood), the Tea Party, best friend friendships that fall apart instead of saying really difficult goodbyes, people saying we can’t afford…
how Hillary Clinton got so much criticism for going one goddam day without makeup, how if I listen for sixty seconds straight the chaos in my head becomes unbearable, how the life expectancy of an American Caucasian woman is 80.8 years and how the life expectancy of an American Caucasian man is 75.9 years, how Sam Hamilton dies every single time,
how hugs (especially hugs from the right people) immediately turn sadness into sobs, how my favorite reddish pinkish purplish maroonesque pen that I bought in Vienna two years ago is running out of ink and how I can’t find a replacement, how I got fired from my first job, how I have to say goodbye to those I love even though I don’t want to and how I’m not allowed to hold on to anything, how if there really is a God – and how I have an impossible time believing in a God no matter how hard I try – that God is doing a really shitty job,
how my mom’s parents have never ever called me
how I’m their daughter’s daughter
how that should be important
how I used to call them but now I just write once or twice a year,
how if I get pregnant too young I will have an abortion
and how I hope that doesn’t ever happen and how if it did it would ugly break my heart,
how I learned to ride a bike on my neighbor’s tennis court while my parents were in Scotland,
how there isn’t a single place in all of Utah that sells Manner cookies,
how I’ll never write with beautiful scrawled writers cursive,
church clothes, three hours of church, church at nine in the morning, church in general, vanilla ice cream that melts then is refrozen, young kids who say fuck, broken sunglasses, headaches from crying too hard too long, conch shells that baby girls hear the ocean in,
how when I’m on my period and hyper-emotional I know it’s just the hormones but that doesn’t make the emotions any less real and how that feels like I’m validating every misogynists who’s ever called women erratically emotional,
 how my ponytail is too short to flip when I walk and bounce when I talk,
how my palm covers my heart 
(holding it in place and signifying it’s not my head that thinks this, it’s my heart that feels it)
I turn my feelings into words
I cry (or want to)
I get afraid
I explain what hurt my feelings
someone tells me they’re praying for me
(or that they love me),
how the mink fur coats of two of great-grandmothers are in the cedar closet upstairs and how I will never find a place to wear them even though I want to,
how in the next decade my hair will almost certainly turn brown,
how I can’t give everyone I know the book to break their hearts, a box of tissues and some dark chocolate,
how I bite my nails,
how every globe in my house recognizes the USSR,
how the greatest writers were drunks but now people are just plain alcoholics,
how jarring memories can come bubbling into consciousness, ambush me, and stab me in the gut,
78 cents to the dollar, The Rolling Stones “Wild Horses”, bookstores (because of all the beautiful literature I’ll never get to read enough times), August 2nd, wanting to be easy to love,
how Gregory Orr’s father became addicted to amphetamines after Gregory Orr’s mother committed suicide after Gregory Orr accidently killed his little brother in a hunting accident and how Gregory Orr still writes beautiful things and how it might be because his father became addicted to amphetamines after his mother committed suicide after he accidently killed his little brother in a hunting accident that Gregory Orr writes beautiful things,
how I don’t know what to do to fix any of it, except green tea soy lattes and that maybe if I put a little trampoline or even some small springs (with extra boing obviously) in my hair ribbon then, even though my hair isn’t long enough, when I put it in a ponytail it will play and beat, bump, bound, sway and swing around and that will finally be enough to,
how little boys are taught to stuff their emotions and
how when they grow up they never cry in the shower,
how we haven’t had a red car since,
how coffee tastes best with cigarettes,
how my dad always lets me pick the restaurant because I want do something with you,     
how I’ll never have Toni Morrison’s hair,
how I’m going to college fifteen minutes away from the house that my parents
lived in when I was born and how I can’t explain why that matters so much,
You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself in any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the one who’ll decide where to go.

