loose leaf and spiral bound

Yup. I did it again. I put my poetry in the UNL Staff Art Show. AGAIN. I know that last year I was a nervous wreck at the First Friday reception for the university staff art show, and this year wasn't any easier. It was almost worse because I knew what to expect this time. I knew there would be a guest book where strangers could leave notes about the pieces on display and there was no way I could not look at the book. Like a moth to a flame I started flipping through the pages to see if anyone had anything to say about my stuff. Well, they did. AND IT WAS LOVELY!! I was beyond elated. These two folks took the time to jot down their thoughts and it made me feel so good inside. Totally worth the nausea and sweaty palms. There is no need to reiterate to you all that I am by no means an artist by definition. Sure, I like to make things and try new artsy stuff that I see on DIY blogs - - but I am a writer. That's my sweet spot. Sometimes I like to display my writi...

Occasionally, my emotions are so overwhelming it seems like I could stop time and actually touch my feelings; like they are tangible things I could hold in my hands and rotate, look at, and dissect. This weekend we (me, my husband, and my daughter) loaded up in our old Chevy truck and drove out to my mother's house in rural Nebraska for dinner. It was early evening, the sun was bright, the breeze was cool, the windows were down, and the radio was up. The three of us didn't have to talk to fill the gaps between us on the bench seat. We were comfortable just singing along with the Top 40 country songs coming through the speakers. As we drove along, I felt...well, I just felt. I felt strong, loved, and perfectly perfect. It was one of those rare moments-in-time when all is right in the world. There really wasn't anything extra special about the day, the drive, or the song. We've driven that stretch of highway countless times together. But that moment was special - the ...

Though it pains me to admit this, there are times that I get insanely jealous of those people who can draw and paint and bring things to life in that way. Instead of letting jealousy eat away at my insides, I do what comes naturally and use my words to tell a story. I give a voice to those people captured in portraits and paintings. And you know what? There is merit in that, too. Take this as an example of "art skills that make Jenn jealous": You can buy this. You should. It's stunning.   http://society6.com/ObedRaimundo/Soft-Skin_Print#1=45 How could I not get lost in her? How could I not think about what she's feeling and what put that look on her face? After I waded through my initial reaction to this piece, I took the next logical step and told my version of her story. The words came pouring out almost faster than I could write. (Thank God for computers, auto-saving, and spell check.) Admittedly, there is a little of my story in there. Maybe a little of my...

As you might guess from the title, I have something to say. Go ahead and read this tumblr post.  Just do it real quick: Now here's the deal. I met my husband when I was just 18 years old through a mutual friend. We started dating when I was 19. Had our daughter when I was 21, married at 22 (wedding was in May and my college graduation was in August - a busy few months), and home owners by 23. There is not a single day that I regret any part of our time together. I have a constant companion and best friend, no need to worry about dates for parties, have someone who likes to cook me dinner, fixes things around the house, and mows the lawn. IT'S GREAT!! Here we are on our wedding day. Say it with me, "D'aww"! Do I give him a hard time and tell him that he robbed my of my youth? Absolutely. (Teasing him is one of my favorite pastimes. I might even call it a hobby.) Do I mean it? Absolutely not. There were lots of folks out there who didn't think w...

I STAYED AT THE STANLEY HOTEL!!! (...way back in April. Yeah. Totally slacking on getting this post up. Stop judging me and just start reading. Look at my pictures at a minimum.) Let me start at the beginning. All of these wheels started turning when I sent my mother a link to an article interviewing Stephen King about his sequel to The Shining. It tells the story of an all grown up Danny Torrance. (FYI, The Shining is one of my favorite books AND favorite movies.) She got just as excited as me about this and the next thing I know, we're on a road trip to Colorado for a two night stay at the Stanley Hotel. BOOM! My Mom wins all the awards and gathers all of the cool points because she booked us a room on the 4th floor (haunted floor) and we got a Redrum coffee mug, glow in the dark squeezy ghost and frisbee, AND a night time ghost hunt. GAH! My excitement is still palpable four months later. Side note: for those who don't know, the Stanley is where Stephen King was staying...

Remember how I told you all about my act of subterfuge ? How I weaseled my poetry into an art show? Well, here's how it went... This is me living out my childhood dream of being a brown haired Vanna White.  So, there was a reception during the April First Friday Artwalk. OF COURSE THERE WAS! That didn't make me anxious at all. (It is one thing to send in poems to journals and writing competitions because those people are faceless and if/when they reject me it doesn't feel personal because I am not staring at their faces making small talk while it happens.) I was absolutely terrified of overhearing someone make fun of my stuff or tear it down to tiny little pieces. I am fairly self-aware and know that I am not a traditional "artist". There were things hanging on those gallery walls that just blew my mind and in no way could I even begin to compare my stuff to theirs. Apples to bowling balls. But guys, nothing horrible happened. In fact, people were so nice ...

So, the university that employs me holds an annual "Staff Art Show". Now it is quite obvious that I am not an artist in any formal way. I like to draw cartoon-ish doodles and make crafty things, but I would never say that I am anything close to a legitimate artist. I am like an artist's second-cousin-twice-removed-by-marriage. With that said, I definitely entered a piece of work in the show. Let me tell you why I did it and how I found a loophole to make myself feel better (read: less nauseous). Since I am a poet who happens to love photography (even though I am not a great photographer) - - I used a picture that I took last summer, worked some digital manipulation magic, transferred that image to a canvas, painted on it a bit, and then placed a poem of mine as the cherry on top. Here's what that looks like: Copyright Jennifer Klein, 2013. This was the piece I submitted to the University of Nebraska-Lincoln Staff Art Show. It is titled, "The Second Time Aro...

On a totally un-poetic, not very "literary", note - - I would like to talk about friendship. Folks, I'll have you know that I just turned thirty. Yup. The big 3-0. I had a shindig and as all my friends and family were surrounding me, I realized that I have the most ridiculously absurd friends. And I love them dearly. However, we all have that   friend. The one who knows that deep down you are a actually a super judge-y person full of inappropriate jokes, are a borderline asshole, and loves you despite all that. Maybe, quite possibly, because of all that. Well, I am lucky enough to have a few of those friends, but one in particular demonstrates these qualities in spades. You've seen some of our random text messages here . But please, let me introduce you to a handful of our instant messages: Conversation 1:  HER: Still, that's a lot of cat heariding *herding. but possibly also hea-riding. ME: How did you know I recently became a fan of hea-riding? Heas...

Remember how I went off on a rant about how I hate going back to my "Graveyard" folder and looking through shitty old poems? Well, apparently I challenged myself. A double-dog-dare, if you will. Stupid me. I took three of the poems that were in the The Graveyard and resurrected them. Just plunked all of them "as is" into one document and went to work. This is what happened. My own little Frankenpoem...not sure I love it, but I don't think I hate it. I've titled it, " The Graveyard Revisited ": My broken pride drove me home this morning. The radio massaged into my brain endless lines and lyrics of love songs, until my pain puked me into slumber. Cuddled so close to nightmares of things I could have, would have, should have said. But, you do not know how to operate a touch tone phone. So instead, my confused confidence will hide out in what used to be your spot on the couch. I'll keep sleeping on this couch. It'll keep warm from the te...