oh spring...

there are a lot of things about d.c. that make me happy and sad at the same time.

exhibit a:

exhibit b:

it's weird to think that these were part of my everyday life just a year ago. but at least there are buds on the trees here and all the snow has melted.

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bliss is an achievable state

I like the Beardsely boys for many reasons (one of them being that they have a dance floor in their basement and impeccably clean fingernails--something I have never managed to have). But tonight they really outdid themselves. I got to Melissa's Ice Cream Social Birthday Party a little late because I was dining with my lovely supper clubbers (Pagliai's Pizza really is the Best Pizza in Iowa City). I thought I was too full for icecream. But then I saw what the Beardsely Boys brought:

"Melissa," I said, "please tell me you still have ice cream left because I MUST use these!" So I indulged in the most magnificent bowl of mint & chip ice cream with a light sprinkling of these awesome guys:
Bliss is neon dino sprinkles. I am convinced of this.

In other news, I gave my Very First Reading Friday night. I was so nervous I was shaking and Jacob had to keep patting my knee and telling me pointless stories to distract me. Overall, it went pretty well. I read a short piece about oceanographers, submersibles, spaceships, John Lennon, and the lovely and eccentric Erik Satie. I had a consumptive-sounding cough but maybe people thought it sounded sexy instead of consumptive. I also had visual aids, which always helps. I wanted to have a shadow puppet show or, at the very least, a flannel board but then I thought it might be too much for the gang to handle. Next time, though.

Finally, a friend told me today that I won a "Best Presentation" award for the presentation I gave at our graduate conference Saturday morning. The best was that I didn't think that I qualified for an award! This is why I love school: they just hand you things for showing up! But really, it was a shock and delight and I'm glad nonfiction represented somewhat (my presentation was called "What to Say When There's Nothing Left to Say: Mythmaking in nonfiction writing"--basically an argument for why fiction can and should be used in nonfiction, as long as the reader knows that the passage is fiction.) Besides the blizzard, it was a pretty good weekend.

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i love this

so, so much

"narwhal horn" by lesser gonzalez alvarez

	Lesser Gonzalez Alvarez - Narwhal Horn
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

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BOOKS TO LIVE BY: THE HISTORY OF LOVE

Outside there is green coming up from the ground and red buds unfurling from once bare branches. I am inside writing an essay about umbrellas and music and places I have been. It makes me glad to research things but more glad to remember things. Like New Oxford Street, a little east of Bloomsbury Square, where there is the bookstore that I went to one day because I was sad and everywhere there was fog and rain. I had no umbrella. I went into that bookstore, found a comfy chair, and opened the first book I found. This is what I read:

Part of you thought: Please don't look at me. If you don't, I can still turn away. And part of you thought: Look at me.

If you remember the first time you saw Alma, you also remember the last. She was shaking her head. Or disappearing across a field. Or through your window. Come back, Alma! you shouted. Come back! Come back!

But she didn't.

And though you were grown up by then, you felt as lost as a child. And though your pride was broken, you felt as vast as your love for her. She was gone, and all that was left was the space where you'd grown around her, like a tree that grows around a fence.

For a long time, it remained hollow.Years, maybe. And when at last it was filled again, you knew that the new love you felt for a woman would have been impossible without Alma. If it weren't for her, there would never have been an empty space, or the need to fill it.

I cried reading that. It was so beautiful and true. So now I am rereading this passage to friends and thinking about how much of my life has been touched by this single excerpt. I read Nicole Krauss' The History of Love back to back with Jonathan Safran Foer's Everything is Illuminated and it was the beginning of everything for me. I saw anew what language can do, what joy and sadness and beauty it can express. And I wanted to read everything and write even more. It is good to remember these moments. Four years ago I knew so little about what I wanted or needed in life. I know probably less now, but I don't mind. I have the love and company of good people, the love for good people, and this is more than good.

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THINGS I LEARNED IN WISCONSIN

1. The guy at the Fennimore cheese house will gladly take a picture of you and your group in front of a giant mouse named Igor as long as you 1) wear the foam cheese hats 2) eat the sample of "cheese fudge" he likes 3) gush over the squeakiness of the cheese curd (very squeaky!) and 4) ask nicely. He will also give you free postcards!


2. If something sparkly catches your eye in a town named Dickeyville, it is entirely good and proper to swerve off the road and jam your car into a parking spot and force the entire car to stop singing good songs and enter the cold air. This is mainly because you will see this:

AKA, the Dickeyville Grotto. A complete wonder of a structure made entirely out of cement, broken glass, seashells, and what appear to be disembodied action figures. It's attached to and run by a Catholic church. Our friend Dylan said, "It looks too fun to be Catholic." Jess: "Yeah, like Santeria gone wrong in the Midwest." Me: "It is so, so, so, SOOOO beautiful! Can you take a picture of me by the antlers embedded in a conch shell?"

