On In Houston

I'd dislocated my life, so I went to the zoo.

Four weeks ago I traveled to Boston for the annual AWP Conference. (Association for Writers and Writing Programs--don't ask me why it's not AWWP, I don't know the official answer. But it would be a stupid acronym.) It is a conference that I would be genuinely interested in each year, but was compounded by the fact that it was being held in Boston. Though I never admitted it to anyone (except maybe once to Mc?), part of my desire to go was a hope that my decision to move away would be validated by a return. I would see the city I love and the people I love and say, "Yes, I love them, but I don't belong here anymore."


I missed / the bitter tinny Boston smell of first snow, / the huddling in a cold bus tunnel.

My first twenty-four hours back in the city, I literally could not stop grinning like an idiot. I grinned when C picked me up, when I saw the skyline, when I walked into Quincy Market blocks from my old office. I grinned watching my BBQ chicken mac&cheese lunch cooked in front of me, I grinned on the T (the Green line, even), I grinned in the rain/snow down Boylston through Copley Square. I grinned walking into Clarke's. I grinned up the stairs of the Nottinghill House. I felt lighter, I was happy.


no bird can get its song sung right, separated from / models of its own species. 

Even with a red eye and a three-hour time difference, ten hours at AWP left me invigorated rather than exhausted. I went to panels on Boston's literary history, contemporary American writing, technology and the ebook's influence on publishing. I heard Tony Hoagland and Dobby Gibson and Matthew Pearl. I took pictures of old classmates running a panel, thinking, "They are presenting at a national conference and I went to school with them." I walked through a book fair filled with hundreds of books and lit mags and opportunities. I felt a spark rekindle.

I couldn’t relate to a giraffe— / I couldn’t look one in the face.

During Tony Hoagland's panel I heard a darling poet tell the story of how she began to write. Through what she called good fortune, she was accepted to an MFA program (the only one to which she applied). As she went to class each week and sat around a conference table to workshop she said, "For the first time in my life I was surrounded by souls that spoke to mine."


How did we get here, dear sloth, my soul, my sister?

When I graduated eleven months ago, I was tired. I had drained myself physically and mentally and emotionally; I needed a change. I thought that a new location could help this new phase of my life sans school. But when I left Boston I also left an integral piece of me. The piece that sees tiny details of design and admires a well-constructed sentence. The piece that has been with me most of my life, since my dad banned reading in the bathroom, but took me so long to find academically. These eleven months without it have been long, and sometimes dark. But for the first time in nearly a year I was all of me. Surrounded by souls that spoke to mine.

I choose to be all of me again.


April is National Poetry Month, and I connected more strongly with Gail Mazur's reading of "In Houston" at AWP than any other poem I have heard to date.

Published, Again

I recently submitted a guest post to the LDS literary blog called Segullah, and today they published it. So for today's reading, I'd like to redirect your attention here.


And yes, I am excited to be publishing things a few weeks in a row. Even if it is just for blogs. A whole lot better than no publishing at all.

A Brief Thought on Art

I've been rereading Asher Lev. The Gift of, this time though, not My Name Is. I meant to read it a few months ago, but forgot because of something-or-other in my busy life. But the past few weeks I've been thinking a great deal about art. Art as therapy. Art and its relationship with religion. So, naturally, I turned again to Asher Lev. And this passage yesterday seemed more important than it has in the past:

"Oh do not think it was all done out of the goodness of my heart, Asher Lev. Artists are not kind. Artists are selfish and calculating. If you had only a talent for drawing, it would have ended quickly. But you possessed the capacity for rage. Even the Rebbe could not see the anger in you. I saw those demons. They were the source for your art."

A friend I had a long time ago suggested on more than one occasion that I try painting to express my feelings. I've been doing it lately, funny enough, but I don't have enough talent or demons for it to really say anything. What I ought to do is write.

But I can't.

This Sounds a Lot Like Me Right Now (Always?)

