curiouser and curiouser

A few days ago Sarah T. posted about the frustrations of figuring out the whole to PhD or not to PhD thing. I wish I had been more thoughtful about it last year because now I’m just really unsure and I have under three weeks to make official decisions. Part of me wants to stay in for the haul. And the reverse is the thought of just finishing school for now, teaching somewhere, trying to publish. I suppose a big part of the problem deciding is that this is a terrible time in the semester. I feel tired, overwhelmed. I thought after turning in my thesis I would feel unleashed, but really it’s just on to the next big project.

I definitely feel like I’m complaining, but it seems like such a terribly important decision. Of course playing into it is the wealth of fears of personal, academic, and creative inadequacies. I’ll wake up in the middle of the night in a steal of panic and think, “I can’t proofread.” As if that seals the decision.

Anyway, I should be reporting on some decision soon. In the meantime, I have to finish reading Jonathan Culler’s On Deconstruction: Theory and Criticism after Structuralism, prepare for my defense on Monday, get something in draft for my final paper, and—maybe—try to enjoy Spring Break.

best concert i've been to. ever.

here are two clips someone posted on youtube from josh ritter's concert in kent last year. that's lindsay laughing in the background. after, we told him we were poets and he asked us about literary theory. ah. we were in love.

the first one is called "you don't make it easy, babe."



singing w/out the mic. if you haven't already--you MUST see him live.

this one is "lawrence, kansas."

ride on

So, I’ve been sick on and off for a week now. I had all of these fantasies post turning in the thesis of going out and partying until the sun’s lungs puff up, but I’ve just been gazing around, working if I can, watering plants if the occasion demands. Maggie’s been sick too—worse than me so I shouldn’t complain. Maybe tiredness is exhaustion, or just my moodiness gearing up for Spring Break.

I’m missing Mary’s reading tonight, which I’m really upset about. I definitely won’t miss the reading on the 6th, though. Two days from my birthday. I suppose it would be appropriate to celebrate my new favorite book.

In other news: there’s never been any question about my love for Alison Goldfrapp. But when her band showed up in L World this week, I was a little unnerved. I should be happy, I suppose. Well, I won’t qualify that. I hope more people get into them. Here is a paragraph for a belated Sunday link.

spring eve

It’s official—my thesis has been clipped. I’m staring at this screen now but can’t really think of anything to say except that I’m tired and happy it’s out of my hands for a few weeks. Thursday I’m off to Georgia for the break and I’m looking forward to reading and preparing for my defense.

Be not afraid. The isle is full of noises—William Shakespeare

the raisins of wrath

I can't think of a title for my manuscript. Any suggestions? Lindsay thinks "dirtball" would work--so that's already taken, suggestion wise.

lamb

Today I read a poem that totally knocked me over. I've worked to press the nerve just the right amount--and go a little deeper (as Maggie teaches), especially when writing about animals in my manuscript, but I think this poem by Frannie Lindsay from her book Lamb is really just brilliant and have a hard time reading it without crying.

It's after the biblical verse from 2 Samuel 12.3:

But the poor man had nothing but one little ewe lamb, which he had bought. And he brought it up, and it grew with him and with his children; it use to eat of his morsel, and drink from his cup, and lie in his bosom, and it was like a daughter to him.

The Ewe Lamb

I raised my one ewe lamb
as a daughter, fed her
red clover, the last hearts
of my cabbage, offered
her inky lips my cup.
She rested her chin
on my neck at night, her hoofs
on my cloak, her breathing
the wind on the waves
of sleep’s pure waters.
Sleep: an animal’s word
for bless. hoof of her heart
to the hoof of my heart.
The dusk before her slaughter
we walked together, pauper
and kin, over the meadow.
I sang to her, then
I unstrung the rusted bell
from her collar.