3. Madison, it turns out, is the state capitol! Public school did me good.


4. When the farm dog kills a weasel while everyone is making s'mores over the bonfire, the sounds emitted from dog and weasel sound a lot like zombies. Or, rather, a treed zombie.


5. People in the middle of nowhere that stay on lovely farms are happier, calmer, and delightful. People who do not seem like they would be good farm wives--namely, me--suddenly get the urge to bust out full on farm breakfasts (wrassel up a pound of bacon, eggs, pancakes, french toast, banana bread? No problem!) MULTIPLE DAYS IN A ROW. This urge is hard to quench when cooking in an adorable former one room schoolhouse with a kitchen like this:

And sleeping arrangements in a loft like this:

Upon walking into the schoolhouse Dylan said, voice filled with awe and tenderness, "I want to live here. I want to write over there [points at the desk underneath a skylight] and live here and raise a family here." Charming does not even begin to do the place justice.

6. When you gather dear friends together for the dearest of friend's birthdays, nothing short of magic happens. The skies clear, stars look bigger and more possible, red velvet cake seems like the only form of valid nutrition, and laughter goes on for days. I fully and deeply

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mission(s) completed

1. House = cleaned (finally). It was one of those things that went on forever and I think I kind of wanted it that way so that everyday I had a small task to do to procrastinate the meat of the work I had/have to do (grant proposals, writing, grading, building things, trying to be a good friend and a well-rounded adult with actual goals--not as easy as I wanted it to be, it turns out).

2. Dishes = washed (finally). This was a triumph. A real, solid triumph that I can wrap my arms around.

3. Dinner = gourmet-fied and eaten with friends. Sometimes I forget that I need people. But then I remember and I want to cook massive, delicious, beautiful meals that include bright vegetables of all varieties and roasted chicken cooked in delicious curry/cumin/paprika rubs. So I do and am glad. Especially glad when guests bring Amish friendship bread and juice.

4. Guitar = picked. I have a great fear of the guitar, specifically of picking. It just looks so complicated. I'm not so good with rhythm so that doesn't help. But tonight, tonight: I learned.

5. Gifts, papers, scaffolding for grant proposals, conference presentations, emails, reading, writing, lesson plans, interviews, etc. = in various stages of completion, many nearing their END POINT. Finally.

Reward = gigantic bowl of fresh strawberries with vanilla yogurt and honey. Did I mention that I love Spring Break?

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IS THIS HEAVEN?

For those of you who haven't a) been to Iowa or b) seen the hit movie Field of Dreams, the answer is always, always, always, "YES!" [Said resoundingly and ideally punctuated with some form of fistpump.] Warren was skeptical. But that was before we went to "Southern Iowa's largest cheese factory" and watched a whole lot of cheese curd being ferried along things that resembled moving sidewalks, the kind at airports (and the kind I'd like to see flanking city streets).
The brochure said that this place uses something like 2 million pounds of milk to produce 200,000 pounds of cheese. DAILY. This seems totally impossible but, and this is why I love Iowa, it IS possible. We did the math. Well, Warren did the math because I'm still iffy on things like long division. Nicki still didn't believe us but we presented her with the cold hard facts and they were pretty hard to ignore. I thought this was enough proof of Iowa's divine qualities (miracles being done DAILY at this cheese factory) but apparently it was not.

We decided that a bulk foods run must be made. There's all these Amish and Mennonite markets around Iowa, especially in Kalona and Amana. It's nice becuase you see old fashioned types driving horse and buggies and speaking German to each other. Also, at these markets you can get things like mini whisks, used sunglasses, wallets, and hobby horses. But bulk foods is what we came for so after one last longing look at the mini whisk, we bought our cornmeal and tapioca. Next time, mini whisk, next time.

