Self Prophecy

False Alarm.

2012-02-01T19:06:00.000-08:00

I've found another outlet for my political rants.

This will remain a writing/personal blog.

Speaking of which, Pank 6 is here. It's lovely and delightfully thick.

Within, kevin weidner, Matt Mahaney and I.

The Squirrel Myth

2012-01-21T12:10:00.000-08:00

Oh man. This is a hop, skip, and a jump away from becoming a political blog. I constantly find myself sitting down to write out thoughts I have, adjustments and reactions and metaphors that I come up with in my encounter with the world of politics and ideologies (typically via articles posted on Facebook, ha).

I was talking to someone I don't know very well about Ayn Rand, and he had this to say (edited for language but otherwise sic):

"Ayn Rand is definitely extreme! She is thought provoking and that is why I enjoyed the book. I do not agree with all her ideas.

I think Atlas Shrugged is about enabling. I do not think "man" is created equal. I'm not assigning value to one life versus another, just that we all struggle and excel at different things. Some of us are more industrious than others, smarter, sacrifice today for payoff tomorrow. Nature is structured to reward this, survival of the fittest. Species need this to remain healthy. The squirrel who is to lazy to gather nuts for the winter does not need to reproduce. If his industrious squirrel buddies lend a hand and help him out, he can make that many more lazy, baby squirrels. The lazy population could grow to threaten the industrious population/the species as a whole.Feeding lazy squirrels rewards negative behavior! Reinforcing and compounding the problem by increasing the likeliness of its occurrence.

Compassion is a powerful emotion! We can not sit idly by and watch starvation when we have a surplus of our own. It is in our own best interest to help other members of the species survive. We are so hard wired for this it hurts/(messes) with our sanity to not help/contribute if we can. What is the answer? Help out and create a cycle of supporting a noncontributing, dependent population. Remain cold and heartless?"

Well, here's my response.

The "lazy squirrel" story you're telling is a myth. It's a useful set of beliefs to keep wealthy squirrels (so called "industrious squirrels") from feeling guilty about the fact that their comfortable lifestyle is enjoyed not just in the face of, but quite literally at the expense of, starving and suffering squirrels the world over. It's a justification for actively fighting and ignoring your basic squirrel compassion.

It also helps to keep poor squirrels from blaming the right squirrels for the growing wage gap, unemployment rate, and the growing rate of poverty and homelessness.

Tell squirrels that if they're poor, it means they're lazy or dull or unlucky. Tell them that if they blame the system and the "industrious squirrels" it serves, it means they're bad, lazy squirrels who don't want to take accountability for their own failure. You can get quite a few extremely poor squirrels to look to blame everyone and everything else but the "industrious squirrels" that way, because no one wants to think of themselves as lazy or whiny.

Everyone is afraid they're not good enough, not bright or pretty or lucky enough. They're afraid their inherent inferiority is the reason why their hard work hasn't brought them a comfortable lifestyle like the "industrious squirrels" have. No one wants to be a "lazy squirrel." Some squirrels work hard their whole lives, and curse luck, and curse fate, and curse themselves that they never managed to turn their hard work into enough nuts to support their family. They keep their heads down and don't complain and think to themselves, "I'm not like these other squirrels, who are *actually* lazy. I'm an industrious squirrel, and any day now, I'm going to have the nuts to prove it."

And sure, some of them look around, see how dismal the options are, recognize the sizable obstacles in the way of squirrels like them ever having a lot of nuts, and they give up and let the system take care of them. But your average "lazy squirrel" works 2-4 jobs and/or overtime just to survive, thanks to union busting, minimum wage suppression, outsourcing, administrative pay inflation, predatory lending practices, irresponsible financial management by the "industrious squirrels."

Why do we think they're "industrious" again?...Oh, right! Because they have so many nuts. Squirrels never inherit nuts, do they?...or have a crazy stroke of luck that has nothing to do with hard work?...or steal a bunch of nuts by lying to lots of squirrels about the value of their investments? (...seriously, watch "Inside Job.")

Your "lazy squirrel" story just doesn't hold up to reality, my friend. But it's a handy tale for, say, trust fund squirrels, who are invested in believing it because they didn't actually *earn* anything they have (not in the sense that a squirrel with nothing would have to earn it), don't actually work hard now, and enjoy a lifestyle that essentially kills hundreds of children every day. That sounds like hyperbole, but think about it. There aren't unlimited resources in this world, which means that any resource used in one place is not available to be used in another place. When "industrious squirrels" throw fabulous parties that cost millions of dollars, those dollars are not going into the paychecks of sweatshop workers. They're not going towards feeding the starving, healing the ill. They're not saving hundreds of squirrel families from foreclosure. They're not going to the public school systems. Those dollars will not help victims of the wars the "industrious squirrels" found ways to profit from.

There is a global cache of resources. It is not unlimited. Taking more than your fair share is not a victimless crime or people wouldn't be *starving.* But hey. You're not the bad guy, you're the industrious squirrel. Those lazy squirrels need to stop whining about how many nuts you have and get their own nuts.

A lot of "industrious squirrels" actively work to defend the squirrel myth so that all of the "lazy squirrels" won't know who to blame for the nut shortages. Without misdirection, the abuses would quickly become clear; they're not subtle, after all. I mean, Citizens United? Totally unsubtle. So they misdirect the blame.

The squirrel myth is strong. Once you already assume (subconsciously) that squirrels who don't have a ton of nuts are pretty much lazy or otherwise inadequate and unworthy, it's easy to make everyone look down on the squirrels who have less nuts than they do--and at the very bottom of the food chain you typically find the squirrels who have benefited the least from the current system (i.e. the ones who have been so screwed over by the "industrious squirrels" that they know for a FACT that the "lazy squirrel" myth is a lie.) So whoever is attuned to the myth, that is, whoever believes that squirrels should stop trying to point to injustices in the system and pull themselves up by their bootstraps and get to work, those squirrels are already oriented to dislike and distrust squirrels who have less power than they do. (And to respect and trust and feel inferior to those who have more.)

So who do the "industrious squirrels" blame for social ills? The least powerful, of course, and the easiest to mark as "different" and/or "morally inferior." Immigrants. Single mothers. Squirrels of color.

This is pretty ingenious, actually, because the ones who have been screwed over by systemic oppression are the most likely to track down the "industrious squirrels" who stole all of the nuts right from under us, and come after them. They're the most likely to have intimate knowledge of the loopholes in the system that allow for abuses. They're the most likely to call for justice. In one fell swoop, the "industrious squirrels" keep the growing "lazy squirrel" population from figuring out the cause of the nut shortage, and get them to turn against the segment of their own ranks that is most likely to catch the perpetrators and rectify the injustice.

The bottom line is, it's not okay to spend millions and millions of dollars on big adult toys and playtime and fun and pretty things while people starve and suffer, and we need to stop acting like it is. It's not just the way things are--we *create* the way things are through our actions (and inaction). Until there is enough for all, extravagance is shameful, and tasteless, and sickening.

Uncanny Valley

2011-10-19T14:38:00.000-07:00

Roxanne Gay! Brian Oliu! Me! Other awesomeness!

Uncanny Valley issue 0001

Migration

2011-10-03T22:40:00.000-07:00

I feel like there's something in the air. Something compelling us to move, to take action. A sort of herd sense. Things seem to be accelerating...it's harder to keep secrets in the new information era, knowledge is power, and the people are recognizing it. Obama, Egypt, Michael Pollan, Wikileaks, The Rally to Restore Sanity, Occupy Wall Street, gay rights--Lady Gaga, even. We're taking a hard look at our relationship to the planet, our relationship to the Other, our systems of government. Something is happening, and if we're lucky, we're going to be a part of it.

Summer. Tornado. Love.

2011-05-27T14:05:00.000-07:00

Today marks exactly one month from the tornado that devastated our town, and what a strange month it's been. Even before the tornado, my life was shifting quite a bit.

