Carbon Copy

Misc.

So I haven't written in a while, and I think its because I'm falling into the trap of thinking that it has to be good and thoughtful or at least thought-provoking. I've had lots of ideas, but none of them really seem to pan out and get past the idea part. For instance, I've recognized the melancholy of a wilting trumpet in music and how it makes my heart strings resonate. Or the humor in a buddha figure reclining like some kind of odalisque. I like how in the summer, the front of Old Main feels like a school abroad because the only students are international ones. And yesterday, my roommates and I went for a drive to look at the houses on the hill. The view was a Cezanne painting, all blues and greens in geometric shapes, but the houses were all columns and fancy doors, brickwork and fountains in the frontyard (I think fountains only belong in the backyard.) But then we pulled off the side of the road to look at horses in pasture. That was more appropriate to the cloudy sky. A colt was leaping about, and we were leaning on the fence, three girls in polarfleece, the Jetta engine still running, ready for a quick escape.

An Expose

I suddenly want to expose all of my innards - not the gruesome sliminess of intestines, gall bladders, or lungs, but the heart. The indistinctness of what is real inside me. What is it that responds to music, to powerfully written words, to the night sky or the clear, spring day? Where does that come from?

So lets, start with right now. What am I feeling? A little sad - not sad, but solemn. Thoughtful. But I don't know what I'm thinking about it. Somehow, it would be easier to just pound it out on a piano rather than putting it into words. If I did slip my fingers over the keys, it would be a slowly moving tune, full of minor chords. Something mellow, but whole and complete. It would have a richness to it, a complexity that would take several listenings to really hear. I think that's how my heartbeat works. A syncopated pattern that is unpredictable.

Today, I'm ready to settle under the sky and just allow my senses to feel, to hear, to taste spring in the air. At the same time, I'm ravenous for good reading, to have others put this indistinctness into words. To settle it inside myself. But I think what I really like is the struggle to understand it.

Austria

Austria: Home of The Sound of Music, Ahhnold, Hitler, Klimt, and soon, me.

Yes, I am going to Austria - more specifically, the University of Innsbruck - for a semester abroad. Doesn't that sound grand? A semester abroad, as though I'm broadening my horizon or all sorts of good stuff. I just found out yesterday that I will be going, so I made my first purchase. A Mountainsmith bag. Something I never thought I would buy, yet secretly always wanted, because they are so trendy here at Utah State. But I thought it would come in handy while tramping around Europe. (I get giddy with the idea of tramping around Europe.)

So I leave in September, and then this blog will be full of Europe. Yes, full of it!

poetry

The other day I searched for the grave of a famous poet right here in Logan, Utah. Although I was wearing flip-flops and a casual, cotton skirt, I felt solemn. The hunt was purely spur of the moment, something I had been meaning to do for quite some time. I have been working as a research assistant for the May Swenson Symposium coming up in a couple weeks, although I haven't done much for it, except try to contact other poets. I'll be making a map for conference-goers, one that includes May's grave, as well as her childhood home. I figured I better figure out where it was, so after work, I walked to my car, which happened to be right by the Logan Cemetery.

It's a large cemetery, an old one, full of headstones, memorials, and statues. Some graves are surrounded by fences, short wrought-iron ones with intricate scrollwork. The type of thing you'd see on a widow's walk - how appropriate. I decided at first, to drive around and just look for benches. (I knew May Swenson's grave was a bench. It had some of her poetry engraved on it.) I turned off the radio because there were people there visiting graves. I thought Of Montreal might not be the most appropriate. Although, they sometimes talk about old people. Then I had to roll up my windows because sprinklers were furiously spraying the gravel road I was driving. I guess I could've turned Of Montreal back on, but by this time, I felt solemn. I loved the way the sprinklers washed over my car, like a storm in the middle of May. Although I slowed at each bench, I couldn't find the one with poetry written on it. Well, there were things like David and Gina, Families are Forever, which is a type of poetry, I guess.
I parked my car next to a statue of a melancholy woman because I recognized her and felt her despair matched my own feelings of searching for poetry. Then I started north, continuing to look for a bench. I would see one off in the distance and veer towards it, but it wasn't the right one. I covered four quadrants this way, again feeling the contrast of the warmth of the wind, the blossoms, the whirling plastic in rainbow colors stuck near other headstones.