Written by Nat, but really. I think I said basically the same thing to C earlier this week.




in my dreams i am effortless. stuff just 'happens' when i let it. it's such a romantic idea, but that's not me. i want to be the very carefree sort but i'm not. i like to analyze things. a lot. until i've exhausted every possible angle, i'm not done worrying about it. i could talk about the same subject for six months if you'd let me. (i'd also present all sides of the argument so all you had to do was sit there and listen, occasionally nodding to say, "i know." that's all i ask!)

via Nat

Don't ever say, "Maybe now's a good time to read The Bell Jar"

If you do, all the reasons you were loving March will suddenly not balance out twelve thousand other draining things. Including feeling like you were drugged, then hit by a truck (though that is due to rock climbing on Saturday night, which was actually a lot of fun. Aftermath, not so much. What's the deal with the second day after hurting worse than the first? Not cool.).

Had this conversation last night:

Melissa: yeah maybe

10:58 PM hey guess what? I blogged. This never happens

  

 me: that's true, it never happens

  I check every day in my routine blog check.

10:59 PM Melissa: haha I've sat down to do something like 5 times and never can. My sister called me out on yesterday though

 me: I get that. I haven't written hardly at all this year

  I used to all the time

11:00 PM Melissa: it's true you did

11:01 PM me: I'm too tired now. it's too much work.

And that might be pathetic, but it's also true. I am too tired to blog. I'm sure I'll kick myself in six months when I don't have details of my life. W.

Experimenting

Image found here.

For the last several weeks I have started a few experiments which have been mentioned in passing a few times on this blog. I'd like to take the time to report.

Experiment Uno: Cut Processed Sugar
I've been having a variety of digestively-related health problems over the last year or so, and after I got tired of doctors (again) I decided to (continue to) self-diagnose. The beginning of that self-diagnosis was processed sugar. For the past eight weeks I have cut it from my diet (except for when I ate a chocolate reindeer-rabbit in a moment of weakness) to see if it would have an effect on my overall health. It has...ish. Not enough to determine processed sugar as the sole cause of said problems.

Experiment Numero Dos: Maintain a Proper Sleeping Schedule
Along with eating much (much) healthier, I wondered if perhaps (more/better) sleep might affect my near-constant state of fatigue. Thus, I created a Sleeping Sticker Chart. No mocking said chart (cough*Dan*cough). It works. Over the last five weeks I've only missed five days.

Experiment Tres: Learn To Let Go
This one is only five days old, and will probably rival the next experiment in difficulty. But for Lent this year, I'm letting go some long-harbored ill feelings. (Also my tendency to complain, but that isn't really part of this experiment so does not warrant a mention. Though it just got one.) The plan involves some isolation and some prayer and some study. We'll see how it goes.

Experiment Numero Quatro: Cut Wheat
Last night for dinner I made myself some whole wheat macaroni and cheese. Very quickly after consumption I nearly died (not of consumption. of macaroni.). I have been suspicious of wheat for a while, even if my coeliac disease tests did come back clear, so as of today (or maybe next week? I just bought bread) I will be adding some sugar and cutting all wheat. Which will perhaps be the most difficult experiment of all time. I freaking love bread. Cross your fingers that's not the problem.

Christmas after Jerus

Dearest Desiree,

You're coming home as we speak. That semester flew by, didn't it? I remember being so shocked when we returned from the Galilee how very close to home we were. And Christmas! Jerusalem is a magical place at Christmas time. This past weekend must have been your Christmas concert. I listened to ours Sunday morning while I was getting ready for church; some of those songs definitely needed work, but I have to admit, we did okay. Sometimes I can't believe I got to perform in Jerusalem on that stage with such a beautiful view of the city.

Photo taken by Angela at JC Christmas Concert 2008.

It's a hard adjustment, the coming back, and this will be an unusual Christmas for you. It's a very strange feeling, the excitement and love for your home and your family combined with the aching homesickness for a place that, four months ago, you knew virtually nothing about. I spent hours three Christmases ago looking at my pictures of the city and facebook stalking my JC family. I was desperate to get back to Provo, despite my dislike for the weather and, well, Provo sometimes, but I so wanted to see all of those people again. The 80 people who, as Becca once said, combined probably know everything there is to know about Allison Mitton.

A few weeks after we got back, Elder Holland gave a devotional at BYU. It was a talk that has become very popular, and I'm sure that you're familiar with it already, but I think you should read it again. It was one of those talks that I felt was written specifically for me, and I know a lot of my Jerusalem friends said the same thing. Moving on is hard, especially from something as special and significant as the semester you just had. But things will keep getting better, and the lessons you learned in Jerusalem will help guide you through the rest of your life. So will your JC family. Make sure to spend time with them often; some of my dearest friends are people I met there. And some of my closest JC friends are people I started spending more time with after we got back. You never know how those relationships will change, but they will get better.

