Filed under: MFA, Wedding, st. louis | Tags: charlottesville, Hebrew, MFA, st. louis, Wedding
I feel very lucky to be here. My fellow MFAs are talented, friendly, outgoing, and helpful, and I love them. I love spending time with them. Look at me, social Jazzy!
I have my first reading (ever) on October 13th. Readings take place in a little spot on the Downtown Mall called the Tea Bazaar. The poets and fiction writers drink tea, wine, and beer, sit on pillows, ocassionally smoke from a hookah and laugh at each other’s hilarious introductions. And sometimes we hyperventilate when the work is really good. Each week a poet and a fiction writer read their work for 20-30 minutes each. I’ve written two new poems so far, so my reading will mostly consist of older work. It’s nice to write again after a long dry spell. It’s coming very naturally, which is a nice surprise. I may need some test readers before I submit to workshop, so let me know if any of you are interested.
I’m also learning Quark! The dreaded software program that appears as a requirement or recommendation for nearly every publishing job in the universe.
Wedding:
Ring -
We finally found a new ring setting! Some of you may have known that when Brian and I became engaged, he gave me my mother’s diamond ring. We decided (with my father’s blessing) to reset the diamond. This will be its 3rd setting, so we don’t feel too guilty
It makes my finger feel pretty.
Location
Would be cool in the rain.
Jewel Box! We visited in July and just fell in love. It’s already full of flowers, what more could we want? And it smells so incredible, like spring all year round.
Date: October 10, 2009
We hired a wedding planner named Shayna. She’s just wonderful, and she’s going to keep me from going crazy. Planning a wedding from 750 miles away is pretty difficult.
We’re having some officiant trouble, unfortunately. It isn’t possible to find a rabbi to co-officiate a wedding during Shabbat, of course, so we’re going to have a big neutral ceremony and reception in St. Louis and then a smaller, religious ceremony in Charlottesville the next week, officiated by both a rabbi and a minister. This will allow our new friends in C-ville to be a part of one of our big days.
Oh, and did I mention I’m learning Hebrew? It’s been 4 weeks and I can already read it (!) I’m working on the vocab, mostly by having fake conversations with Whitaker if Brian isn’t around.
We’re here, and we finally have water. Whitaker has been hiding under the comforter all day. I’m in desperate need of a shower but I haven’t unpacked my clothes yet. The furniture is here, cable and internet is set up, and the house looks great. In a couple of days, I think we’ll be good to go, and I’ll actually have time to tell you how Whitaker escaped from her carrier and spent the entire 11-hour drive from St. Louis sitting on top of Brian’s head.
I came home from lunch today to find an old woman in brown boots taking my discarded items out of the dumpster behind my garage. Brian and I cleaned out my storage unit yesterday evening, and the woman was stuffing many of the items, including a vase, an old maroon towel, an accidentally discarded copy of the Amateurs’ Pieces of Flair, and a Target bag full of glitter and construction paper into a broken duffel bag I’d owned since my freshman year of college.
I’ve seen this woman here before. She has a little white Bichon Frise who smiles constantly, follows her around on a rainbow leash, and wrinkles his brow nervously whenever someone approaches. When I pulled into my garage, the woman was oblivious, but the dog couldn’t look away from me.
I had planned to park in my garage and begin my planned afternoon task of cleaning out my trunk by tossing things into garbage bags and then into the dumpster. Since it was occupied, I sat there, baffled and a little frightened. Not by the woman, just by the scene. Who is she? She walks her dog down our alley daily. Does she live here? Is she homeless or just eccentric? Julie and I have both waved to her before, but she doesn’t ever seem to notice.
She pulled my red snowflake winter welcome mat out of a box and tossed it in the duffel, then went back to her search. I can’t adequately explain the strangeness of it all. Me in my car, watching her in the side mirror, my engine still running, garage door open — me in the darkness, her in the bright light, her dog staring at me while she remained oblivious, even when I finally got up the courage to open the door and step out, shut the garage door, and walk up the stairs toward my apartment. She was singing to herself, or to her dog, I wasn’t sure. I could hear it all the way up to my door.
