Tibby the Alligator

This personal statement thing is HARD HARD HARD. Did you know that you have to write a little dissertation proposal? Well, you do. My fake dissertation is going to be called "The Long Arm of the Confessional."

I'm still having a little sudoku problem. It's gotten me thinking about my vaguely synesthetic tendency to attribute colors and--it turns out--personalities to numbers. For instance, 2s, 3s, and 4s are among the easiest for me to notice are missing in a row, column, or box. Is this because they're distinctively shaped? No, it's because they're yellow, blue, and green, so they stand out. They're also all nice numbers: 4 I've always felt a kinship with, 2 is solid but a little more stuck-up, and 3 is sort of an everyman of a number--gentle, reliable, strong--and has really been growing on me. 5 (reddish/goldish/colorless), 6 (red), and 9 (orange) totally blend in and are impossible to spot and have nasty personalities, although 6 isn't that bad and 9 is the absolute worst. 7s (purple) and 1s (white) are pretty distinctive but remote; more like celebrities than real people. Anyway, it makes the whole mindless activity all the more addictive.

Late last night, in a sudoku-induced trance, I wrote a poem called "Not the Easiest Bridge to Be in Love With," and I kind of like it.

Marianne Moore had a pet alligator as a child, named Tibby. I mean, is the woman trying to be a caricature of herself?!? Actually, I've noticed that pretty much all Moore criticism points out that all other critics condescend to Moore, promises not to condescend itself, and then goes ahead and does it anyway. But not me. I genuinely think she's fantastic and the idea that she was a batty old lady makes me bristle.