April 21st, one week before the tornado, there was a storm in the morning. I was lying in bed with my dog, thinking as always "this house is very old and although the storm seems terrible, there are no sirens and we have weathered worse" and then my windows blew into my room with a loud clattering of glass. My contacts were out and it seemed to me that the wind had done it. I screamed and jumped out of bed and ran downstairs. Brett could tell something was up, because she followed me right to the darkroom in the Art Kitchen downstairs. We huddled there for a while, wondering if a tornado was, in fact, coming through, then we had to go back upstairs and deal with a room full of glass, rain, things knocked over on the floor, dirt. I decided to move that day. I rented a moving truck, and with the help of my neighbors and Anthony, had everything out of the pink house and into my new over-the-garage house in no time.

That same Sunday: Anthony and I broke up.

Then, on Wednesday, I was trying to grade and/or read stuff for my Joyce essay when the sirens went off again, and again, and again. Then someone said that the tornado was heading right for campus, so we all huddled in an inner room and some of us passed around tiny bottles of wine for nerves. I was very terrified. Afterwards, we weren't sure if it was really over or if more tornadoes were coming, so we huddled in the student center basement (the Ferg, for those in the know) until it seemed safe to leave. I hurried home to let poor Brett out--she'd been stuck at home for nearly twelve hours while I waited out the warnings.

The next day I really didn't know what to do, so I went to Edelweiss, my favorite cafe here, and got some coffee and tried to work on my paper. That night, I gathered with friends in the darkness (their power went out, then back on, while I was there) and we took comfort in each other's presence, seeing people that we had worried about, knowing they were safe. It wasn't until the next morning, when I gathered with a roving group of MFA's, who would continue to roam the affected neighborhoods, offering helping hands to clear away debris for the next few weeks, that I saw the damage firsthand.

There are no words. Seeing it on TV is so, so different from seeing it in your town. On TV, you feel bad, sad, scared, but you have a little "tragic disasters" box that you can put it in. Maybe you donate some money. And then it's not your problem, except in the abstract "human family" kind of way. When you can't recognize a street you've driven along a hundred times before, whole blocks that used to be tree-lined, neat, filled with familiar landmarks and friendly people--when that turns into a wasteland overnight (or more literally, in a matter of minutes) your internal world rearranges itself too. And life didn't just go on--classes were cancelled. Finals were cancelled. Graduation ceremony was cancelled. Everyone was out trying to make sense of it, volunteering by day and drinking and sticking close by night.

Anthony was very close to the affected areas and actually saw the tornado go by. He was left without power, and I offered to let him charge his phone at my house. We talked about the disaster, about our personal disaster, and many other things, disastrous and redemptive, and at some point over that week of recovery, began to take some steps towards recovery ourselves.

There's no escaping the fact that every time we pass one of the busiest intersections in Tuscaloosa--McFarland and 15th Street--we'll meet a scene of desolation. Those of us who live here, who will live here for another year or five or fifty, we get to keep seeing that daily, and it will be a long time before real normalcy returns. I have seen some good things in the people around me in the wake of this disaster, but I am not going to claim that it changes anything--not in human nature, not in individuals. It rearranges, sure. It's not necessarily revelatory. We will continue to be the same people we are. This will affect our characters only as much as our reactions to anything slowly, slowly, incrementally shape us. Decisions are being made, have been made. I am finding myself more and more okay with the fact that our decisions shape us, but only slowly, only gradually.

Roller Derby

2011-03-17T19:21:00.000-07:00

I've thought about blogging my derby love for a while, but I'm writing derby for a class and reading about and practicing derby for hours every week, so I didn't. But I attended/participated in my first home bout in Birmingham this weekend, and I feel the need to say this: I f*ing love roller derby. It's not a magic solution to all of my problems, but I used to grind my teeth in my sleep and I don't anymore. And there's this need in me that I didn't exactly know was there before but I can definitely feel the difference now that it's being met. And I'm finding brand new kickass girl writers to love. Hooray.

(Note the Mudluscious shoutout on my helmet)

Corium

2010-12-27T09:35:00.000-08:00

New Issue!

Read my short short about bats, Amber Sparks' story about a girl named Ruby who is not quite a person, Glen Pourciau's short Ex and the collaborative piece, Sisters by Amelia Gray and Lindsay Hunter. And then read all the rest because they're all quite good.

List-Making

2010-11-11T07:02:00.000-08:00

I am a maker of lists.

Due to the extremely jumbled, distractable, and random state of my head-workings, I am led to believe that it is not the innate, organized nature of me that prompts me to make lists, it's actually a feeble but comforting compensatory routine, shrouding the rat king of my thoughts in a rusty tarp of order.

Lists I have made or been tempted to make of late (a list of lists! shroud on!):

Progeny of My High School Friends
It is becoming hard to remember who has one, who has two, who has one-in-the-oven and two kneeling cherubically in prayer by their bedsides, and somewhere between my sixteen year-old plans to have four children and three finished books and live on Prince Edward Island, Canada by age twenty-five and my relief that instead of beginning to have children at age twenty-one, I began to have legal shots of tequila, I have an itch to make an Excel spreadsheet documenting the increase in walking fruit of my Utah besties' loins. I think I would get a perverse satisfaction out of seeing how few of my circle have made it to the ripe old age of twenty-five without giving birth.

Things I Need to do Better in Life
Depressingly, most of the items on the list have held a place of prominence for over a decade now. Things that were not on the list at age twelve: Spend less time obsessing over my neuroses. Keep up with housework. Drink ~~less~~ smarter.

Things That Have Gone Wrong in My Relationships
This may sound like a violation of the first item on the previous list, but strangely enough I feel as though there is a funny and lyrical essay/story/thing waiting to be sprouted from this pile of manure.

Animals That Have Appeared, Have Not Yet Appeared, and Will Never Appear in My Stories
1. Rabbits. Bats. A drawn and quartered Yorkie. 2. Jackalope. Rabies spider. Manatee. 3. A cow that is happy to be eaten (Douglas Adams beat me to it). A donkey that poses as the savior of beastkind (already been done, thank you C.S. Lewis) HEY! Wait a minute!!! A donkey... A democrat! ....OBAMA!

Stieg Larsson's Male Gaze

2010-09-21T21:40:00.000-07:00

Just watched "Girl with the Dragon Tattoo." Enjoyed it a moderate amount, the suspense etc., but it bothered me and I talked to some friends after I left the theater and I know why. It's a misogynistic movie.

It purports to be anti-misogyny. The plot of the film follows the titular character, Lisbeth, and (paraphrased) "the last bastion of Swedish watchdog journalism," Mikael, as they hunt down a twisted killer who uses biblical passages as prescriptions for murdering women (which could be read slant-long as commentary on the deep misogyny present in the bible).

Lisbeth, although deeply disturbed by her past and certain terrible circumstances of her present, is utterly self-sufficient and well adjusted for her own brand of survival. She is portrayed as a rather hard core (tattooed, pierced, ass-kicking) lesbian toward the start--when Mikael comes to ask her to help with the case, she has a woman in her bed.

However, to Larsson's mind, Lisbeth's self-expression and sexual persuasion are merely symptoms of a quite understandable aversion to men. Once the virtuous journalist spends some time with her, Lisbeth suddenly decides she likes dick. By the time the movie is over, she has ditched her jeans and sneakers and black punk rock hairdo for come-fuck-me heels and flossy golden locks. This is, to be fair, part of a disguise. Still. From an untouchable, impenetrable (for men) mystery, Lisbeth is transformed into a fantastic creature balancing those two deadly archetypes of femininity: the angel (saves his life, golden hair, beautiful and vulnerable) and the devil (sexy, kicks ass, gets what she wants)

This isn't even to mention the very detailed scenes and descriptions involving rape and murder of women (which heavily emphasize the intense enjoyment of the perpetrators). I'm not one for censorship, and I'm not trying to settle the debate of what needs to be or should be portrayed in order to get x effect and whether such means is ethical/worth it, but taken with Lisbeth's quite unnecessary transformation, well, let's just say I raise an eyebrow.

Zombies.

2010-09-17T09:19:00.000-07:00

I wrote about them. For xTx's Zombie Summer. Go and read some of the other entries, they're much better than mine. My favorite was Tres Crow's "Stillborn" (it's at the bottom of the first page of results.)

Pank

2010-07-22T09:41:00.000-07:00

The July issue is up. It's lovely. It's exciting to see my work alongside the likes of Brandi Wells and Robb Todd.

Read it.