Funny, I hadn’t had one of these bizarre moments in a while. These things hurt all day long and they stay with me. Maybe it’s St. Louis’s way of saying goodbye.
Filed under: MFA, Relocation fun | Tags: a cappella, emily, frank bidart, MFA, poetry, whitaker
Two days before I was accepted into the MFA program I’ll be attending this fall, I turned the corner in a Barnes and Noble (my excuse: I was looking for a book, Pitch Perfect, that Subterranean and Left Bank would never, ever carry) and saw a woman taking pictures of another, older woman in front of the poetry bookshelves. The older woman had her head resting against a book called Awe. The young woman laughed and said, “Don’t mind us. Don’t ask.” The older woman said, “This is the most important book of poetry this year.” It was Dorothea Lasky’s first book (she was the happy photographer), and her mother was proud.
It sent me home a (selfish) mess. Double pain!:
(1) My mother, having been dead 9 years, will never cradle my (unborn) book like that. (To use a phrase from a childhood friend, they’re both in God’s pocket.)
(2) On the MFA front, things were very uncertain for me. I was content at work, but had no place to call home. I was torturing myself with the poetry shelves, the P&W Speakeasy, admission dates and rates, readings at Wash U, re-checking my manuscript for typos, etc.
Oh, and, yes, there was a typo:
It was the English riding style – the clomp of hooves that way –
it sounded like a packed train. No room for anyone new,
and I would be lucky to get a let over.
Mmm, yes. Seen by 2 of 9 schools.
Apple played a part in my acceptance to UVA, since I checked my email that day on my iPhone while sitting on my cubicle. My wonderful boss sits (sat) in an office behind me with a full view of my computer screen, so once February began I was checking my email every 15 minutes by turning to my left, taking a dainty paw and accessing the gmail application. Getting the acceptance letter on a teeny tiny screen, with my body twisted all weirdly to the left so as not to give away my sneaky e-mail checking, having to hide the instant shaking and quaking of my body, my ears turning red — that was not my dream. And, still, it was.
I got to spend time with my Emily last night. We took a trip down memory lane going through the piles of books and clothing and dinosaur-related items in my basement storage room, then we had a strip mall evening by enjoying very bad wine at Macaroni Grill (our original plan, I Love Mr. Sushi, was closed) and seeing Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2, since we saw the first one together and figured we might as well make it a tradition. Here’s hoping they make it into a trilogy. Right.
Courtesy of the best friend.
Today is packing day. First things first: I need to take care of the dead pandacat in the window.
I call them "lucky Whitaker's feet."
Oh. Just kidding.
Meow.
My last day of work.
I will miss you, desk.
Things that make me smile: my colorful books and my lavender instant hand sanitizer.
Leaving is just as difficult as I thought it would be. I’ve got a giant box full of my dinosaur toys, my holiday and birthday cards, my hole-puncher, and basically every other accessory that kept me company in this cube that’s been a 2nd home to me for a year. Strangely, the box isn’t very heavy. That’s a little sad.
I’m melancholy, but grateful.
Busch Stadium tours were sold out for the day.
It was nice to take a look at some of the more interest aspects of downtown architecture.
Deliciousness in North St. Louis.
Brian makes faces sometimes.
The Fire Chief Special
I love their handwritten signs and Teaberry gum.
My hair was nearly Cardinal red today.
Looking serious with my evil eyebrow.
There are many strange, sad views like this one in my city.
Always amazes me.
Brian steps through the Gateway to the West, ready for adventure. Then Jazzy says, "Turn around. Eastward we go!"
I bet you've seen this one 3468 times before, on Flickr or elsewhere.
Edge of the Arch. Wouldn't it be great to be the guy that welded this piece?
Emerson
The "a" debate rages on inside the Jefferson Memorial Expansion Museum. Note that the "a" has been scratched off.
The river was quite high.
The boat turned and we had a clear view of the city.
Big glasses.
Going under the lovely Eads. Remember that time I wrote a story about a talking dog who swam across the Mississippi after an earthquake, avoiding the broken remnants of Eads? That was a little scary.