Thursday, May 24, 2012

One Heart-full

I wrote this in creative writing Tuesday based on a prompt about spacing on the page

A Girl Herself

I yelled hello,
like I always do
but this time the silence was
       especially present,                            a girl herself,
             come now,
                    we will build for you a family
                                                  three wineglasses late afternoon sunshine
sixteen volumes rules
twice as much fight
(with a dab of fierceness)
ten inches genius
two centimeters hope
four blank reams paper
one heart-full of love –


Wednesday, May 23, 2012

Sin Legos

So now I'm a teensy bit entranced with non-traditional legos. Also I'm unusually exhausted. (Yesterday I left school, came home and tanned for two hours while listening to This American Life, which is the best thing ever to listen to while tanning). Also I don't really have anything to say. So here's the 7 deadly sin legos:







Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Literary Legos

So these are the best things I've ever seen. EVER. Somehow it took me 5 years to find this project. So worth the wait. All I want in life is for these to be real.

Monday, May 21, 2012

To My Best Friend the Actress

So Saturday night was the last Waterford show for the seniors. And that - losing something that has been such a big part of your life - is inherently sad for anyone. But after the curtain call after the last show, there were not just the six seniors on stage crying. Everyone was on stage crying. Crying because it was the last time to see those girls in Waterford shows.
And yes, I was crying. I cried for almost three hours straight (seriously, it was like girls camp testimony meeting... oh the estrogen), but it made me so so so so  proud of my best friend the actress. I am so proud of her for making such impressions on people. For making people laugh and cry and for breaking their hearts in all the right way. People were on stage crying because they loved her, because she's such a wonderful human being, because on and off the stage there's a genuine goodness there that leaves impressions on people. And I am just so incredibly proud to get the title of best friend for such a phenomenal human being.

It's going to be a rough week.

Sunday, May 20, 2012

Quote Sunday

Last Sunday I read Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close again. Both times I've read it, I've started reading and I literally can't stop and I read it in a day. Best days of my life. I believe that everyone should have a copy of that book. I believe that so strongly that I might just buy everyone I know a copy of that book. I can't think of anything better to give anyone.
And yes, the book kicks the movie's ass.
Anyway, reading it this time, the thing that just kept sticking out to me is the theme that I call "the one that happened" running through the whole novel. It starts with this scene where Oskar's father says to him "We could imagine all sorts of universes unlike this one, but this is the one that happened." And then all through the rest of the book, there are really heart breaking moments about living with the universe that happened, which really means it's not worth going crazy over all the other things that could have, might have happened. I think me feeling this theme out must correspond to where I'm at right now, where it feels like I'm living with "the one that happened" and I don't get to choose what to hold on to and when to let go. I'm living with the one that happened. Which means that all I did yesterday was cry. So it goes.
So here's a passage labeled "one that happened" that made me cry. It's grandmother giving advice to Oskar. For those of you following along at home, page 184,

"If I'd been someone else in a different world I'd've done something different... I regret that it takes a life to learn how to live, Oskar.  Because if I were able to live my life again, I would do things differently. I would change my life. I would kiss my piano teacher even if he laughed at me. I would jump with Mary on the bed, even if I made a fool of myself. I would send out ugly photographs, thousands of them."

Here's to living with the one that happened.

Saturday, May 19, 2012


So remember that accident I got in a month ago? The initial estimate to fix it was $6,200. Then, two weeks later, they started to fix it and unpacked the front, found damage to the engine and restimated at $12,000. Then yesterday, they continued their fixing and unpacking and what not, found more damage, estimated at $17,000 at which point they totaled the car. So there it is. In my first actual accident ever I totaled the car.
Also, I never blogged about how last week I had to have a meeting with the DMV about having too many points on my license. They put me on probation for a year with the stipulation that if I get a ticket in the next year my license is suspended for one month (apparently they didn't realize I'm a pro at suspension).
I really am an embarrassingly horrible driver. Judy is looking to buy a new car (isn't it funny that I totaled hers and not my own? Probably for the best though, since mine's worth almost twice as much as hers was). And for the mean time, since we're a two-car family, which means most of the time that I'm car-less, my friends let me borrow theirs when I need me some Starbucks and the like. A true best friend is someone who lets you borrow their car after you total your own.
Anyway. I've worn my uniform for the last time. By and large I'm happy and excited about this whole graduating thing, but there are a few classes and people and teachers and unique-to-Waterford things that are breaking my heart to loose, because they're so wonderful and on some level I don't really believe I'll ever find things equally excellent. So I'm kinda perpetually on the verge of tears. Which is pathetic, but means I've had a good high school experience. And I'll drink to that.