Summer of Submissions Rejections

2010-06-30T21:28:00.000-07:00

For the first time in my life, I am submitting in earnest to literary magazines. I have a killer submission tracker (I work on it when I'm daydreaming about being a real, honest-to-gawd author instead of actually writing or editing), a couple of pieces that I feel are ready to be seen by eyes other the kindly ones belonging to my fellow MFA-ers in workshops, and hope.

At least, I HAD hope.

It's a brutal world out there. My proudest babies are being kicked around like footballs in a world that suddenly seems full of mad elitist gatekeepers. I've always been the "glass is half-full" type, the flip-side of which involves failing to anticipate certain obvious facts of life. Example: when you increase the number of submissions, you not only increase the (slim) odds that you will be published, but likely increase as well the number of rejections you'll get back. The first several "no's" I met with a defiant smile, the next several an expression of grim resolve, the last few a slightly quivering lip.

The truth is that we're all of us staring down the long bleak tunnel of a lifetime of this rejection crap. Even the well-published, well-respected authors I am proud to know continue to receive a parade of impersonal and unexplained form letters.

Good thing writing is its own reward.

Writing for Writers

2010-06-11T10:09:00.000-07:00

I'm trying to revamp. I'm going to update more often, work harder to connect with other writers, etc. I've even posted the link for my blog on facebook (egads!)

One thing that I thought might be helpful is a list of websites for writers. Here are some of my favorites:

HTMLGIANT

Calls itself "the internet literature magazine blog of the future." I think that says it all.

The Rumpus

Intense ADHD-friendly layout with tons of fun stuff from interviews and articles to funny videos to columns (LOVE "Ted Wilson Reviews the World", among others)

FictionDaily

Elegant and simple. Spotlights two or three pieces from small/unknown presses daily. Great way to find excellent writing and new journals.

NOTHING TO SAY

xTx, a mysterious, hilarious, somewhat shameless writer (I've mostly read her short fiction) posts commentary, stories, and links to good stuff. More of an author blog than a blog for all writers, but it's definitely worthwhile.

What are your favorites?

Two poems in blue

2010-06-10T13:03:00.000-07:00

My first web publication, courtesy of ana c. at New Wave Vomit:

Two poems in blue (Waiting and Superimposed Natural)

Also check out my friends Matthew Mahaney (65) and Brandi Wells (31)!

That's all.

Delta Blues-Final Installment (thank goodness)

2010-04-29T16:38:00.000-07:00

Rat's directions had us driving in the late afternoon through long, silent fields of grain, pastures, copses of trees. A beautiful, silent, lonely place. Lonely to us anyway; I'm sure there are those used to the distances between things and the scarcity of people.

Somewhere on the way to Rosedale we stopped at a very rural gas station, building made of wood, people made of gossip. We had some delicious pie (not homemade) and excellent coffee, and an older gentleman asked us where we were from and then warned us about Rosedale. He used certain terms which prepared us for the next part: watch out for those cops in Rosedale, he said, they hate white people. Gave me a ticket for no reason. Clocked me before I even hit the speed limit sign and then ticketed me in the middle of town where the speed limit had dropped by ten. Got a huge expensive ticket and I didn't even do anything.

Hmm, we said. Thanks.

Several grains of salt notwithstanding, we slowed down a bit on our way into town, and made it ticket-free to the Great River Road State Park. We climbed the observation tower and looked out over the Mississippi River, walked down a path to watch it lap at the muddy shore, and were eyed by several locals as we explored a building which appeared to house a disc golf club.

Back on the road. We passed through Cleveland, didn't see much, kept on our way towards Ruleville in order to stop at Dockery Farms, one-time home of the famous Charlie Patton. It was a lush, lovely spot and fairly easy to picture rich evenings of necessary blues; easy also to picture the harsh life of even the best of the sharecropper/itinerant worker situations of the time (which Dockery Farms is said to have been).

Next we went to Indianola and stopped for food at Club Ebony, which is owned by B.B. King. Ray Charles, Ike Turner, Howling Wolf and others have taken the stage at this small juke joint; today, however, it appeared to be a private birthday party or something--we felt more than a little out of place as not only the only white people, but the apparently the only ones not there for the party. We were welcomed kindly, so we took a seat and ordered some beers, the fried catfish, and the "buffalo fish," which turned out to be a delicate endeavor as the bones were still inside of it and easy to eat by accident.

We didn't stay too long once we were done--we were eager to get back to Clarksdale and one of the most anticipated destinations of our trip, Red's juke joint. Since we were feeling a bit tired, we pre-gamed with some energy drink malt beverages, which I was sure were going to give us heart attacks or at the very least devastating hangovers, then walked to Red's--it's about a five minute walk from the Riverside Hotel.

It's an unassuming building from the outside. Except for the giant grill and the music barely contained by brick walls, you'd never know that this is one of the best blues spots in the world on a Friday night. We entered with something like reverence and became swiftly a part of the ecstatic, energetic, worries-out-the-window crowd of musicians, dancers, and lovers of the blues. I have never had music run through my entire body quite like that before--I couldn't help but express it with my shoulders, my arms, my waist, my hips, my feet. At some point in the night we saw Rat, who had mentioned he might stop by, but he didn't stay long.

It was very late--or early--by the time we traced our way back to the Riverside Hotel and our room. The next morning was a bit confused. We hurried to gather our things, I took a shower, Andy thought I was skipping the shower so he didn't take one, we couldn't find a breakfast place... in any case, we finally found ourselves on the road and headed to Memphis.

We tried to pack a bit too much into the afternoon. We went to visit the National Civil Rights Museum, housed at the Lorraine Motel, the site where Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated, a trip deserving of at least two hours of time, potentially much more. The exhibits are a bit reading-heavy. Lots and lots of information packed into an assortment of plaques all over the walls. We scanned them hungrily, trying to hurry through but also get as much as we could out of the experience. There is so much about the Civil Rights Struggle that you don't learn in schools; years and years of ordinary people making extraordinary sacrifices to achieve equality, to better the lives of others, of future generations. So much hatred, resistance, apathy, belligerence. It's amazing how ugly humanity can be; it's also amazing how the spirit can triumph over the evils of the world. I really wish we had realized how much time we had--we were trying to make it to the riverboat tour, which ended up leaving almost an hour after we thought it would.

Oh, the riverboat tour. There was crazy wind the whole time--it was a bit cold. The tour guide offered a strange array of facts, folklore, and commentary; the view was pretty boring, really. Not much more to say about that, except the trip definitely gave us a sense of the power and breadth of the River.

After the tour we headed to our digs, the Inn at Hunt Phelan, an Antebellum mansion close to Beale street. The innkeeper (as he insists on being called) was amazingly generous with his time and services, insisted that we call him day or night if we needed anything, etc. etc. Our room was beautiful but a bit eerie. Not much light. We settled in, had a complimentary drink at the bar downstairs (followed by a non-complimentary drink--our bartender, Brandy, was excellent) and then headed out to Beale street.

Unfortunately the weather was not conducive to bar-hopping; a little after we finished our dinner at Blues City Cafe, it began to rain. We managed to check out the Beale Street Tap Room, Black Diamond, and Alley Katz Gift Emporium, which has a crazy assortment of retro, tacky, and collectible gift items (three categories which often overlapped). The rain was getting both of us down, and we almost headed home, but I convinced Andy that we should stop by Ernestine and Hazel's first--an erstwhile whorehouse transformed into a dining and dancing establishment.

On a tip I had gotten from a liquor store clerk on prior trip to Memphis, Andy and I ventured up to the second floor, where we discovered in a back room a corner bar. Nate, the bartender, has been at it for several decades, and we had some enjoyable conversation with him about the area, his many children and grandchildren, his wife. It was a bit of a quiet night, and we ended it relatively early--our cab driver spiced things up a bit for me by telling us that one of the rooms in the inn is haunted by a man named Nathaniel, a butler, I believe, with some kind of bone to pick. He described a room he had stayed in and had a run-in with Nathaniel--our room, of course.

We got back there and Andy, my knight in shining armor, passed out almost instantly and was impossible to wake with frantic whispers and shaking. I lay staring at the two glowing embers of the lights, which refused to turn off all the way, and listening to a cacophony of noises--it was about three in the morning at this point, mind you, and there was plenty to hear, and I still feel convinced that it wasn't the staff. At least not the current staff. At some point I managed to drift to sleep.