We had an engagement/going away party last night in the apartment, and of course, I feel more disjointed than ever. A little split apart. Too old to be here, too young to be in Virginia’s program. And it’s not like I’m the only 23-year-old. By too young, I mean too inexperienced, like I’ve tricked everyone with some good poetry. I’m ready to learn but not ready for everyone to know that I’m a bit of a fraud, or at least, that I constantly feel like one. I’m not a fraud when it comes to my writing, just when it comes to the definition of “poet”: writer and reader, artist and scholar. I’m not really a scholar, I’m a “scavenger,” a magpie (Melanie Fallon said), I rush through poetry picking up pieces I like and storing them and working with them and I never remember where they came from, I don’t spend time with the etiology of it all, I just (1) read, (2) enjoy, (3) save for later. I hope to retain the ferocity and speed and desperation of that search, but I also hope to gain some healthy habits. And I have to see the substantial accomplishments of my fellow students as exciting rather than intimidating. I have to forget these fears and remember that, whatever my background, I know how to write a poem, keep my eyes and ears open and learn fast.
In other news, I’m selling my armoire.
We saw Miss Saigon at the Muny Saturday night, and it was beautiful. I didn’t react as strongly this time as I did back in ‘96 when I saw it at the Bob Carr, but I still left a little heartbroken.
Treat: here’s Leah Salonga singing “Too Much For One Heart,” which was removed from the show before it premiered in London. I suspect they cut it because it would have been sung directly following Tam’s birth, which would have ruined the big surprise as Kim tells Thuy her secret during “This Is The Hour.” (“If you want the reason, I will show you now…” – cue big orchestral swell as Tam emerges from behind the bed curtain. Try not to cry.) This song follows the same melody as “Please.”
Fun fact: you can hear Leah rehearsing this in London before the big premiere in the documentary The Making of Miss Saigon. I’m sure it was difficult for her to leave the song behind.
I have two and a half weeks left in St. Louis. Two and a half weeks to fit in Crown Candy Kitchen, the Magic House, one last stop at Ted Drewes (there’s an ice cream theme going on here), go on the Busch Stadium tour, and see Wash U’s new DUC (Danforth University Center), which I will never really get to experience. I may choose to go on believing that the wine bar is just a myth.
I start my MFA/move to Charlottesville/engagement to Brian blog with my housing search, which occurred in early June. My dad, who was able to join in on the housing fun and offer moral support and advice since Brian was quite busy at work, met me at Dulles. I don’t care if Eero Saarinen, who made my Arch, designed the Dulles terminal. Dulles is the worst airport in the United States, redeemed only by those crazy shark-fin shuttles that transport you from terminal to terminal.
And those are being phased out! So, I reiterate, Dulles=sadness and will make me miss Lambert terribly.
On the first day, we stopped at a little place on Lambeth Lane. Close to campus! Decent rent!
Description from craigslist: “Second level apartment with a great view from the balcony.”
The view from the balcony:
The carpets were that flat, blue, astro-turf kind of carpet, the kind they put in kindergarten classrooms to soak up juice-box spills and urine, which, coincidentally, was the smell that pervaded the entire building. There were beer cans and half-full bags of nachos and leaves on the stairs, and an old mattress in the entryway.
Another apartment. Take a look at the door on the left:
The tenant didn’t show up for our 10 am appointment. He called me 8 hours later to let me know he’d passed out from a “hard night,” and that the apartment had been rented 3 days earlier and he’d forgotten to contact me. Being the softy that I am, I was sweet and polite and thanked him for his time. It’s this same character trait that, today, led me to buy 2 boxes of chocolates that I didn’t want from 2 boys in the Schnucks parking lot who were raising money for a leadership program. There’s nothing wrong with generosity, but I ended up giving them half of the money I made from selling my clothes to Plato’s Closet on Saturday. Granted, that equals about $9, but, you know. I’m kind of poor right now.
Anyway, none of it mattered, because love walked in. Or, rather, I drove to love and was skeptical at first:
and then was convinced minutes later when I saw the enormous backyard. So that cute house with the green shutters will be my home for at least the next 12 months. There’s a sunroom where I plan to write. And we’ll only have 3 feet on each side of the bed. And that’s okay.
Our house. Is a very very very fine house. With one cat in the yard.