Friday, May 18, 2012

It's Shrew time

Shrew goes up tonight. It's been such a neat experience to be part of this play, especially since it's a play  I thought I'd hate but I ended up totally loving. Mostly this is because the director is genius. Rather than trying to explain it, here's what he said to me that made me love it:

The Taming of the Shrew has not survived as one of Shakespeare's most loved comedies because of our sexism, regardless of the degree to which that sexism has existed in each century and decade since the play was written. It persists for one reason only: audiences love Kate. They love her deeply, soulfully. Men watching the play do not connect with Petruchio, they connect with Kate. She is the vulnerable one, full of wilderness and rage, like we (both men and women) feel. She's quicker with the tongue than Beatrice in Much Ado, like we want to be. Her feelings are hurt, as are ours. She is humiliated, as we have been. Finally, she is tamed--as most adults feel they have been tamed. But Kate casts an undeniable spell of dignity in her final monologue, which is inexplicable to us since most of us do not agree with what she is saying. But it turns out that doesn't matter. We fall under her spell because we realize she's not delivering a moral. The play doesn't ask us to believe the monologue, it asks us to love Kate. And we do.

Kate will never be a role model for feminists, or anyone else for that matter. One of the reasons Shakespeare is the greatest writer the world has ever known is because he refuses to write characters who live up to our silly mores. To write such a character would be an insipid thing to do, and Shakespeare leaves that kind of drivel for lesser writers.

A theatre is not a class room, and great plays are not created in the way academics, critics, social engineers, or bloggers pick them apart--nor are great poems, novels, paintings, or pieces of music. Real art happens on a higher plane than the intellect. If we refuse to let go of our heads, we will never understand art. And that would be tragic.

Thursday, May 17, 2012

Le Cougar Town

So reading poetry was fun and exciting and because I know the best people ever I had a cheering section of five people which made me feel good.

I don't have anything beautiful or profound or even nice to say today, so here's a really funny clip from Cougar Town. Cougar Town is arguably the best show on television (if you ask me or Kat). Also, it's awesome because it's just like us in 20 years. Like watching Cougar Town makes me excited to be fully blown grown ups together. I'm just like Ellie and Kat's just like Jules. Oh, and wine is a character itself. (So as to avoid any issues, for clarification here, yay for legal, safe, of-age wine drinking). 
Here is the memorial they have for Big Joe the wine glass that can hold a whole bottle:

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

Poetry is for reading pt. II

Tonight. SL library. 7ish.
I wrote another poem, but I'm not enamored with it. Nevertheless, it feels finished. Writing poems is funny, because I'll start a poem and for days it'll be on my mind all the time. After countless toiling and messing with it, one change turns it into a solid and the poem is ready to be put to bed. Not that's it's perfect - poems are never perfect - but it's reached it's final point in the transformation process. If that makes sense. Anyway.

Winged Ballerinas

Ripples become 42 foot tsunamis
and I rage at the sky
because I am exempt
from life’s bitterness

that lasts through winter
is only temporary –  being blinded
by the sun
is not the same as
stone-blind darkness

as I’m pushed out of the nest
but no no noNoNoNoNo no
to fly I’ll need
small feathers under wings

and I want to understand
if it’s a blessing or a curse,
but really I only want someone to ask

to know everything about me,
because everything about me

is pooling inside
and your whispers
make ripples. 