The next morning we had planned to visit the Reverend Al Green's church. I was pretty reluctant. I felt like I didn't have the right clothes, didn't feel comfortable in a church, especially as a tourist, etc. Andy was set on going, though, so I gave in. I'm glad I did. The voyeurism thing was a bit weird, but we certainly weren't the only ones--there were a ton of bland white people (I say bland because they were stiff and didn't clap or dance or seem to enjoy themselves much at all, not just because of their boring, clean cut appearance) who sat all in a block and basically sucked energy from the air around them. We sat in a different section than they did and immersed ourselves as fully as we could in the music and the spiritual experience. Al Green was there as we had hoped he would be (I think they called him "Bishop Al Green," not sure what the distinction is) and he preached and sang to us; the choir was fantastic, and there were a couple of soloists whose names I can't remember who also blew us away.

I had been nervous for the part with the collection plate--reports suggested that Al Green would personally shame anyone who "donated" less than $20 to the church--but he did no such thing, not this time at least.

Right before they were about to close the services, someone whispered something to someone, who whispered something to Al Green, who announced that one of the Blind Boys of Alabama was in the audience and had requested to come up and sing for us. Said gentleman took the stand and delivered a fantastic rendition of "Amazing Grace."

The trip was only a glimpse of the Delta trail, of the South, of the blues, but we both felt it was a rich, beautiful, authentic glimpse. I highly recommend a similar trip to anyone who has an interest in the history of these places.

Delta Blues Pt. 2

2010-03-31T19:30:00.000-07:00

Back to Morgan Freeman's nightclub. (Actually he's only a part owner.) Here is a picture:

It's not actually a hotel. The Delta Cotton Company apartments are located above the nightclub, and they offer the option of renting a room for a night. We stayed in "Strict Good Ordinary," which is next door to the room where Morgan Freeman stays when he comes (we didn't see him). It was not luxurious or fancy but it was spacious and clean and did just fine. It was getting late, so we got settled in the room and then headed to Abe's Bar-B-Q. It's only open on Fridays and Saturdays typically so we were lucky to find it open on a Thursday. The bbq was good (not rave-worthy, but just what I needed) and it was such a fun, friendly place. The chef came out and took our drink order because the server was busy with a large party, then chatted with us about his Pink Floyd shirt (he was also a Beatles fan).

Then we went back to Ground Zero for the Blues Jam with Daddy Rich. This was basically open mic plus a backup band--several individuals came up and jammed. There was a harmonica conference(!) in town, they booked up all of the rooms at the Shack-Up Inn, otherwise we would have stayed there, and some of them took a turn on stage. When I had consumed a sufficient amount of liquid courage I danced a little, but I wasn't sure I was doing it right and there weren't that many people on the dance floor--most were sitting down at the tables. Andy even danced a little.

The next morning we took it easy--checked out the Cat Head Delta Blues and Folk Art store (museum? thing?) and asked them what was happening. They said Red's was the place to be that night, which pretty much confirmed what Andy had heard. Then we considered breakfast at the Dutch Oven, which is run by Mennonites (which, I learned, are not the same thing as the Amish--I was pretty confused to see them using a Coke machine and texting) but we settled on the Delta Amusement Parlor, at least I'm pretty sure that's what it was called. I think we were the only out-of-towners. We were regarded with suspicion at first, then ignored. The local types who obviously felt very at home in this cafeteria-like joint, talked loudly and entertained us with overheard bits of their conversation: "You gonna buy her a Miller Lite tonight?" "Yeah, I might do that." "Haha! You gonna take that little gal out and buy her some beer tonight!" (I'm assuming the "little gal" part was exaggeration--the chef hollered at one of the waitresses, asking her if she'd served the "skinny lil gal out there," meaning me, so grain of salt. Haha)

Then we went to the Delta Blues Museum, which was really cool. It featured Muddy Waters' cabin, two beautiful photo series which painted a lovely portrait of the southern blues lifestyle, outfits worn by blues legends, etc. etc. Informative and fun.

Next we went to the Riverside Hotel. Now, we'd both been trying for the last week to get the proprietor on the phone. The Riverside is legendary and Rat, the man who owns it, is a big part of why it continues to be a remarkable part of blues history.

We were happy to find that he did, in fact, have rooms available. He shuffled us into the main lobby and told us that he'd been sick and that's why he hadn't been able to get to the--he showed us the relic of a phone--and he was happy to talk to us but also seemed tired so I didn't press him for the history of the place, although we did chat a little about it. I get the sense that he gets a lot of joy out of sharing stories and meeting people, but he was a little distant though friendly throughout our stay and I think he was just tired from his recent hospital visit. He showed us the room where Bessie Smith died--the hotel used to be a hospital; she was brought there after a car accident on Highway 69. Luckily we didn't stay in that room. (The rich history combined with the underlying violence and suffering of a lot of these places kept me a little edgy about ghosts, which I'm not quite sure whether I believe in or not).

The rooms are small but neat, furnished rather oddly and heated by these gas flame heaters that had us checking for smoke alarms (there were several in the building). The bathrooms are all shared, and the entire place smelled of old smoke (Andy and I aren't smokers and we're maybe oversensitive to that) but we really enjoyed the experience of staying there and meeting Rat. We were trying to figure out what to do next, which of the small nearby towns to see, and he asked for our map and drew us a loop, detailing what we'd see where, showing us how to maximize the gas mileage. (To be continued...for some reason I always start working on this late at night.)

Delta Blues

2010-03-29T20:07:00.000-07:00

Andy and I took a trip from Jackson, Mississippi up through Memphis. We learned a lot about the blues and southern history, ate our weight in soul food, and danced our butts off.

We didn't do much in Jackson but we did see Farish Street, which was established and built by former slaves. In its heyday it was a self-contained community with everything from medical services to beauty shops to churches. Those times are over, but there are a couple of diners and juke joints still alive and kicking. We stopped and had a delicious lunch at Peaches Cafe: fried chicken, black-eyed peas, candied yams, cornbread muffins, and sweet tea. Awesome.

Vicksburg is about an hour, hour and a half away. When we arrived at the little bed and breakfast Andy had booked, the Bryn Rose Inn, we were stunned. It was...I mean, it was beautiful.

According to the website it's "one of the finest examples of Tudor architecture in Mississippi." The grounds were green and picturesque. The rooms (large bedroom, sitting room, bathroom) had lots of windows, beautiful hardwood floors and furnishings, and all kinds of little touches that kind of brought the idea of "southern hospitality" to life for us. A little jar of fresh cookies, decanters of port and sherry in the "Great Room," fresh flowers, a wide selection of delicious breakfasts brought to the room on trays, etc. etc. There was also a lovely deck and a swimming pool, but of course I forgot my swimsuit.

We went and looked at the Mississippi river--in theory we watched the sun set but it was so cloudy you couldn't actually see it--and saw an otter or a mink. The debate continues.

Then we went to Duff's Bar and Grill and ordered the crawfish etouffe (delicious) and
some sort of black bean dish. Curious about the riverboat casinos, we boarded one and discovered that all casinos look alike once you're inside (smell alike, sound alike).

The next day, we checked out the National Military Park and the USS Cairo Museum. The park is not that exciting without the audio tour (we were going to do the audio tour but didn't) but the USS Cairo Museum was fun. Interesting to see the way the Civil War is portrayed in the south (you know, the War of Northern Aggression?)

We bickered a little about where to eat lunch but I convinced Andy to stop at The Tomato Place, this little roadside-stand-looking establishment which sells an odd assortment of goods, from fresh fruit and homemade jam to birdhouses to Star Wars figurines to random kitchen utensils. We ordered tomato pie, shish kabobs and fresh lemonade. It took a little while but it was worth the wait. Pretty sure that tomato pie has more calories than a tub of butter, but holy crap. Soooo good. He thanked me several times for making him stop there. This became a theme of the trip: one of us would convince the other to stop somewhere and it would turn out to be amazingly worthwhile.

Full and happy, we headed up to Clarksdale, where we had reservations to stay at the Ground Zero Blues Club (owned by Morgan Freeman). It was not what I expected. (To be continued.)