Photo taken at JC cake waffle reunion, November 2011.

Desiree, I'm so glad you got to have this experience, and particularly glad you got to share it with the Skinners. Andrew Skinner is one of the most brilliant, spiritual, humble men I've ever met, and I enjoyed getting to know him both in Jerusalem and in Provo. Keep that connection going, and take some religion classes with him if you can. You certainly won't regret it.

When I came home from Jerusalem, I was so jet lagged and exhausted, both emotionally and physically, and while I was happy to see my family, I felt a little lost because nobody really understood how I was feeling. Desiree, I know how you are feeling. Call me anytime. I would love to hear about everything, and to laugh and cry with you about how your life will never be the same.

Merry Christmas, Desiree.




Love, Allie

Stretched Really Thin

I purchased a cheesecake yesterday, with cherry pie filling to top it. And a six-pack of Dr. Pepper. I did not buy milk, beans, bagels, pasta sauce, or anything else on my actual grocery list. Cheesecake and DP.

I have started using the snooze button for the first time in my life. I snoozed for forty minutes today.

I may or may not have thrown a pen at my bedroom door when someone on the other side of it angered me by doing (ready for it?) absolutely nothing. Just knocked and said goodbye.

I miss my old ward. Maybe because I keep returning to it.

I have a strong desire to spend an entire day in bed doing nothing but watch BBC shows.

I cannot figure out how to manage my time well. I'm not wasting time; I'm constantly working on school projects. But I spend 90% of my time on the magazine and only 10% on the editing class. I can't justify reallocation when I'm still two weeks behind on the magazine. But the editing needs more time.

I watched three hours of One Tree Hill while working from home yesterday.

I haven't slept before midnight for three weeks running (sorry Mom and Dad). Mostly because of the magazine, but I also have a tendency to research medical issues late at night. Still a fan of the self-diagnosis.

I realized there are only six more months until graduation. Time to reevaluate my life. Again. 

I look forward to my commute more than any other part of the day(s). Twenty minutes of Book of Mormon reading is very possibly the only thing keeping me sane. That and the view:

Amputation (Offered by Melis. Also, Andrew.)

It's been weeks this time.

Started in the elbow, the nerves rubbing up against the joint, grating at each other until there was a dull, constant fire (I've been told this is called inflammation). But amputation at the elbow seems a bit much.

How about the fingers? Stiff in the joints and in between, feeling swollen but not appearing so. Who needs ten? Five could be fine.

But if the fingers come off the wrist might as well, it's tight and needs popping at least once an hour. The stiffness from the fingers and the weakness in the wrist seem to radiate toward each other and create another dull constant fire in the hand. And somehow the two little fires want to be friends, traveling up and down the forearm.

Bye, forearm. And elbow too, for good measure.

Enough? Not yet. The neck and shoulder have some tingly spiders crawling up and down them creating a very strange half numb, half tight feeling that rolls down toward the now nonexistent elbow. They can go too.

Almost done. Just hack off that section of the lower back filled with knots. And perhaps the totally inflexible trapesius that's tighter than the wrist.


Now. Anyone in the market to sell the upper right side of a body?

Freaking hard to sleep when

it's super hot in your room, and

your clean sheets are too warm from the dryer, so

you open the window, but

the Mass Ave traffic is louder than normal; still

it wouldn't matter anyway, because

you can't breathe.





White girl problems.

Letritas

Dear T,
I was sad not to witness something amazing this morning. Make up for it on the way home?
Daily,
A


Dear Nottinghill House,
I love you, I do, but the noises you make when no one is home at night kind of freak me out. Quieter tonight?
Sincerely,
Your favorite Nottinghill girl


Dear Jessie,
I found some Psych quotes from a game with Tanner last summer and now I'm super psyched (haha, good joke) to start on the fifth season. You should watch too.
xoxo,
Your Hunnybunny


Dear Stomach,
We are not friends anymore. I do not appreciate being psyched out thinking we're on good terms for five days only to have you hate me again. No more mood swings, are we clear?
Signed,
The rest of Al's body