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Poetry is for reading

If you're not doing anything tomorrow night, come to the Salt Lake library. I'm one in a group of a few people reading poetry there tomorrow night. Official start time is 7. I'll be there at 7:30. (I have rehearsal.)

If you are busy, here's a poem I wrote nevertheless.
I was talking about writing poetry and someone asked me what I write poems about. And I said I don't know. And sometimes it's true. And sometimes I know exactly what a poem's about. I think this one is about the process of pushing the wrong person away.  But I'm still not sure.

On Being (a) Human

palms carry only so many lifelines
he gave up
in an hour that smelled of autumn
(wet feet, bread loafs, dead houseplants)
when he would otherwise have braided
blush and blood and nerves and feelings
into a game we’d play
Deep inside our favorite hiding place I tell him
the world’s saddest joke and just when I think
I know what he will say next
that Wednesdays are good food
days to contemplate such things
he laughs.
BE STRONG is not something to say
after the fact. It’s something to say before –
before a big race, before getting the news.
After all, what does BE STRONG even mean?
Don’t submit? Don’t snap? Don’t sob? Don’t suffer?
Suffering is part of the equation.
it was either the worst thing he ever did
or the worst thing that ever happened to him
I am a lowercase letter                                 vulnerable and curvy
      soft and useful
not a cathedral
to enter whenever seems convenient.
He isn’t an expected gift or an irresistible temptation; he’s that person my mother always warned me about – my favorite wine and a children’s story set in the woods,

 the last time I change my mind about something important.

Monday, May 14, 2012


For young women's this month, I organized a book drive. It took some time, but it wasn't that big a deal. And people were really awesome. We collected about 2000 books. So that felt like a success.

Of all the sizable service projects I could've organized, I picked a book drive because I love books. I really love books. Yesterday I read Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close again. It "broke my heart into more pieces than I thought my heart was made of." I definitely got in the shower after finishing it to have a good cry over it. What a novel.
So yes, I believe in books. I believe in reading until it's tomorrow, and in crying yourself to sleep over a book. I believe that the most interesting people read and that writers (especially really good ones) are a special breed of beautiful creatures. I believe that teaching a child or middle schooler or adult to read is the best thing you can offer them and that a book is always the best gift to give. I believe in spending money on books and in having book piles over the room where furniture "belongs". I believe in carrying at least one book at all times as well as a pen to mark the hell out of it. I believe that books are love and that reality and literature are indistinguishable.

Sunday, May 13, 2012

Quote Sunday

It's Mother's Day. I don't have an explicitly Mother's Day quote, but I think that's okay.
Today's quote is Hillary Clinton's response to that whole Hillary-didn't-wear-enough-makeup photo incident/ really stupid uproar. She said,

"I feel so relieved to be at the stage I'm at in my life right now. Because you know if I want to wear my glasses I'm wearing my glasses. If I want to wear my hair back I'm pulling my hair back. You know at some point it's just not something that deserves a lot of time and attention. And if others want to worry about it, I let them do the worrying for a change."

And I just love that. So it's not Mother's day, but it is incredibly relevant to women, and women are mothers ergo, it's relevant.
One of the responses I've read to the criticism Hillary received for this photo said "at the end of the day, no matter what your job is: If you are a woman, your second job is to look good while doing it." And sometimes that's true, which is too bad, but I love the way Hillary handled this let them do the worrying. Yes, Hillary. Let other people do the worrying.
I've spent the last week buried in the Lit Mag (which made for an awesome week). We've got a teeny section of feministy/I'm proud of who I am poems written by girls in my senior class. And I love them for that. I just wish it didn't have to be that way.
Also, as a final PS. I'm not sure where I stand on the whole should-women-wear-makeup discussion, because I understand and sympathize with both sides. But at the end of the day, for me, it depends on the day. Somedays, like yesterday, I just don't want to. And I'm entirely okay with doing that some days. All days even. But some days I want to wear makeup. And usually those are the days when I want to take five or ten minutes and just feel like I'm getting ready for something. It's not so much about feeling better wearing makeup, but about feeling like I spent a teeny bit of time simple preparing for whatever the world has to throw at me that day. Mostly though, I'm just really glad that I'm comfortable varying my degrees of makeup all the time, because then it doesn't feel like a chain either way.