Depression and January

2010-02-02T16:20:00.000-08:00

All of my bad feelings about everything are coagulating. I thought I would leave them safely behind in January but they followed me into February. They feel like a ball and chain. I can still move and kind of act normal but I feel them everywhere I go and I feel like everyone can see them, and people tell me it's so simple, all I have to do is unlock the thing from my ankle and walk away, and I get excited and think yes! That's all I have to do! And then later realize I don't have the key, don't know where to get it.

I feel like there's nowhere to go. I feel like I can't talk about it because at the heart of it all is an unintentional self-absorption based on fear. Even this post is "I, I, I." Andy gave me some good advice--find some kind of service to do, some way to get out of myself and think about and give to others. That's a start, but I don't know if it will get at the underlying problem.

Reflections on the first semester

2009-12-02T16:57:00.000-08:00

Just attended a "collaborama" sponsored by the students in Robin Behn's collaboration class. Some hits, some misses. Overall: silly fun. Martone pointed out to some of us standing around in the lobby afterwards that we wouldn't have had this experience (or anything like it) at many of the schools we were looking at. This fueled a moment of introspection on my experience at the University of Alabama creative writing program so far.

Firsts this semester: many cities and states (Denver, St. Louis, Florida, Chicago, Atlanta), Gulf Coast, the Atlantic, tailgating southern-style, authentic southern BBQ, working on a lit mag, linguistics class, losing a toenail, drinking beer and grain whiskey with professors, feeling like a career having something to do with writing is feasible.

High points of the semester: Beaches, workshopping my first story in a graduate workshop, BWR meetings, the Downtown Pub (DTP), Laser Decadence, successful tutoring sessions, and of course movie nights with my neighbor, Tim.

I truly love it here. I feel privileged and grateful to be paid to do something that I love, to be learning alongside such talented people, to feel supported and encouraged by the faculty and entrusted with my own education. Tuscaloosa isn't such a drag if you're a homebody like me who never lived in an exciting city like Chicago. Sure, I miss having a wide variety of delicious brunch spots to choose from. I miss the public transportation, the grocery store options, the independent movie theater, the symphony, the theater, the excellent restaurants. But I enjoy the weather, the antique stores, the down home cooking, the "sir" and "ma'am" mentality, and the frankness and friendliness of the people.

So. First semester gets great reviews.

More than anything, I miss Andy. But we're doing well. We're doing us proud. I'll see him in a week and we'll have nearly a month together before the next long stretch. What a great Christmas present.

Fall thoughts

2009-10-12T22:37:00.000-07:00

This is undergrad: ramen noodles.

This is grad school: ramen noodles plus broccoli.

That's not entirely true. I did bake myself two lovely loaves of pumpkin bread with walnuts and semi-sweet chocolate chips. Now the house smells like autumn. And the air feels like it. And somehow everything is so much better because of that.

Midterm Resolutions

2009-10-06T20:31:00.000-07:00

Wow, Tuscaloosa. Not really what I thought you would be. Your stormy weather is startling. You slay me with your river, trees, your sunsets. Your natives, who catcall the grad students as they bike by with phrases like "GET A JOB" charm me with the simplicity of their lives: they exit the womb, spit out the silver spoon, pick up a football/tennis racket/golf club, master that 80's prep school coif, drink wine with their parents at the country club, go to college, pledge a sorority/fraternity, don the non-required uniform (track shorts and size XL shirt w/flip flops or tennis shoes for the ladies, khaki and polos for the gentlemen), drink, network, make sexual advances on one another, and leave college married and set for life. It's so idyllic in its way. It has the same gentle, predictable rhythms as the life of a shepherd.

My life is organized almost at random. Shifts at the Writing Center, where I help said undergrads write better papers about significant events in their lives like cheerleading tournaments and rush week (no lie), are sprinkled across Monday, Friday, and Sunday. Shifts in the Graduate Office with the lovely Vernita and the lovely Carol are pleasant and offer ample time to catch up on reading (though I've learned that when I save homework for the last shift before a class, a mountain of work magically appears to reprimand and punish me for my procrastination). Classes occur on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday of every week, with the exception of my publishing seminar, which pops up once every other Tuesday. Also every other week: Writing Center staff meetings.

On the side, I'm reading fiction, poetry, and non-fiction for the Black Warrior Review (which equals 3-4 meetings a month), attending readings (of course), learning to belay with Betsy at the rock climbing wall in the student rec center, trying to read "The Essential Jung," "Beloved," "Arkansas," and multiple slush piles simultaneously, making notes of other things I want to read and write, chatting through all of this with Andy, and last and regrettably least, the occasional run, the occasional session of yoga (video yoga), and some writing.

So here we are: fall break. I must say I am ready for it. I am busy in a good way, but busy nevertheless, and I am tired. So this weekend: the Shrimp Festival at Gulf Shores, the beach, my first alligator farm, and plenty of fun with Tim and Casey. Hooray!

But most of all, next weekend. Next weekend I fly out to Utah for some quality time with my lover. I am counting down the minutes. (No, really: at the time of posting there are 216 hours and 48 minutes until I see him again.)

I have goals for next semester. I want to spend more time writing and exercising, less time drinking. I want to get back in touch with my inner peace, the part of me that remains unruffled no matter what else is going on. I want to be less selfish. I want to nurture my friendships. I want to spend less time thinking about all of the great things I want to do while I'm here and start actually doing them.

Here's to midterm, everyone. Roll Tide.

Beaches

2009-08-27T16:50:00.000-07:00

After one grueling week training to work in the Writing Center, four of the gals in my program and I decided we needed a vacation and took off for Florida. We got up early Sunday morning, packed into my car, and drove almost an hour in the wrong direction before turning around and heading back to start from scratch. Along the way we played fun games like Count the Confederate Flags (about one for every backwoods cabin we spotted, when averaged) and Identify the Roadkill (mostly snakes). Once we were back on track and heading for Birmingham then Montgomery then Florida, we played a lot of Where the Hell is this Road, Oops Wrong Exit, and I Wonder if a Hurricane is Coming.

Five hours later, we found ourselves in Beaches (aka Grayton Beach). Lovely, lovely Beaches.

Our "cabin" turned out to be more like a condo-- two bedroom, one bath, one screened porch, one fully equipped kitchen, one ten minute walk from the beach. We ooh-ed and ahh-ed at the fishy decorations, dropped off our bags, and decided to walk down to the beach before dinner.

Oh, the beach. Storm clouds were rolling in, the waves choppy, the white sands growing blue in the dusk, the dune grasses swaying. And the water surprisingly warm. After we had all taken the edge off our craving for sea, sky, and sand castles, we headed over to a local seafood place for boiled shrimp and crab and a two-person folk band.

I won't say anything about the intoxicated evening which followed except: what happens in Beaches stays in Beaches.

Next day: long walk to get coffee, local shops all closed (what day is again? Monday?...is it a holiday?) circle back to campsite via beach (windy windy, shrieks of "ow" in unison whenever sand sprayed our bare legs, Faulkner--I mean Steinbeck--references) a drive to Seaside to shop for ingredients for dinner and more booze (all out), lunch and beer, another trip to the beach (sting rays spotted: 2), back home for showers, wine and beer and amazing risotto (thanks Dara!)

On Tuesday we all rose surprisingly early and went on walks to the beach to say goodbye. There was in inlet with a sign proclaiming "Beware of Alligators"--I walked up and down it hoping to catch a glimpse, even thought about dipping my toe in as bait, but nothing. Guess I'll save the gators for later.

As a last hoorah we had breakfast at "Another Broken Egg," apparently a tourist trap as the food was mediocre but expensive. Then another five hour drive, much more subdued this time, through spotty tempests so extreme I felt like Ms. Frizzle driving the Magic School Bus underwater.

Shortly after we disembarked in good old Tuscaloosa, school started.

To be continued...

Home, Sweet Tuscaloosa

2009-08-25T23:30:00.001-07:00

It has been an eventful couple of weeks. Things are only just settling down, which is why I now have time to do things like experiment with Rice-a-Roni (recommended), see Inglourious Basterds (recommended with reservations), stub the toenail off one of my toes (not recommended)... and blog.