Kendra's amazing guidebook Oddball Iowa said that there was a Lover's Swinging Bridge somewhere in the near vicinity. It also said that it had collapsed several times (once taking a pair of lovers into the ravine with it--they survived) and yet people still insist on rebuilding it AND using it. It's made out what appear to be barrels, wires, and rotting slats of wood. Also, it's THE hooligan destination in SE Iowa. We saw a few of them leaning against things smoking and insolently staring at us while drawing their hoodies closer around their ears. This bridge is pretty fantastic. It looks like the bridges that are used in action movies where there's a chase and the hero runs across the bridge and then the enemy CUTS the ropes so that the hero on the bridge goes sailing right into the cliff. (I got all these pictures from the Internet. It wasn't this lush.)
By this time Warren was beginning to see the light. But I could still see some hesitation in his eyes. "Is this heaven?" I would ask. He'd still pause before saying, "YES!" [Not actual dialogue.] But I still wanted that imagined pause gone. So on to Oakland cemetery to visit the NON VIRGIN ANGEL DUN DUN DUUUUN! This is just a big statue of an angel that apparently curses "non virgins" and "sluts" (somehow the two are correlated) with death. This happens if a "non virgin" or "slut" kisses the angel. It gets blacker every year because it sucks in all the slutty souls. You can also tempt death if you kiss someone in her presence or even just look into her eyes. Pretty intense.
It turns out that Oakland Cemetery is pretty big. Also that it becomes a swamp around this time of year with the snow melting and killer rain storms. Not such a good scene for flip flops. But we found her. We were about to tempt death when a mini van pulled up with some more tourists. Just more proof that Iowa, even in the dead of winter, is hoppin'!

Finally it was off to Riverside, Iowa, which is not (as one would assume) located on or beside a river. There is a casino there, though. Riverside is amazing for many reasons, but mostly because in 1984 City Council voted and unanimously agreed that the town should claim Captain Kirk for itself:
Yes, that's right. Riverside, Iowa is the future birthplace of Captain James T. Kirk from the hit TV series Star Trek. This sign is literally behind a small yellow house/beauty parlor. There's also a sign for Captain Kirk's future conception place, which will apparently be underneath the pool table at the local pub, Murphy's. The best part about all this Captain Kirk mania is that it expresses itself in something called Trek Fest, which is a basically a demo derby/rodeo the town holds annually to celebrate the rapidly approaching birth (only 200+ more years)! This is when they bust out their--I kid you not--STARSHIP ENTERPRISE.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Right??? I hope the old guy comes with it. This Starship Enterprise is usually mounted in front of the museum. It is currently under rennovations so that its lights and smoke (jet propulsion) will be in full working order come that last weekend in June. To celebrate the end of our first year, Kendra has promised to take us for a spin in the Enterprise (she has some connections.) My friends, if this hasn't sufficiently blown your mind about the majesty and magic of Iowa, I just don't know what else to tell you. Oh yeah, I do: there's also a Mule Cemetery. Bam. Warren is also especially looking forward to meeting the guy who runs the clock museum, mostly because the guy has a killer beard. Sometimes that's all it takes.

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A Night In Paris/Under The Sea/To Remember

Iowa is all about parties. Especially if they require party dresses from junior proms and so much Sinead O'Connor and Boyz II Men your heart will melt straight out of your chest and into the punch bowl. Suffice it to say, the first annual Nonfiction Prom was a raging success. Here's proof:

Sensual slow dancing by the night's best prom-ers (and, incidentally, prom king and queen)


The organizers. Annie: "Dreams DO come true! XOXOXOX!!!!"


Dylan & me: "OH!!! EM!!!! GEE!!!! PROM 2009 IS THE BEST NIGHT EV-ER!!!!!!!"

And the video that catapulted a generation of awkward slow dances. And, of course, Prom 2009 (note the off the hook drama lead in to the song)

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urban dictionary hating on narwhals

which i kind of love, in a twisted way. witness:
club narwhal - A sensitive noob/child acting like a hypocrite. Originated from clubbed narwhal. [um, saddest ever?]
Sometimes also used to say someone has no attention span. Often used in forums and chat rooms, on a troll or noob.
Jane: Yure meen! i luv animels youre meen to them retard i want to kill you!
Jean: You're a club narwhal!

i was going to write about the nonfiction writer's prom (which was awesome) but then i realized spring just sprung forward, which makes it 3 in the morning instead of 2. oops.

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blog lurkers, the meanest mom needs YOUR help!

I don't know if any of you are familiar with my sister's off the hook blog, The Meanest Mom, but you should be. I'm very in love with it, and not just because she's my sister. Friends, my sister's tale is a truly American one, a regular Horatio Alger. Read about how she got started here. From humble beginnings, as all truly American tales begin, her blog has been so well loved in its one year of existence that she is now up for a sweet award. So, take 2 seconds right now and VOTE FOR HER! (Scroll down and the voting thing will be there.) This is just like student council elections, but cooler because Oprah likes her. Oprah, people.

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sometimes you should blog about things that actually matter to you

Because sometimes, after you get workshopped, you walk into the night where it is very cold and cry. Not because the workshop was mean and nasty (in fact, it was quite the opposite, a success one could say) but because you just do. Maybe for relief or ambivalence or frustration or all of the above. You walk a little, cry, walk, cry. Then you get a phone call. You pull yourself together. You drive to the bar to meet everyone and everyone is drinking alcohol and eating hot nuts (yes, literally from a machine called "hot nuts") and because you don't drink and because you don't subscribe to eating anything called "hot nuts" you order a burger. A cheeseburger. With e-ver-y-thing on it, including pickles which you usually don't like. You eat the burger. You drink 7 Up poured over ice. Shoot the breeze. Talk about pulled pork sandwiches and the state of technology and haircuts and generally move on with your life.