Dear Kait,
Is it okay to call? I really want to talk to you, but I don't know the protocol for new moms and phones.
Love,
Will's favorite non-related aunt


Dear Jessica Simpson,
I really love your Oscar line. I'd love it even more if it were available in a size 5.5
Thank you,
A potential customer


Dear 5:00 p.m.,
Please come faster.
Impatiently,
Allison


Dear Jannie,
I have a dad crush on you.
Also,
I miss your face.
Hugs,
Your favorite roommate


Dear Boston,
The rain this week was great. We don't have to hit humidity again before fall. Let's just hop to it (but avoid winter for a really long while, please).
Yours,
An Oregonian
P.S. What's the deal with calling milkshakes frappes? That regional difference is strange to me.

At 2:42 in the a.m.

Image source.

And it's not done yet.

Come and see me and we'll brush up on bad habits

I did not hear my alarm this morning. This is the second time in two days.

Not good.


I think it's partially because I've become incredibly lazy since leaving BYU. Let's review the last 18 months of my life, shall we?


January 2010: Begin final semester of school (15 credits). Begin dating a boy. Complete three grad school applications. Work 20 hour weeks. Completely booked schedule 8--5 daily. Fill evenings/weekends with boy, homework, roommates, (very rarely) reading.

February 2010: Begin selling my soul to Stowaway. Begin applying to summer jobs. Receive Emerson acceptance; worry about decision. Continue dating a boy. Continue working 20 hour weeks. Continue completely booked schedule 8--5 daily. Fill evenings/weekends with boy, homework, roommates, (very rarely) reading.

March 2010: Begin to panic about my IS course that is rapidly nearing its deadline. Begin major sociolinguistics project. Completely sell my soul to Stowaway. Break up with a boy. Receive NYU acceptance; worry about decision. Continue applying to summer jobs. Continue working 20 hour weeks. Continue completely booked schedule now 8--6 or 7 daily. Fill evenings/weekends with homework, Stowaway, (rarely) roommates, (very very rarely) reading.

April 2010: Continue completely booked schedule now 8--10 or 11 daily. Continue working 20 hour weeks. Finish IS course in two weeks with -5 days to spare. Finish sociolinguistics project with three hours to spare. Finish three rounds of proofreading changes for Stowaway with two days to spare. Finish all other projects and papers by the skin of my teeth. Finish five finals. Do not fill evenings/weekends as they no longer exist. Graduate. Find a summer job. Make a decision (Emerson).


And here's where things change (drastically) . . .

May 2010: Quit work at IS. Begin work at InfoTrax. Play with roommates and Spokane boys.

June 2010: Continue work at InfoTrax. Look for Boston housing. Attend weddings. Visit home. Play with roommates and Spokane boys.

July 2010: Continue working at InfoTrax. Look for Boston housing. Attend weddings. Play with roommates and Spokane boys.

August 2010: Continue working at InfoTrax. Find Boston housing. Attend weddings. Pack. Quit InfoTrax. Play with roommates and Spokane boys. Move to Boston.

September 2010: Start evening classes. Look for a job. Explore Boston. Visit Washington DC.

October 2010: Continue classes. Look for a job. Explore Boston. Visit New York.

November 2010: Continue classes. Look for a job. Explore Boston. Visit Washington DC.

December 2010: Finish classes. Look for a job. Explore Boston. Home for Christmas.

January 2011: Visit Provo. Beat a snowstorm. Start evening classes + internship. Look for a job.


Now this is where things pick up again . . .

February 2011: Continue classes + internship. Find a job. Start a job.

March 2011: Continue classes + internship. Work 40 hour weeks. Continue completely booked schedule 8:30--11 daily. Visit Washington DC. Fill weekends (no evenings) with homework, roommates, (very rarely) reading.

April 2011: Continue classes + internship. Continue working 40 hour weeks. Continue completely booked schedule 8:30--11 daily. Begin Salman Rushdie paper (and obsession). Visit New York. Visit Connecticut. Fill weekends (no evenings) with homework, roommates, (very rarely) reading.

May 2011: Finish classes + internship. Finish Salman Rushdie paper with eight minutes to spare. Develop nasty cold. Continue working 40 hour weeks. 


But then another downhill spiral . . .

June 2011: Continue working 40 hour weeks. Visit home.