Saturday, May 12, 2012


So, unfortunately, watches have become a thing of the past. Everyone has cell phones so they don't need watches.
Except me (and my friends). We all wear watches.
Because here's the thing: even though phones can tell you what time it is, there are many times when it is inappropriate and downright rude to pull out a phone. It looks like texting or ignoring or just not treating the person you're with with respect. So watches it is.
I love my watch. It's pretty.

And I'm kinda addicted to it. Which is funny, because I only bought it for being pretty. But as I started wearing it, I realized that watches are one of the very best inventions ever.
If I'm not poor when I grow up. I'm going to be that woman who wears a full 40mm Rolex. But I doubt I'll ever have the funds for that. I'd rather go to Europe anyway.

Friday, May 11, 2012


So last night we went to the movie theater to see that live screening of This American Life. And it was awesome. So horrifically incredibly awesome and engaging and everything I could ever hope for from This American Life and then some. There's another showing Tuesday night. So go. Go. I triple dog dare you to go.
Anyway, at one point, Ira Glass was all like "and now we're going to have dancers dance". And I've scoured the internet for a clip of this dance, but I can't find it to save my life. Which really is too bad. It was done by this company. And it totally made me cry.
It wasn't a bit traditional at all, but it was an incredibly accessible piece. There's this solo by this dancer named Anna Bass who I'm a teensy bit enamored with. She's dancing and such and then this cardboard box gets thrown at her. And she puts it down. And keeps dancing. Then another. Then three. And just when she's got the three piled up, 35 (or so) boxes drop behind her. And that made me cry. Which is maybe silly. But probably what it's supposed to do. And I'm like yes, the universe keeps dropping boxes on me and I can't carry them all and I need someone to help me get rid of them. Then the dancer, Anna Bass, starts stacking boxes. And she doesn't get all of them. Not even close. But she gets maybe eight or nine. And it's a big stack. But it's lovely, because the ones that she didn't get don't matter so much. And the whole thing just made me cry.
I am not literate today. The English AP sucked up all my literacy. Good thing that was an articulate description of that dance and why it made me cry.

PS. This is what school now means. This is an actual picture from class yesterday. That one curled up in the middle not sleeping? That's me. But oh what a beautiful book.

Thursday, May 10, 2012

Pens Part II

This is very brief.
I have wanted a Waterman fountain pen ever since forever. Yes. That is how long I've wanted a fountain pen. I don't know why exactly it is I want a fountain pen. I think it's because they're beautiful and classy. I want a fountain pen for the same reason I want a typewriter. Also, writing with a Waterman pen in a Moleskine notebook would be the best moment of my life. Maybe I will have to do that in Europe this summer.
Anyway, at the dinner table I finally just blurted, "more than anything in the whole world I want a fountain pen." And Judy was like "that's not true" and I was like "yes it is. You don't have to pay for college if you'll get me a fountain pen" and Lorin was like "oh, I have a couple upstairs. And I have ink. I'll get them after dinner and we'll see if we can get them to work."
So he found them and he found ink and although it took a lot of work (I ended up sucking on the tip of the pen and turning my teeth blue) in the end I prevailed with a functioning Waterman fountain pen (and Lorin said he'd still pay for college).
I have to take my English AP today. Blehhhhhh. But I'm going to use my fountain pen, so that will be lovely. After all, a mediocre Hamlet essay turns into literary genius when it's written in a fountain pen.

