why wisconsin is the greatest (part 1)

1. Space. You cannot beat Wisconsin for pure, unadulterated farmland. It is a patchwork conglomeration of fields and forests. Beautiful, green and wide.
2. People. People are just nicer in the midwest. More willing to talk. About anything. I remember a joke saying "You might live in wisconsin if....you've been helped by someone in the store who isn't an employee." So true.
3. Knowing where all the streets go. Not that I get lost in Provo. But there is something great about knowing a neighborhood because your friends live there. Or your teacher.

more to come.

Dear provo,

I will miss you.

I am going home for the summer. See you in the fall.

I will miss your multiple frozen yogurt parlors, your creamery ice cream, late night walks by the duck pond, even later chats with my roommates, the ability to make a joke referencing the Book of Mormon, everyone understanding BYU stereotypes, student singles wards, and living in a giant apartment complex of Christlike love.

And how I knew I could always call someone to listen to me when I needed it. That I plan to try and keep, actually.

But you never know; some things change, even if you try to stop them.

things i have learned this year:

you're not always going to get what you want.
you can be happy without everything you want.

English 452 Final

So I know this is kind of a cop-out of a post, but here goes. Here is the poem that we were asked to analyze for my final. Then we had to analyze our interpretation.

Theodore Rothke

My Papa's Waltz

 

The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.


We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother's countenance
Could not unfrown itself.


The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.


You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.

My interpretation: (Which I know isn't my best work, but it was a final after all--time crunch. The interpretation actually wasn't the important part of the final)

This poem is about the father's destructive lifestyle of alcoholism, and how it is cyclical. By the end of the poem we realize that the son will become who the father is.
     We learn at the beginning of the poem that even though being with his father was difficult (such waltzing was not easy) because of his Father's alcoholism (The whisky on your breath/Could make a small boy dizzy), nonetheless the boy clings to his father (But I hung on like death) for a sense of identity. In the second stanza the author elaborates that sometimes trying to be with his Father destroyed their physical possessions, and that his mother disapproved of him trying to waltz with his father (perhaps because she knows what destructive ends that lifestyle brings).
     The third and fourth stanzas are when the reader learns about the character of the father. He is portrayed as a man who has suffered, "The hand that held my wrist/Was battered by one knuckle", and worked hard for his family, "A palm caked hard by dirt." This acknowledgement of the father's character shows us that the boy recognizes the difficulties his father has had in his life, how a life of hard labor has affected him, and his good qualities, such as working hard for his family. Also in the third stanza we read "At every step you missed/My right ear scraped a buckle," so we know that when this father makes mistakes, it is his son who pays the price.
     The significance of this "dance" with his father being a waltz is unmistakable. The waltz is a dance where although you feel like you are changing directions, eventually you end up back in the same place you started. It is circular, symbolizing the circular destructive pattern of his father's lifestyle. The inevitable ending of this boy continuing this pattern is shown in the last line "still clinging to your shirt." Even though the boy recognizes the harm that is done by his father's life, the broken home, the worried mother, he still clings to his father as a source of identity.

Other interpretations:
#1
#2 (pdf file)

more controversy about it

It appears that there are generally two readings of the poem; one as a memory of a playful experience, and one of deeper darker themes of abuse. What do you think? What did you think when you first read it?

needy, needy, Betsy

Lately, I found out that it is not always me by myself on the needy-needy, I-want-a-friend end of the stick with a few of my pals. Everyone needs close friends. Even if I am the one to initiate things happening all the time, that doesn't mean that I am not needed as a friend...it means I am good at initiating.

Funny, how we always assume other people are doing fine, and that we are the disadvantaged ones. Oh mortal existence, you do limit my paradigm so.

I love

seeing people saunter across campus, their steps in time to the music they are listening to. (presumably. Maybe they just are pretending to listen to music to saunter with rhythm. I'd do it. Why not?)

Locked Out!

The other day, I was locked out of my apartment after work. At 10 am the office (so I can be let into my apartment free of charge) still isn't open yet, and so I was left in somewhat of a quandary. I went over to my neighbor's apartment (they often house me in times of distress) but as I did so, I posted on my facebook status that I was locked out. Shortly thereafter I received a text from someone (hero of mine!) posting on my status. Her name is Elise. She asked if I would like to be picked up, and housed at her house for a while. I responded, "Of course!" Elise and I know each other through our mutual friend and roommate (as well as relative--ok so I am not related to her, but I like to pretend I am) Marae.