That time that slowed down between May 2010 and March 2011 was too long. Almost a year not filled with an insane schedule, and the two months back wasn't enough to get me to focus. So I'm back to wasting tremendous amounts of time.

Blast.


Good news is, one week until the insanity starts again. And this time it won't end until May 2012.

Here's hoping I survive it.

What happens when you don't see a doctor

So apparently (per 500 Days of Summer, one of the greatest movies ever made) Henry Miller once said that the best way to get over a woman is to turn her into literature. I am not trying to get over a woman (cue sigh of relief there), but I am particularly irritated with some of my limbs today. Perhaps the suggestion applies to difficulties other than unrequited love.

This is a story of acute physical pain. Now, I haven’t broken a femur or been in labor, but apparently my experience was pretty close.

Four and a half years ago as a dorm-living freshman at BYU, I ran down my dorm stairs to go to watch the Tuesday devotional with Kait, and I tripped. Luckily, it was the lower end of the stairs and not the upper end, but I still fell and subsequently rolled my ankle and broke the fourth metatarsal in my right foot. (That’s right, I know anatomy terms.) Although it hurt, I was not aware that it was broken, and because of this (and my previous negative experiences with doctors) I did not get it checked for six months. And then not again for another six.

A year after the initial break I began seeing a podiatrist in Provo who tried a variety of methods to fix said broken bone: A brace, medication, three weeks in a boot (in Provo in February). After none of that worked, he suggested giving me a shot of celestone, a steroid that would help soothe the inflammation around the joint that was broken so it could heal itself properly. So, on the allotted day my dear roommate Jamie walked with me to the podiatrist’s office to get this shot.

Jamie (on left) at her bridal shower, a month after her heroic accompaniment.

Going to the office I think Jamie was more worried than I was. She stayed in the waiting room while I went back with the doctor, but by the time I was in the chair and he was preparing the celestone, I was nervous. I asked him how much it would hurt.

“Well, more than a normal shot, but less than childbirth.”

???

Could you possibly have given me a wider range of pain? (NO.)

As I mentioned before, I’ve never been in labor, but I am absolutely certain that this injection was much closer to childbirth than a normal shot. Apparently Jamie heard me whimpering from the waiting room (the walls are pretty thin there, don't think I was being really loud) and panicked. It definitely hurt worse than the broken bone, and I stayed off my foot (and on my couch) for two days.

This is what I looked like while in the boot. Actually, this is what I looked like most of the year regardless of the broken foot. That was my couch, and so help me, if I was home no one else could sit on it.

Two years later the same podiatrist gave me the same injection for a last-ditch attempt to solve this problem. I reminded the doctor of his description two years prior, and he said, "Oh. Well, we'll talk you through it." He then tried to carry on conversation as he was inflicting my foot with fiery pain: How's the summer? When do you move to Boston? Are you excited about Emerson? But I really only remember managing this response: "It's really hard for me to form coherent sentences right now."

This time it was my lovely roommate Kim who took me to the doctor, and knowing how badly it hurt the first time, I had her drive me straight home rather than going back to work. 

Me and Kim (and Melis) the day after, at Annie's wedding.

We were on our feet the next day for Annie’s wedding. Holy goodness, did that hurt. But these guys took care of me, and didn't even complain (much) when I asked them to get things for me so I wouldn't have to walk. Thanks, dears.

Dunkball in tuxes. Heck yes we did. (Photos stolen from Melis.)

Birds are freaking noisy at 5a.m., did you know?

Sleeping with the window open tonight. Can't decide if my room is hot (yay spring) or if I am (boo fever).


Also, while Thursday is the day I'll be officially finished with my first year of grad school, today is the day that I really am finished. Turned in sixteen pages of Salman Rushdie last night at 11:54p.m. Five minutes to spare. Take that, Roy.



Bed at 10:30 is glorious. 'Night chickies.

Miracles

I'm sure you've all heard the news about the tornado in Alabama. It always makes me sad to hear stories like these, but this one was a little more personal than normal. A girl who went to Jerusalem with me, Rachael, lives in Tuscaloosa with her husband. Although we were not close friends, I love her dearly because we shared those wonderful experiences. She is such a sweet, strong person and I always admired her.