The night before the twenty-seven hour drive from Utah to Alabama, I realized that I had been overly optimistic when planning what to bring with me. In my Prius. (I know, right?) After playing tug-o-war and there's-no-way-in-hell tetris for a sweaty and frustrated half hour, I gave up on bringing any furniture, including my Swedish bit-by-bit desk. Then I gave up on bringing all of my books. Then I started evaluating every item I owned for its utility and replacability (bowls and plates? I can buy new ones.) By the time I crawled into bed I had pared down my earthly possessions to the point where I probably could have entered a prison or a monastery without having to surrender anything further, but everything was packed nicely into my planet friendly vehicle.

I let Andy drive because I was extremely nervous about whether or not my car would be able to attain full speed loaded down with all of those boxes and pillows and things. Actually, looking back, I was very anxious over who-knows-what, and I didn't relax for the first, oh, three hours of the drive. Luckily Andy's sense of humor, a great playlist, and the little Prius that could helped chill me out, and by the time we got to Denver, I was ready for a good time.

Which we proceeded to have, first at Great Divide, then at Wyncoop, several glasses of good times, in fact.

The next morning we peeled ourselves out of bed bright and early and drove our hung over butts through the McDonald's drive through, out onto the freeway, all the way through Kansas (where we managed to pick up a $164 speeding ticket) and on to Little Rock.

In Little Rock, we stayed at a motel several notches skankier than the one in Denver witnessed behavior and outfits several notches skankier than you'd find in New Orleans at Mardi Gras. Once again, we enjoyed ourselves a large glass or two of good times, this time at The Flying Saucer.

The next day, in spite of confusion over toll roads and a seemingly obscure back road into Alabama, we quickly found ourselves in Tuscaloosa--so quickly, in fact, that Andy expressed regret that the trip was already over. When we were almost to my new house, I figured out how to load google maps on his blackberry. How timely.

The next several days were a blur of procuring furniture, a bed, and a million other things that had been left behind (intentionally or accidentally) in Utah, attending Writing Center Orientation (part of my assistantship), getting a bank account, pestering the landlord for a refrigerator (received two days after arrival) and a washer and dryer (received one week after arrival), meeting new people, etc. Shout out to Andy for all of the things he did for me: assembled bookshelf, bed frame, bedside table for me, fronted me the money for all purchases since financial aid hadn't come through yet, replaced lightbulbs throughout the house, fixed doorknobs, and generally did everything he could to look out for my safety and comfort. He also treated me to several delicious southern meals. Just generally let me know how much he loved me in every way possible.

And then, on Thursday, I drove him to Birmingham. We went to the J. Clyde for lunch (and of course beer) and then I dropped him off at the airport. What a surreal moment, knowing it would probably be months before I saw him again, having to turn around and navigate my way back to Tuscaloosa for the mixer which concluded the WC Orientation. Needless to say I got a bit drunk, which helped me to sleep that first lonely night without him.

More later.

Long Distance

2009-08-04T00:07:00.000-07:00

It has taken most of the summer for the reality of what's about to happen to sink in. I'm moving over a thousand miles away from my home of six years and my boyfriend of three years. The office is empty around me, except for impressions of the furniture in the carpet and an anxious spider on an exodus for cover. I just started packing but I'm almost done already--maybe the next four days won't be as hurried and busy as I anticipated. Which could be good or bad. Andy has finals this week, so we won't have much time together either way, not until Friday, when we'll start the twenty seven-hour drive.

It's been a tough summer--it's not a good time to be waiting tables. I'm thrilled that I only have two or three more shifts to work and then I get a year-long hiatus. Plus, with Andy taking Organic Chemistry and working a lot, we haven't had much time together in general. I do feel like we're doing well with what time we have, though. We're always hungry for each other, as though extra cuddling now will make up for physical absence later. When I start to think about being away from Andy at all, let alone for days, weeks, and months at a time, I hyperventilate a little. We haven't been apart for more than two weeks at a time since we met. I really don't know how we'll cope with it, both individually and as a couple. He claims to fall a little more in love with me every day--and as cheesy as it is, I feel the same way. We've had our ups and downs, but we're in such a solid place now. It's a shame that everything has to change.

However, I am also very excited for what lies ahead. I intend to make the most of these three years. I would hate to find myself heading off the podium at graduation with nothing but a degree. I want to make significant progress in my writing. I want to have some publications by the time I leave. I want to have a solid idea of what kind of career I want to pursue. I want to develop strong habits of writing regularly. I have so much hope for this degree, so many expectations. Not so many for Tuscaloosa (since the other grad students call it "Tuscalooserville.") I'm always one to like new places, but I find that if I keep my expectations low, I'm more likely to be pleasantly surprised. I await the large insects and intense humidity with apprehension.

ROLL TIDE!

2009-04-02T20:47:00.000-07:00

Alabama it is. Tornadoes, crawdads, and football obsession: here I come.

More News

2009-03-12T20:21:00.001-07:00

Okay... updating that list is becoming depressing/boring/inconvenient. Here's where I'm at right now:

Accepted:

Alabama (full funding)
Hollins (partial funding)

MIA:

Virginia

Rejected:

We do not speak of these schools. These schools are dead to me. Oh! Except for Johns Hopkins. What gives, Johns Hopkins? I thought we were friends at least, but now we're not talking? Talk about bipolar.

***UPDATE: We're really coming down to it! I think once I hear from Virginia I'll be able to make my decision.***

The Official List

2009-01-16T10:48:00.001-08:00

Since all I can think about right now are grad school notifications, I might as well blog about it. Here's the official list, to be updated as I receive news from each of the schools.

I applied for an MFA in Fiction to the following:

Alabama- Accepted
Brown- Denied
California-Irvine
Hollins
Johns Hopkins- Denied
North Carolina-Greensboro- Acceptance reported 1/25. :(
Notre Dame
Oregon
Syracuse
Texas-Austin- Denied
Utah (BA to PhD track)- Denied
Virginia
Washington U-St. Louis- Denied

The acceptances should start to trickle down to the lucky candidates over the next six weeks, but most of them will hit during the first two weeks of March. Wish me luck.

The Belated "Who killed Amanda?" Post

2008-12-12T16:45:00.000-08:00

Every now and then, I get really excited by an artist. Like when Sarah Silverman says "his brisket is beyond...beyond." Like that. I get beyond...beyond. Last year around this time, it was Regina Specter. Still quite happy about her (especially since moving from "Begin to Hope" to "Soviet Kitsch") but I've found a new love.

So I was at Amanda Palmer's concert at the Avalon, which first of all... have you ever been to the Avalon? The first act was all right, I think--and by 'I think,' I mean 'I have no effing clue,' because it sounded like they were being piped through a long tunnel lined with half-empty tuna cans.

Speaking of tuna cans, I was there with my boyfriend's boyfriend Bradley Giuliani, who gave me a sound verbal beating for whining about the cold which we waited in unnecessarily for nearly an hour before the doors opened. The venue never filled quite to capacity, unless the capacity limit heralds back to the theatre's movie days--back when Charlie Chaplin rolled his eyes up and smiled sweetly through that darling mustache.

But I digress. Venue: cold, windy, large, modestly populated. Acoustics: miserable. Opening act: ??? I do remember cracking jokes with Brad on hearing such lyrics as "I'm going down in the black elevator of death..." or something like that. Hard core emo dressed up as indie/alternative. What fun.

Second act was clearly gorgeous but obviously warped by the insufficient speakers. Zoe Keating, cellist of amazing talent who overlays her own performance aided by the marvels of modern music technology, was sufficiently amazing to make me hate the much younger audience (-than me, definitely -than Brad) when they lost patience and started talking during the second and third songs. No such restlessness was displayed later in the night, however. Oh, no.

Fortunately things seemed to go better sound-wise when AFP made her highly impossible appearance (we were assured many times that she had, in fact, died), elbowed her way through the crowd (at least that's the way Brad tells it) threw off her shroud and attacked the piano in a way that made me a bit lustful.

The Danger Ensemble, an Australian improv? troupe, illuminated her text with at times pitch-perfect performances: disturbing, delightful animatronica for "Coin Operated Boy" and crazed, coordinated fans for "Guitar Hero" (I was cynically amused to see members of the audience around me picking up on some of the moves and dancing along), sometimes bordering on melodramatic (showering fake snow on a tortured Blake for "Blake Says" and falling to the ground slow-mo for the Columbine tribute "Strength Through Music") but definitely adding to the show.