Wednesday, May 9, 2012


I am fascinated with the love padlocks phenomenon. I'm not sure why they fascinate me so much, but they do.
I've seen some of the padlock bridges - with hundreds of locks latched on - and they just mesmerize me. Think about it: putting a lock on the bridge, and having your partner throw the key in the river. It has such huge potential to be horribly cliche, but I think taken in the right context, it isn't cliche in the slightest. It's maybe less cliche than diamonds.

I guess one reason they're so appealing is that something about the idea of love locks appeals to masses of people. I mean, I'm not a romantic (for the most part), but there's something moving about that being the symbol of a relationship. I don't know. I'm rambling. But something about love locks appeals to some part of me in a way I can't quite understand. So it goes. 

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

today is THE day

I've had it pre-ordered for a while now. It's supposed to come today. It shipped yesterday, so fingers are crossed.
I'm going to meet Toni Morrison some day. I just am. I don't know how or why, but I am going to meet her. And when I meet her, I will tell her thank you. It will be wonderful.

PS. This makes me smile:
"It is a truth universally acknowledged that every young lady interested in literature goes through a phase where she finds terribly pretentious young men terribly attractive." -- The Lovely Noreen Malone

Monday, May 7, 2012

One Month!

Graduation is June 7. Today is May 7. Ergo, graduation is in one month.
I'm passing all my classes (yay!), got my child bride graduation dress, the speech writing is underway and APs are just fine. I'm on track to get my diploma.
And here's the graduation announcement, because I would be a silly girl not to announce graduation on here of all places.

Sunday, May 6, 2012

Quote Sunday

So for creative writing I had to do a presentation. I did mine about writing through memory, because it's something that fascinates me. I think the things we do and don't remember carry so much significance. And I think one of the strangest - and often most tragic - feelings is finding a forgotten memory. That moment when some sense - for me it's most potently smells, but sometimes images and certain songs - triggers a memory I wasn't aware my mind had cataloged. And sometimes the memories feel like an ambush. Sometimes they hurt. But sometimes they're funny. Memories are tricky.
The other week I washed my face with Cetaphil face wash for the first time in almost two years, and it made me cry, because it brought back powerful memories of my summer in Europe, when I used Cetaphil every day. Or the other day I picked up The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe and one page brought back this memory of being little and reading that book with Lorin in Hawaii, wearing my swimsuit and sitting on the couch in the old condo.
I find myself perpetually amazed at how potent a new memory can be. And how after years, a little moment will trigger a memory.
So anyway, I've read a few essays and books about writing from memory. One of my very favorite analogies that I've come across comes from David James Duncan, who I thought I hadn't read, but I just barely realized that he wrote The River Why and I have read that because one of my dad's best friends got it for me (I'm lucky because my dad's two best friends frequently buy me novels and memoirs about fly fishing). Anyway, Duncan makes a "river teeth" metaphor, using the image of knots of dense wood that remain in a river years after a fallen tree disintegrates.

"There are hard, cross-grained whorls of memory that remain inexplicably lodged in us long after the straight-grained narrative material that housed them has washed away. Most of these whorls are not stories, exactly: more often they’re self-contained moments of shock or of inordinate empathy… they are our “river teeth” – the time-defying knots of experience that remain in us after most of our autobiographies are gone."

And I just think that's beautiful. I think memories are some of the most powerful and beautiful and interesting things about people. Maybe because memories are the dwellings of demons. And I think that everyone is haunted by demons - though not necessarily debilitating ones - and artists are the people who work from those demons to create something beautiful. 

Saturday, May 5, 2012


I have pens all over my life.
My car has pens in between the seats, in the cup holders, on the dashboard, on the floor, under the mats, in the trunk. My backpack has them in every pocket. My carpet is covered with them. There are pens in my bed. So many, in fact, that when one of my cousins went to take a nap there, she kept finding them. "Why does Hannah have so many pens in her bed? Why doesn't she have stuffed animals instead?" Pens are perpetually behind my ear or in my hair or on my lanyard.
My favorite pen is a Pilot G2. Them be fine pens. Someday, I will get a fountain pen. I may steal Lorin's. He has nice fountain pens he doesn't use.
Pens are superior to pencils. I can't say why exactly, but they are. I would rather write a novel with a pen and cross out more words than I keep than write a poem with a pencil. Pens are inky and flowy. Feminine. Pens are feminine. They're curvy and comfy.
I like having pens all over my life. I like writing when the idea comes into my head. Singular idea. Sometimes, great things grow out of singular ideas.
And of course, with the pens all over my life, I can always write words on my hand.