This is a link to an interview she gave with CNN about her experience with the tornado. The photos you see are of their apartment. It's an amazing story, and I am so grateful they made it through safely.

Actually Eating (Crazy, I Know)

Sometimes there are Sundays that I feel speak directly to me.

The last three weeks certainly have been like that. In consequence of this, as well as one FHE lesson and one conversation had multiple times with a friend, I have eaten breakfast for almost two consecutive weeks (something I haven’t done without monetary reward from Melis since Jerusalem), I went grocery shopping for real meal ingredients (not that soup or rice and beans aren’t meals, but something slightly more substantial and less salty), and I actually prepared meals for myself so I can eat something when I get back from class at 10:30 during the week. Once I get this eating thing down, maybe I’ll try sleep or exercise.

So I’m ready for you, next five weeks from hell. You won’t kill me; I will be fully nourished.

Feeling Meh

I had a great blogging idea earlier and have completely forgotten it. I guess that happens on the third day of low-grade fever.

I had this conversation with Jessie today:

2:42 PM me: were you so sad last night?

 Jessica: yeah

2:43 PM me: I wanted to cry when we went into overtime because I knew there was no way we'd make it

 Jessica: wow you unfaithful not-a-true-fan

2:44 PM me: they were so tired

  and Florida was playing Jimmer so hard

  you could tell five more minutes would hurt them

 Jessica: it doesnt matter you are still unfaithful

 me: hahaha

2:45 PM I've never had that much faith in BYU

 Jessica: understandable but still

 Both my sister and brother want to throw me out for not believing in BYU. But I believed! And look what happened. 74-83. That's okay; they did way better in the tournament than I've ever seen them do before. Or will for thirty years.

Favorite Weepies song from an album I don't own but do listen to on grooveshark:



Please ignore the pictures and just listen to the music. I didn't make the video.

K, off to buy these shoes. So sorry for the nonsense post. Can't promise tomorrow will be better.


Oh, and so totally jazzed that Arizona beat Duke! Way to go, Arizona. Now let's see Richmond, VCU, Marquette, and Kentucky do as well. Wouldn't it be sweet to go into the Elite 8 with no Number 1 or 2 seeds? Heck yes it would.

Anyone Who Says Otherwise

Sometimes I wonder if there is a certain amount of emotions/experiences/opportunities in the world and if someone else gets one the chance of you getting the same one is less likely. It's the idea behind our slight jealousy/disappointment when something really good happens to someone we know. Like, "Oh, she just got that awesome internship. Cool. Fewer chances for me. . ."

Tonight I had serious problems concentrating in my literature class. Not because I disliked the discussion (although at one point I really did want to kick a girl), but because I could not ignore the shooting pain in my hip and leg. My broken (really it's arthritic, yeah, whatever) foot was aching too. Maybe the weather is changing again. Either way, I did not appreciate having a body that feels like it's 50 when it's only 22. But you can appreciate it; the more pain I have, the less there is left in the world for you. 


Just so we're clear, I know that is not actually the way the world works. Just on occasion I contemplate it, that's all.

Activity

I know you will be shocked, but this is a true statement: I have begun a routine of physical activity.

It's true, I swear. Although this weekend I was reminded of one of the reasons I never was very physical to begin with: pain.

 I have been running multiple times a week since the end of April, which I enjoy. That is also weird, I know. I usually do around a mile and a half, although I found a really great 5K in July. Observe.

This weekend was a very active weekend for my apartment. Saturday I went running and then played tennis with two roommates and a friend in our ward. We discovered something we already knew---except for Mac, we are terrible tennis players. It was fun, although I felt bad for Mac who "almost broke a sweat once." Hahaha. He is a ridiculously powerful server, though, and unintentionally hit me in the leg. I now have a lovely welt surrounded by a bruise, which has impressed everyone who's seen it except my mother. But I think the light in Krista's basement was bad and she just didn't see it very well.

 Yesterday we passed Audrey's rugby ball out in front of the apartment for a very long time. I recently learned how to throw a rugby ball and am excited about this new skill. Unfortunately, I'm not quite as skilled in the catching department. It was passed a little too far to the right for me to comfortably catch, and the ball bent my fingers back weirdly, jamming one. I never realized how much one finger would make a difference, but apparently it does. I couldn't swim (although I did) and this entire post has been typed with only my left hand.