It was basically a kick-ass show. Couldn't have made me love her music more, I almost NEED it (I don't need it, I don't need it, Amanda, I swear...) but it was a great experience and left me with a different impression of the artiste than I got from the music alone, and very different than I got from the multiple music videos, all of which are available on youtube. Thank you once again Bradley (*smirk*). As always your contributions are vital.

GO UTES!

2008-11-22T19:04:00.001-08:00

YEAH!

Can't we all just get along?

2008-11-07T18:43:00.000-08:00

Okay. Here's my thinking on the gay marriage issue.

Marriage is clearly a social construct. I think everyone can agree on that, since everyone is fighting to decide what KIND of social construct it is, i.e. who can participate. Why don't we acknowledge that in our laws? As a good friend is suggesting, why don't we completely take away the right of the government to marry couples, and instead give our government the mandate to create domestic partnerships for any and all who want them?

I'm going to take his idea a step further, though. Once government-ordained marriages are illegal and a simple contract/rights package is substituted, the only ones who will continue giving "marriage certificates" are churches. And guess what? Churches can give these to/refuse these from anyone they want.

Shouldn't that make everyone happy? No church is forced to acknowledge the marriage of/perform a marriage for anyone. On the same token, everyone's partnership is acknowledged/respected by every government body. Marriage remains intact, rights remain intact. EVERYBODY WINS.

The Titular Poem

2008-09-29T17:48:00.000-07:00

Well, it's not perfect. It's not in the original format. But it's there. My blog's namesake. Down at the very bottom of the page, in all caps, for some reason. It will at least give you the idea. Hope you like it.

Obsessive and Happy

2008-09-29T16:38:00.000-07:00

So. I am now a full time college access adviser. I love my job. Some days it's hard, some days it's easy, some days it's Monday. All days I am grateful for this opportunity.

It's lonelier than it looked like it would be at first. The first month we were all together, all of the advisers for the different schools, and that was fun. Now we hardly ever talk, which is sad. We have a meeting on Wednesday, though. Maybe some of us will reconnect. I hope so. But the kids are awesome--they're going through so much, and they ALL deserve to go to college, which in some cases means they deserve another chance. I only hope that I can give it to them.

Some of the faculty are so negative. I hate it. One of the kids that I encouraged to aim for the University of Utah (he'll have to get his grades up and score pretty high on the ACT) was told up front by his counselor, "You'll never get accepted to the U." I can't believe people do that! Why are these people guidance counselors? I can understand being realistic, but realistic should sound like this: "That's going to be tough. You'll have to work hard at this point, and do __ and __, but if you work hard enough, you can do it. Just in case, you should apply to a couple of backup schools that you'd also like to go to. But do your best, and I'll see what I can do for you." Instead they're creating a negative environment that turns into a self-fulfilling prophecy. No wonder these kids don't graduate or go on to college. They're just living up to everyone's expectations.

In my other life, the one where I will be a novelist someday, I have entered the obsessive phase of applying to grad school. Nearly all of my free time is spent working on apps or pouring over the Speakeasy posts or TSE or Kealey blogs. I am glad to have them as a resource, even though they feed my MFA addiction. I also spend a bit of time working on my manuscript, a very disproportionate amount of time when I consider how crucial the manuscript is to the process. But I feel good about what I already have finished, and I feel really good about what I'm working on. It should be finished by mid-October and polished by mid-November, when I'll be sending in the packets to the different programs. Here is my set-in-stone list (already gave it to my recommenders, can't change it now):

Texas-Austin

Virginia

California-Irvine

Brown

Oregon

Johns Hopkins

Alabama

N Carolina-Greensboro

Syracuse

Notre Dame

Hollins

Wash U-St. Louis

I believe, deep down in my soul, that at least one of these schools will read my manuscript this year and put me right on the top of their pile (the acceptance pile, you buttheads). If not, my life will essentially be over. I'll have to change my name, shave my head, bind my breasts and become a monk. Or something. Oh! I also checked out books by faculty from most of the programs (I think all but three). I'm putting a lot more time and money in (two things that I didn't have last year) and I'm hoping that will make the difference.

In the meantime, I've got some exciting things going on. I finally found an opportunity to volunteer--I'll be helping out with the Bad Dog Rediscovers America creative writing class for teens every Tuesday night. I'm so excited. I tried to volunteer at the Road Home but no one wanted to take a writing workshop. :(

Also, I just joined the 29 Day Giving Challenge at www.29gifts.org. So I'll be blogging here about that. It should be interesting.

Something to Do

2008-07-16T11:44:00.000-07:00

Haven't written for awhile... where to start...

I have a job. A real job. Nothing against my fellow servers, who are amazing people and lovely to work with--I'm sad to leave the food industry because you cannot find a more interesting, diverse, and personable group of people--but I never considered it anything but a temporary measure to pay the bills, and this new job is more than that. I'll be working as a college outreach adviser, helping high school students to think about, apply to, and finance college. I know it's going to be hard work but if I do my job well, I'll be changing lives. It's difficult to find a job that you can say that about. I was shaking when I got the phone call. It's a temporary position, from August 1 2008 until May 31 2009, which may just work out perfectly if I get into grad school next year.

I broke my collarbone. It was one of those random, stupid, silly things, not even a good story, I was just riding my bike down a hill, hit a pot hole, and went butt-over-head, which is a much more accurate description than head-over-heels. I won't be whole until September; in the meantime I'm supposed to wear a sling but almost never do because I am a rebellious child. Also because the doctor told me I didn't have to. My collarbone is always going to stick up funny. This shouldn't be depressing but it is.

Just got back from California (San Diego and then LA). It was a wonderful trip, too short. I got to spend a morning with my Grandma, an afternoon babysitting my cousins (four of them... which is excellent birth control and confirmed my decision to only have two children when the time comes), hours and hours on beaches, an entire day with my Grandpa, who took us sailing to Coronado and then out for margaritas in Old Town, plus a tour of the Gaslamp district. Got to see my brave little cousin Ella who is just three months old and has survived two operations in conjunction with a brain tumor. Andy stepped it up and was a perfect gentleman to my Grandma, asked my Grandpa all kinds of questions that I had never thought to ask him, and didn't grumble too much when I wanted to just sit on the beach for hours. We went to the zoo, where he meowed at all the cats... silly boy. He took me to a couple of beer bars and breweries, where everything finally just clicked for me--he's been trying to train me to really appreciate beer for over a year and I've just humored him--and I got excited about some of the beers we tried, especially the Petrus Aged Pale. We went to Stone Brewery, which is just a beautiful place aside from having an amazing selection, and later in LA we went to a Biergarten where I decided that my favorite patio drink is a good Bavarian Weiss.

Also in LA: saw Wicked at Pantages. Very cool theater, elaborate and well-performed production. Lots of themes to think about. I don't remember the novel being nearly as good. Went to a Dodgers game, which was as fun as a game can be when the scoreboard looks like this:

300000000
000000001

(Andy tells me this is typical of Major League Baseball games. Almost as boring as watching golf.) Venice Beach wasn't quite what we expected--more trinkets and less performers. We wandered along the beach from the end (or start) of the boardwalk all the way to Santa Monica (?) pier.

Now we're back and busy finding a place to live (we're moving closer to downtown/U of U for Andy), working extra shifts where we can, trying to make everything work out.

Things are coming together as far as my manuscript. I feel good about the different projects I'm working on, have one just about completed and a great start on another. I need to get going on my screenplay, though. If I want to enter American Zoetrope I need to finish it by August 1. I'm only about a third of the way done. In the back of my head I guess I'm planning on doing it Kerouac-style, maybe three caffeine-fueled days of writing. Not a good plan. That's how the script started, though. I wrote the first thirty pages over the course of several feverish hours. If I finish it and love it, I'll have a tough decision to face: apply to Michener for fiction or screenwriting? Fiction is my passion but I might have better odds with a screenplay, especially a strong one. We'll see. I wish I could apply in both genres. (I can study both genres, sort of major/minor style, if I get in, but I'd love that extra chance of getting in.)

I miss the ocean.

On My Own

2008-05-07T10:06:00.000-07:00

I'm finding that being out of college is much like getting out of a long term relationship. I'm having to redefine who I am now that I can't define myself in terms of that relationship: a student working towards graduation. I graduated. I'm out of that relationship. It's a good ending, but still an ending.

