In Which I am at the Library Late at Night

There is something sacred hanging quietly in the back of my closet that unfurls cautious fingers to tap my shoulder from time to time, reminding me that life begins and ends without ever consulting a jury of its peers.

In Which I am Charmed

I just saw a really wonderful woman read from two books she has recently had published. She was funny and charming, self-deprecating and blunt. But the what I most enjoyed was her sincerity. Whether she was telling us about her toenails falling out or her Vogue photo-shoot, she looked straight out into the audience and was honest and direct--even if I could see the beginnings of a mischievous smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

In Which I Write It Out

I was very frustrated in my poetry class this morning. We were talking about why poetry is less important in America than it is in other places and than it has been in the past. I think that it is an important discussion. And one that has causal roots in many different places. I quickly became frustrated because it seemed as though I had heard everything that was said before. People were talking about a lack of imagination, but they were using arguments that have made their way into the very mass media that they derided and decried. I think that pieces of their arguments could be used--but an effort should be made to avoid the cliches that smother imaginative expression. I think that there is a separation of self that runs rampant through modern  life. We are pulled in at least six different directions before breakfast; and then we must emerge from the relative safety of home and face the cacophony of sensation that is day-to-day existence. It is media. It is work. It is urbanity. It is politics. It is expectations. I don't know it life has always been this confusing and demanding--and I am probably guilty of romanticizing more than a little--but it seems as though there is much required and little regained in these days of our lives. I think that poetry is one of those arts that allows us to knit our selves together again. The requirements of the poet (for poems are requests for reactions) take that strand of our consciousness and teach it a new way to twine with the fabric of reality. And that can be both restorative and spark new growth.

In Which I am Classified

The first day of classes...it is a bit repetitive. In all three of my classes today, we spend at least a half an hour going over the syllabus. I suppose that it is important to make expectations clear, but if I have to listen to any more class policy, I think that I might scream. Of course, it would have to  be special screaming--like the girl in X-Men who can scream at a frequency that shatters glass (I can't remember her moniker...). Despite this...things look promising. And I'm looking forward to the rest of the semester. Mostly.

In Which I Return to Iowa

So... I posted a grand total of...wait for it...ONCE this summer. This was an epic fail on my part, but I suppose that I'm not terribly surprised. Summer on campus was interesting. It was so laid back that I almost felt frozen in the soupy mess of my free-time. I got to read a whole lot, though. I suppose that is a good thing--even if I read absolute crap. I think I'm ready to have a more intensive schedule. I think that sometimes, when I don't have enough to do, I get caught up in some of the little things that make me behave in ways that others might consider insane. I have more to do this Fall, which I consider to be a VERY GOOD THING. So, here's to the start of a new semester and to things that keep my brain busy!