Sunday, January 18, 2015

Who Has Time for a Blog Anyway, When All One Does is Apply to Graduate School?

Personal Statement

I don’t know how to start. I’m pretty average and somewhat entitled. I could write this Woolf-style and just stream my consciousness all over this page, smudging it with black scratches that somehow encompass who I am and where I’d like to be. What if all the answers are, “I don’t really know?” Should I lie—pretend what I want is to move to some remote corner of the world with my doctor husband and teach little Mexican kiddies how to speak English so they can trade stocks online and watch reality TV? Or should I engage in a powerfully moving monologue about the potential and sheer capacity of literature to change the world as we know it? Am I perky? A smart-ass? Is it okay to joke in a Personal Statement of Professional Purpose? Probably not. Unless my grammar is inarguably correct and streaklessly shiny and my formatting is perfectly aligned. Purdue OWL, people. 


Wednesday, November 12, 2014

Anxiety by Kaylie Hayter

It starts as nothing, a little paper-thin pull right under the breast

bone, too far in to itch. I try to breath it out of me, blow it away

    with the gusting of my forceful lungs, but it spirals. It grows,

        feeds off my air and turns it against me. Perpetuated by my

           effort, it plugs my throat and twists up to my eyes. My

               lungs are capped, screwed shut. There is not enough air

                    in this room, building, block, town, state, country

                        for me to gulp down. It turns into sublime weather
                  raging inside my chest, ripping apart the town of safety
            and security I have built upon the surface of my diaphragm.

           My safe cars are thrown back, my calm roofs are torn up,

          my secure stairs are left dangling. Destruction

           coming from nothing. My funnel of fear is made

            of paper-thin worry and built-up breath.

                   And even after the storm’s wake is

                          swept up and buried away,

                                  a worried whisper of wind

                                         tugs at the paper-thin

                                                 strings connecting

                                                           each and every

                                                                   rib inside of


Friday, February 28, 2014

An Ode to Video Games

By special request from my husband Perry Craig Hayter, I present to you: 

An Ode to Video Games 

A polite and gracious nod to Nintendo and to Sony,
My only beef with them is that they're taking all my money. 
The problem that I have, you see, is with a different set,
Those damned Italian plumbers and their damsel in distress. 

Don't even get me started on how hard it is to find
That Zelda they're all looking for in oca-something-time.
If Blizzard would produce their games without so much delay,
My husband wouldn't waste his time on NBA2K.

Those gory zombie shooters sure all look the same to me,
And what's a "free roam map" and an "online PVP?"
That World of Warcraft sure is long; it takes over your life,
And that's why all the guys online will never have a wife.

And then you've got your Batman and your Call of Duty 3,
Though neither take as long to win as that Assassin's Creed.
I cannot deal with Skyrim and I'm dreading ESO,
I want to scratch the Starcraft disk and shatter Diablo.

My husband cannot look away from the computer screen,
He stays up all night long collecting coins like a machine.
These characters and games, I think, are such a waste of time,
Though I do get a good night's sleep when our whole bed is mine!

If you're not a gamer (or married to one) this may not make any sense. I wrote this as a joke to my husband after a long week of new-game obsession, but I want to disclaim it by letting you all know how much I love him even though he loves video games a little too much!!

Wednesday, January 8, 2014

“What an astonishing thing a book is. It is a flat object made from a tree. It is an assemblage of flat, flexible parts (still called "leaves") imprinted with dark pigmented squiggles. One glance at it and you're inside the mind of another person, perhaps someone dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, the author is speaking, clearly and silently, inside your head, directly to you. Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people, citizens of distant epochs, who never knew one another. Books break the shackles of time ― proof that humans can work magic.”--Carl Sagan

Wednesday, January 1, 2014

What I Read: 2013

I've started a new tradition. You can now expect a "What I Read" every year! I am happy to give an impromptu review of any of the books listed, so if you're interested in reading one, let me know.

And on that note, happy 2014!!

Monday, December 16, 2013

Why I am a Terrible Blogger.

Let's talk: Why I am a terrible blogger.
In List form, lovelies.

#A) I feel like I have literally no time in my schedule to perform a superfluous task like blogging. Would blogging be a superfluous task if I was any good at it? No! Would it feel superfluous if anyone actually read my blog and enjoyed it? No! Would it be superfluous if I had exciting life events to write about so I could show off to the whole world wide web community that only exists abstractly? Of course not! Is the word superfluous starting to lose its meaning because I've used it too much? Yes. Yes it is.

#B) I'm trying to write a book. Laughable, admittedly, but time consuming: absolutely. Whenever I have random free time between school and work and cleaning and cooking and etc. and I feel the desire to write, I turn to that 52 page monster. (yeah, 52 pages, I'm going to be wildly optimistic and exclaim that that is an accomplishment worth noting!)

#C) I get discouraged. I stare at blogs all the days (at work, between working and pretending to work) and they are soooo interesting and fun to look at and, well, not about someone's boring life like mine is. Blogging is like internet cheerleading: One girl thinks she's super good at backflips until she joins the cheer squad and then sees another girl doing double back flips and she's all, "Oh crap, I didn't know people were doing doubles!" so she practices her cartwheels and becomes exceptional at those but then sees the cheer captain doing ariels and she thinks, "no hands?!" This is my life, but I'm the cheerleader in the corner still doing somersaults.

#D) I'm poor, so I can't do a fashion blog, I'm renting so I can't do a home DIY blog, I'm a student so I can't do a writing blog, I'm boring so I can't do a lifestyle blog, and I'm not very funny, which rules out basically all other options except porn. Which I'm not pretty enough to do.

#E) I consider THIS a blog post. Do you see why you never actually visit this site? Don't feel guilty, I understand. I wouldn't either. I don't, actually, HENCE the month of empty-no-blogging-ness.

And this, my friends, was my 100th blog post. Happy Birthday, meaningless words.

Thursday, October 31, 2013

A Halloween poem

A poem by Emily Dickinson

ONE need not be a chamber to be haunted,
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place.
Far safer, of a midnight meeting        5
External ghost,
Than an interior confronting
That whiter host.
Far safer through an Abbey gallop,
The stones achase,        10
Than, moonless, one’s own self encounter
In lonesome place.
Ourself, behind ourself concealed,
Should startle most;
Assassin, hid in our apartment,        15
Be horror’s least.
The prudent carries a revolver,
He bolts the door,
O’erlooking a superior spectre
More near.

Thursday, October 24, 2013

This is yarn bombing

Artists. They do the wackiest things, and I just wish I was them.

This is yarn bombing. This is the article in the NYTimes about Jessie Hemmons, the notorious yarn bomber, which is apparently, a thing:

This is her website, where you can see other overnight masterpieces that can be attributed to her needles and hooks:

You go weird artists, you go.