As I crawled into Elise's car (I was still feeling a bit under the weather from my sickness earlier in the week) I heard the familiar strains of Missy Higgins, an australian artist beloved by all (those previously mentioned in this post that is) and felt so at home, it was marvelous. Elise asked me if there was anywhere I needed to go and I said that I needed to get something to eat, and she said I could have breakfast at her house! Further delights ensued. We went to her place, which is this wonderful old house, near center street, and she set me up with some delicious fruit, ginger and lemon tea, and a fuzzy blanket. After we talked for a while she let me loose on the movie collection, and I selected The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe for the day's amusements. While I was enjoying this trip back to the contented sick days of childhood (doesn't everyone need a nurse to take care of them occasionally?) Elise's roommate Emma made cookies, and offered me some! Oh heaven!

It was, overall, a remarkable rescue. I would like to state for the record, that the next time I got into Elise's car, the stereo was playing Meiko. Such is the sweet stuff my life is made of.


Also, can I just say, that sometimes the friends I make because I lock myself out far outweigh the losses of said lockout. I think because there is some sort of bond created when one person helps another person. And if I were never in need, I would never be able to be helped, and have friends because of it. Lucky then, that I am not perfect, because if I were, I can only conclude that I would be lonely in my perfection.

I am feeling mostly better (thanks to this wonderful treatment, no doubt!)

Elise and I also spent time together yesterday, when she took me on a few errands. Among these was dropping off some gently-used possessions at DI. As we pulled into the drop-off area, Elise saw a lovely rug, and asked if they really had to price things before we could buy them. The DI employee helping us, asked if we wanted it (the rug) and then asked if we could fit it in our car. We could. Hurrah for goodness having its own reward!

Rex Lee Run 10k

That's right.
I did it.
I ran as slowly as I usually do.
The old man shuffle, I call it.

But it doesn't matter,
because to me,
making it
all the way through,
is what really matters.
Hitting that finish line.

No matter how long it takes.

As I got closer to the stadium where the last leg of the race was, I could hear the music coming from the DJ booth. I thought, "This is like me trying to make it to heaven. I hear the music from a long way off, and it only makes me want to try harder. All of us cheering on each other towards the same goal, even if we run at different speeds."

Apparently there are gangstas in heaven. Too legit to quit.

Shamrock Plant

Once upon a time Andy Lawler promised to hang out with me. But then, he couldn't make it. And the next day, on my doorstep I found a very curious plant, wrapped in festive St. Patrick's day paper (it was that time of year). Andy wrote me a note apologizing for our plans falling through, and then explained that this was a shamrock plant. He told me that in a month or two, it would probably look like it had died but that I shouldn't throw it away, because it was just hibernating, and in another month or so, it should put out new shoots

Two years later, my plant looked like it had finally died (it is very resilient. I recommend one to you college kids). But due to a combination of busyness and forgetfulness, I didn't remove it from our living room.  And lo and BEHOLD a month after it looked like it had died (I am VERY forgetful. Less busy, more forgetful):

Do you see them? I am oh so glad! They have gotten bigger since this picture, just in time for St. Patrick's Day!

"I am a gallery of broken hearts"

Two days ago I walked into the HFAC looking for a little bit of comfort to soothe my worried soul. I find that wandering among exhibits and galleries helps me reflect, and gives me something to think about besides my own baggage. I sort stuff out internally as I respond to the works.
However, as I walked in, I realized everyone was bustling around, preparing for a new exhibit. All of my familiar paintings and photographs had been taken down, and everything was bland, waiting for something new to say; the walls were ready to begin construction on a new exhibit, to illuminate new perspectives instead of those of the paintings they had been carrying for so long. 

I was dismayed at first, and then decided to do the same.


The perfect metaphor, sans art. Oh, the irony.

Did you know...

that you can recycle those styrofoam-looking cups that you get at the Cougareat?

I am delighted. Even if it means I have to put them in a bookstore bag so I can wash and recycle them at home (I'm not sure they'll make it in the 'plastic bottles' recycle bins on campus).
 

what the little boy said when the docent asked him

"What can you tell me about these girls from this picture?"

 

 "I think they like rock and roll."

Check out the exhibit online here.