And of course when I say "you" I mean "me." For those of you who aren't familiar with what I do (which is write nonfiction in a nice Midwestern graduate program where in 2.5 years I will be deemed a "Master" in my field) here is a sketch, briefly: I spend my days teaching, gchatting, reading, walking, writing, walking, not writing, walking, and sometimes writing more. It sounds pretty paradisaical, and it is. But I will say that it is a hard thing, to write well and thoughtfully and beautifully. It rarely happens. But it is so wonderful when it does, and it is one major reason why I keep writing even after pages of crap. Also, I love it.

Sometimes when you write long enough and hard enough, invest a whole lot of your heart and emotions into a single piece, you end up with an essay. Then you pull it apart a few hundred times to see how you can make it better, stronger, healthier. At some point, you print out a dozen copies and disperse it to a group of readers who are, by in large, disturbingly bright, intelligent, witty, talented, and good looking on top of it all--these readers are known as your workshop group. The workshop is generally led by a writer of much renown who you hope to impress. Mine happens to be run by the guy I based an entire thesis on--no pressure, right? Anyway, this group has a week to read your little essay. You come back and talk about it for an hour or so. The catch is that you cannot speak. They talk of you in terms like "the writer" "the narrator" "the subject" and usually pretend that you are not physically present. Good and bad things are said.

In theory, you go home, think about the discussion and revise the essay yet again. It is both fun and agonizing, this workshopping, useful and useless, tedious and mind-blowingly great all at once. This might also account for the inexplicable bout of tears. It takes an enormous amount of emotional energy to sit through one of these sessions, especially after the enormous amount of mental energy you devoted to your essay itself. It leaves you tired and hungry which is why hamburgers and 7 Up come in handy. It also makes, at least makes me, completely sure that this is what I want to do. This is the thing I want to work so hard on that I cry from exhaustion or relief, that I stay up all night to fix a single sentence (because sometimes that is what it takes) and still wake up awestruck by the fact that I am here in a place where I am being paid to do what I love. It makes me dig sitting through these workshops.

So yes, when I write I am unsure and insecure and it takes great amounts of faith to keep on it. But there are moments when I'm writing that I feel like I'm flying and I never want to come back down. There are moments when you are rewarded by your workshop readers, when they approach you solemnly while you lean against walls or tables and they say kind, gracious, thoughtful things. And sometimes you walk up the stairs with your writer of much renown and he stops so you stop, looks over his glasses at you and says kind, gracious, thoughtful things that make you glad, glad, glad. Sometimes, there are moments when you feel like you are capable of doing this and this can also make you want to cry:

wingsuit base jumping from Ali on Vimeo.
"Do some flips or something, rip your skis off, then fly away in a wingsuit." So, in short, the moral of workshopping = get yourself a wingsuit. (Thank you, Liz, for sending me this!)

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also

good internet-generation folks that they are, the radio people put my interview with caroline smith and the good night sleeps on their blog, which you can hear here. (they played a gorgeous, gorgeous in-studio with many a finger snaps and banjo picking.)

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2 degrees from awesome

This is how it happened: I bought a digital voice recorder. Then I went to do some interviews at the radio station. There was a girl there I had never met. We immediately hit it off, mostly because she was talking about the Oscars, namely: that she had just returned from them. "Yeah, my dad was nominated for some stuff he did on Benjamin Button." Real casual was the way she said that. "Uh. What?" I said. "Yeah, I don't know for like sound mixing and stuff..." "Oh, cool. So, did you get to wear a cool dress?" The station director then bust in: "Did you know this is her dad's THIRD Oscar nomination? He actually has two of them." Me: "Awesome! For what?" And this is where it gets truly awesome. Girl: "Well he won the one last year...for, um, The Bourne Ultimatum?" She said it just like, tentatively, like she wasn't convinced of it. I literally slapped the table in shock/joy/jealousy: "YOUR FATHER WORKED ON THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM!?!?!?!? HOW!?!?!?! WHY!?!?!?!? I WANT TO GO TO THERE!!!!!!!!!" And that's when I discovered that I am just a mere two degrees from awesome; i.e. Jason Bourne. Radio director, condescendingly: "You do know that Jason Bourne is a fictional character." That is not what is important, my friends. This is what is important:

And this:

But most of all, this:

Jason Bourne, please be my life coach, like, STAT!

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