I didn't picture it being over. I thought I would be going to graduate school this fall. I still plan on going to graduate school, but in the meantime, I have to figure out who I am. For one, I have to figure out if I'm really a writer. Do I have the self-discipline to sit down for hours and hours every week to write? I'm a little anxious about this. My self-discipline has recently hit an all-time low. What if my dreams and ambitions can't kick it back into gear? What if I continue to spend time reading blogs, watching tv, and blogging instead of reading novels and short stories, doing writing exercises, and working towards publication?

I have been feeling the drive lately, though. The excitement I feel when I think about the several stories that I'm working on. The anticipation of writing. Often it doesn't last once I've got that blank screen and that cursor blinking at me; I stare at it and wilt in the face of my own expectations and can't even write a sentence. But I have got the drive, and that makes me happy. It's a start.

My list of MFA programs for next year is just as ambitious as my list last year; it's just a lot longer. I've been criticized for this by fellow MFA hopefuls. They say that only one-third of my applications should be aimed at top twenty schools; my entire list is made up of schools with around 5% acceptance rates. I know they're right. But I have trouble accepting that. I know it's foolish to dream big, but whatever they say, I know that getting into a top tier school isn't like the lottery. It's not pure chance. A lot of it is arbitrary--I can't control people's opinions of my work--but a huge amount of it is based on talent. I don't think it's arrogant of me to hope that I have the talent level to succeed at one of the big name schools. It's more that I have something to prove to myself. I have to believe that I can do it. I don't know how to define myself except as a writer, and I don't know what to hope for myself except great things.

So maybe I won't get into any of those schools next year. Maybe I'll have to accept that they don't see that talent level in me. But even then I won't be able to accept that it doesn't exist. I'll just have to keep working.

Andy says I'm the hopeful type. He says that only the foolishly hopeful are foolish enough to keep working for big dreams, and therefore the only ones to accomplish those dreams. May that prove to be true. May I not find out later in life that I've been jousting with windmills. Because I don't know how to think in any other way. I'm afraid of the day when I figure out that I don't have it in me to be a great or even good writer. Though it's not my only identity, my romance with my far-too-ambitious dreams is an integral part of me. If I ever lose that, I won't know how to define myself at all.

FINIS

2008-04-25T16:11:00.000-07:00

Wow. I'm done. It feels so strange. I took my last final this morning, easy peasy, and now basically nothing stands between me and that diploma. I kept expecting something to happen, I don't know why, usually I'm not the paranoid type (not even on pot; on pot I'm the "weep over not getting to choose the cereal brand" type) but I was just waiting for a bad case of gangrene to keep me from finishing. I kept waiting for an Acme...oh jeez. What are those things called? Those things that have no relevance to everyday life except for falling on cartoon characters? Really heavy. ANVILS. Right. I kept waiting for an anvil to fall on me. But I'm done. It's kind of exhilarating, like making it to the $1000 level in Who Wants To Be a Millionaire. It's not that exciting, really, but at least they can't take it away from you! Take that, Regis!

And now you know how long it's been since I've watched TV.

It's been a good four years, y'all. Lots of change. Lots of growth. Two long-term relationships with a couple of flings in between. More moves than I could chronicle without the help of amazon.com's address book--god bless you, amazon.com. Wonderful roommates, lots of laughter, at least seven different jobs, lots of failures, and a couple of successes. College is everything they say it will be, and then some. Wear a condom.

This is a big step. I don't know what comes next. I guess I have to either accomplish my dreams or fail to accomplish my dreams now. Which kind of sucks, because who needs that kind of pressure? Not me. Obviously I'm big into pursuing success at the moment. Because blogging is the first sign of true commitment to one's future. Not a sign that one needs at least a brief vacation from self-discipline. Hooray, summer! (That's your cue. Summer? Summer...?)

Still in Limbo

2008-04-22T08:52:00.000-07:00

Quick commentary on limbo: limbo sucks.

Moving on. I spent the weekend in St. George with Andy and his family. It was so nice to get away from all of the things I'm stressing about: homework I still need to do, money, final papers, final exams, money, not having a car/what I need to do in order to get one, bills, what I'm going to do for a whole year since it doesn't look like I'm starting grad school in the fall, etc. You get the picture. I didn't think about any of those things from Friday until Monday morning. It was wonderful. Instead I lounged by the pool, swam, was followed around by Andy's four-year-old nephews like the Pied Piper, went biking, climbed on the red rocks, and ate way more junk food than I should have. I really, really like Andy's family. I already feel pretty comfortable with them.

I'm completely finished with three of my classes as of today: yoga, Research Writing (which has actually been a terrific class, thanks to the teacher) and Intellectual Traditions:Modernism, which I've hated more than I've hated any class since high school. Now I just need to finish everything for my Reasoning and Rational Decision making class, turn in the three bound copies of my thesis, and write those two seven page papers for the Think Tank, and I'm done. Ugh. It sounds like a lot still.

I think I've found a job that would be perfect for me over the next year as I'm reapplying to graduate school. There's a position open for a College Outreach Adviser, which means I'd go around to different schools across the Wasatch Front and help high school students figure out what they need to do to apply for college and financial aid. How cool would that be? It's from August until May. I'm working on the application. Very excited.

Anyways, that's it for now. Just trying to get through this next couple of weeks. I can't wait to be done with school so I can focus on my writing. I have several projects that I want to finish, hopefully by June. Maybe I'll get around to actually posting some fiction or poetry here once I'm not weighed down by the heavy burden of college.

My angsty, angsty self needs some Prozac

2008-03-28T12:37:00.000-07:00

I've heard back from all four schools that I applied to. Anyone who knows anything about Creative Writing MFA programs will throw back their heads at this point and laugh--laugh in my face for applying to so few schools when the standards are so arbitrary and the competition is so fierce. Here are the results, which indeed justify a certain amount of I-told-you-so style laughter. Please read "REJECTED" with a Strong Bad accent.

Boston U: REJECTED
University of Virginia: REJECTED
University of California, Irvine: REJECTED
Johns Hopkins: Wait list.

So basically I'm in limbo until the third week of April when the lucky six students who were actually accepted to the program at JHU will be forced to give their final decision. Barring a miracle, I'm trying to think about next year: write new, better stories and research schools and faculty and save up for those bastard application fees.

Also, my car is in its death throes. It overheats quite quickly, even on ten minute errands. This was me in my car yesterday:

Me: Look at you. You're pathetic. You're in the red after a tiny distance. Tiny, I tell you!
Car: *wheezing* It was hilly.
Me: Damn you and your mutiny.

Something about the head gasket. Apparently my car is going to keep "nickling and diming" me until it finally dies. WTF? It's just under 160,000 miles. Shouldn't it have another forty thou at least?

Also, I've spent the last two days running around trying to get everything together for my thesis submission. I wrote a novella! Hooray! I had to come up with a name for it yesterday so I could hurry and print a title page, and I settled on "God Will Laugh." When I expand it to novel length it may change.

So I'm hanging out at the U of U library, waiting for a phone call from the English department, where the secretary is kindly on the lookout for the professors who need to sign my title page. With nothing to do but obsess, worry, and obsess some more. Credit card payment: overdue. Debt: too much. Plans: uncertain, depressing prospects at the moment. Life: can't handle it right now! Overload!

It's too early. Or too late. I'm not sure.

2007-12-06T00:08:00.000-08:00

It is 1:09 in the morning. I don't know why I'm still awake. But I just decided that I need a blog.

I am still laboring under the illusion that I am an author (in spite of the fact that I have nothing published and that I spend very little of my free time actually writing), so I wanted my blog title to be a tribute to that. So I named it after one of my favorite poems that I have written. I was planning on posting it, but I'm having issues with the formatting, and it really needs correct formatting to be what it is.

Once I figure the formatting out, I expect to blog bits of things that I write. I expect that for a long time, it will mostly be archival, since I never write new things anymore. Sad.

If I get into graduate school, though, that will change.

Graduate School Update: I have submitted all application materials except for the letters of recommendation to University of California-Irvine. Also, the GRE is looming on the 17th. Andy planted the fear of GRE in my heart the other night so I'm actually going to start preparing for it on Saturday. Woot. I can't wait until this is all over.