On Saturday my coworker left a message on my machine. She said we'd been cleared for field work on Monday, so please show up at the office at 6:30 am and to call her if I had a problem with the time. Maggie and I are friends. She knows all too well that I have a problem with anything before 8:00 am, as a general principle. It's not her favorite time of day either. I grimaced and set my alarm for 5:40 am. Ug.
Yesterday I sent out six emails to six people I hoped would come on board with my literary project as editors. Some of them were real long shots. It feels rather like inviting the popular kids from school to your birthday party when you know you're not cool enough to hang out with them.
This morning, when I logged into my computer and checked my email, there were six responses, lined up like little ducks in row. I was literally frightened to open them. I closed my eyes when I clicked on the first one, preparing for the rejection letter.
Tonight I finished a poem that has been floating around in my head and scrawled in bits across my journals for last few months. (I'm not posting it here so don't ask. If you want to read it, you'll have to do it the old fashioned way -- on a piece of paper I hand to you.)
I think it's good, but it's a poem so really, who can say? It is what it is and the best that I can hope is that it runs up to someone else and sucker-punches them in the gut. Writing poetry is rather like being the proud parent of budding bullies.
I'm charging forth with my publication idea. I received a burst of confidence from wherever those creative cosmic forces flow from, so my optimism sent a nod to my muse and my self-doubt cast her concerned look, and we're off on our adventure, the three of us. Ready or not, here we come.
I'm attempting to gather together a team of editors to read submissions. I'm bribing literary friends and acquaintances with dinner at a local pizza parlor to come hear me out and hopefully climb into the rowboat with me. We'll paddle upstream and see where we end up.
It's interesting to me how as you grow older, entertaining revolves more and more around food.
My ballet recital piece is spinning wildly out of control. The music we're using is "Rhapsody in Blue" and before you sigh and say, "Oh, I love that piece!" think about the complexity of the music for a second. Chaos. Now picture 30 ballerinas running on and off stage in groups within groups within groups and then regrouping again. Now picture it for nine minutes. Now picture rehearsals where half the people don't show up. Jenny and I found out on Tuesday that our group of 6 is really a group of 8 but two girls just didn't bother to show up to class for the last month and a half. Charming.
Preface: I know I've mentioned before that I'm a geek. Incidentally, I'm also a nerd. However I may not have mentioned that while my body is 26, my mental age is probably about 7. It's true. I have less of an inner child as I do an outer adult. I can do the mature thing. I can walk and talk like a grown-up when required, but most of me would rather be doing something useful like making flowers out of paper, singing Disney songs, or watching cartoons and eating an ice cream sandwich. I'm a little kid. I can't help it. Why am I telling you all this?
So if I haven't mentioned it before -- unlikely -- I'm a bit of a fiction fan. I could build a new bookcase out of the paper backs that are lying around my bedroom waiting to be read. I'm not a big fan of hard covers though. I never have been. Sure, they look nice, but they're cumbersome to carry around and they certainly won't fit in a pocket.
I'm up in Kirkwood this weekend. I've spent the morning skiing and I've landed back at the condo before everyone else for lunch.
I've changed out of my sweaty, confining ski clothes and slipped into a t-shirt and jeans. I'll go skiing again after lunch and have to pull all that stuff back on again, but for now I can feel like a normal human being. The normal state of this being is a good pair of jeans and my favorite t-shirt.
Poetry is puke on paper, I think. I'm not saying that I don't like poetry. I love it. I'm just saying that's what it is. Brain puke. Soul puke. This is what I have swirling around inside of me. Here it is. Take it. Allow me to throw it up all over you. Sometimes, in the detritus you find something that you can identify with, that you can latch on to. And sometimes you can't.