Friday, May 4, 2012

Because I won't BIFF it

Reason # 328 I know the coolest people:
In my stats class we talk about not biffing it. This is an allusion to "Death of a Salesman" and Biff, who failed math his senior year and consequently did not graduate. Even when we're not entirely passing our classes we're clever and awesome.
Today is my stats final. This makes me feel like this:

But it will be alright because graduation was four weeks from yesterday and even though this still isn't the happy thing or the sad thing it's the thing that's happening. And that is that.
Yesterday I shot myself in the foot. I made a pinterest. How much work will I be doing from now on? None. How much time did I spend on it last night? Maybe a little more than four hours. Maybe. 

Thursday, May 3, 2012

Because crochet Toms are not just a shoe: Faulkner taught me that everything is a symbol.

I have bad bad bad very bad news: everything is making me cry. I found this Toni Morrison pintrest board, and it made me cry. WTF? I mean I love me some Toni Morrison, but really? I guess she is really really awesome.

Those two images should make life perfect today.
A little while ago, I was sincerely hurt / semi-melodramatically complaining about some things that had been happening. And I said "I just feel like they're trying to beat me, tame me and take my fight." And the oh so wise woman I was talking to said, "well that might be true, but if your fight's about uniform that's a stupid fight to have. You're better than that." And that was maybe kinda an illuminating moment for me.
Rules are not so much my thing. I like to break rules and call it a fight. But sometimes I break rules just because I'm lazy. Which is not a good reason to break rules. Not only that, but in blind opposition as much power is lost as in blind conformity. And I like to have the control in my life over myself.
So that was a neat little lesson to learn. And I do have fight. I'm fond of my fight. I think I'll be able to do great things with my fight. But only if it's channeled into things more important than the uniform battles.
And I am doing better at coming in uniform. I'd say on any given day I'm 75-85% in uniform which is good compared to some days of 10-20% earlier this month. And, in one of my greatest compromises of all time, rather than wearing flip flops like every inch of me wants to come spring time, I found a shoe that feels like a sandal but looks like a uniform.

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

A video for a Wednesday

I love this video for many reasons:

1. It reminds me of best friend Alex.
2. The places are beautiful!
3. The end part I am stealing for graduation speech.
4. It makes me want to put on my hiking boots and go outside.
5. I watch it and get excited about all the neat things I will do one day. Like run away to Pategonia for 5 weeks.
6. It inexplicably made me cry.

Tuesday, May 1, 2012


A ghazal (pronounced guzzle) is a form of poetry that comes out of Middle Eastern Literature. I like the name. Guzzle. Do you have a guzzle? No, I'm guzzle-less.
A little while ago we had to write ghazals for my MidLit class. It was kinda fun. I ended up stealing lots of ideas and phrases from things I've already written, but it made for an easier homework assignment. So that's always nice.

By The Water
ZUSS.    You are a bitter man.
NICKLES.    I taste of the earth.
-Archibald MacLeish

Drop your baggage, seek refuge, strip bare. Feel
the bitter, graceless, soothing sting – made of salt.

Stillness, because the water tasted sweet
like skin, sweat, tears, blood – made of salt.

Floating effortlessly, you became the impassible
boundary between sea and sky – made of salt.

You, human, the line between heaven and earth.
You, human, tied to the dirt – made of salt.

You, human, whisper, pray in secret for me
with your entire voice – made of salt.

You, human, count wishes in the stars.
I, human, taste then kiss your lips – made of salt.