I have always loved cemeteries and found comfort in them. One time, as a dramatic high-schooler, I left school early to visit the Salt Lake City Cemetery, burial ground of prophets and jews. While attending the University of Utah, I would ditch out on Greek Art and Archaeology for an afternoon roaming through headstones, searching out the names of people I had never known. And while serving as a missionary, my companion and I would call visiting cemeteries doing family history work. Something about only seeing a name and a date, the opportunity to imagine a whole life based on about twenty-four characters, made me feel amazingly and fantastically insignificant.

I finally returned to my car by the weeping widow who cries real tears, so I found out later. I decided to come back another day and began to retrace my path back to the gates. I still looked at benches and then without really thinking, I saw it. May Swenson's grave. I knew the poem from which the epigraph was taken - had studied it, loved it. But engraved on the bench in white letters, it seemed different. I didn't like seeing it taken out of context. And then on the top of the bench, words from another poem (poets are full of words), and as I looked at each angle, the back of the bench had another sentence, one that I had seen on postcards, posters, and brochures advertising the symposium. "I have an inventive mind. It's there for you to discover. Read me. Read my mind." Or something like that. Too many words. The bench was covered, as if there was not one final statement, but an indecision by family members as to which of her words to include.

I want my poetry to simply be my name and dates of birth and death.

introducing:

Hi there -

I just thought I'd write a little bit about myself. It won't be much because the purpose of this blog is to find out more about myself.

Let's start with what I already know:

I'm a student. To be more specific, a senior at Utah State University majoring in American Studies with an art and literature emphasis. I have two minors: Art History and Women and Gender Studies. Basically I like to look at stuff and read stuff and think about stuff. Now I'm hoping to become more involved on the creating stuff side. We'll see how that goes.

Other basics:
I speak French. Well, I am learning to speak French.
I play tennis badly.
I like to make magnets out of stickers and magazine clippings.
I also enjoy playing videogames, looking out windows, drawing maps, making lists, putting on chapstick, and wearing flip-flops.

Things I'd like to be able to do:
Sew.
Make croissants.
Travel to Europe.
Collect postcards.
And lots of other things. Luckily, it looks like those are all achievable.

Of Montreal

I spent Saturday evening with friends and Of Montreal, who's not really from Montreal, but actually from Athens, Georgia. One might think they were playing some sort of Mozartian Sonata if you just looked at the wig, but actually Kevin was singing about Rapture - yes, rapture raping the muses. And although there was a piano, there were also guitars and it's quite upbeat.

The whole concert was fantastic, and I'd like to post some more of my pictures. This is my third time seeing Of Montreal. I love going back to see them again and again because then I feel like I have some sort of connection to them. It's funny to call them by first name. The great thing is, though, they allow you to build up that relationship with them by being to personable. I'd like to stash away in the back of their van, sometime, just so I could hear what they talk about on their long roadtrips. I wonder if they listen to their own compact discs on the way. I don't think I would. I wonder if they bring out their guitars and strum songs as they drive (or as one of them drives- preferably not the guitarist). Or maybe they play Boggle, travel games, read books, drink Coke, just like I would if I were on a roadtrip.

Before the concert, we all went out for burritos at Barbacoa - a Mexican Grill like Cafe Rio, but without the lines. We sat outside on the patio and chatted while hefting our huge burritos to our mouths. Luckily, I didn't spill anything on me. I actually was a little worried about that since I tend to spill quite a bit. Something I remember clearly about the evening was this fantastic tree across the street. It was perfectly shaped and shaded two buildings. The sun was slanting against it, creating even shadows. yes... summertime- waiting on benches and looking at trees.

Some other pictures from the concert: