Saturday mornings I mount a heated table and gossip openly to Beth while she sticks needles in my feet, fertility, head, anxiety, ears, arches, hands, and chest. Then she drapes sage and satin on my lids and leaves me. I look at the birds and listen to the sun for 30 minutes, I used to sleep in. She flips me over and cups the toxins out of my back, desk, brain.
I pay her on a slide
I used to sleep in
she sends me home with glass bottles and muddy sticks, fire the week and drink the moon-
The steak at these places, the steak, every Friday
they hand me a cardboard box of steak and blue cheese and they ask me if I’d like an egg. As if that’s even a question. Why yes, I would like an egg – if I were a blade of grass I would like an egg. But, am I a blade of grass today, Cheryl? Am I?
I’m coming back around to DeLillo
don’t tell my sisters.
two, no; three more applications to point towards.
That was quick.
The first two came to me, it was crazy.
These two, these two crazy apps (same gig//two separate genres), I’ve been dis(a)pointed from them two years in a row. But still I get these personal invitations from the dean warmly welcoming me to apply myself. Again. And again. Don’t you think they should waive the fee if and by the time they are inviting you to throw your hat to the wolves//in the rings? I’m gonna need that money for new hats! I know, I know. Wolf care is very expensive, I’ve heard the speeches and the screeches-
What a racket it all is.
You know, you’re gonna find it hard to carve out writing time in between all these various self applications.
You’re also gonna find it hard to know yourself.
Don’t lose yourself in the application(s).
It’s a racket. A racket in a bucket.
Oh the third? A grant. Now grants are fun. I have an uncomplicated theory that grant writing is writing. You learn a lot about your project(s) when forced to propose a budget.
It’s not you, it’s your project. You may be worthless (hello depression), but your project has a singular price.
Symphony.
Canyon.
Arms up, look alive-
in the checkout line. Drank the beer in the office with the door closed. Cried a little while scrambling eggs.
Froze in the middle of the bed.
Waiting
is the worst.
Now I know.
He said I have lots of applications in me. Is that a nice thing to say? Applications are like lottery tickets. It’s the possibility that’s addictive. You begin to imagine yourself in different regions. Terrains. Cohorts. Outfits. You calculate the respective costs of living. You live for it. You live in it.
(Until you don’t)
you point yourself towards it
until you get the news that a decision has been reached
a decision is available to torque you by your collar and about your face, then body, then spirit.
Chest pains.
(Dis) a POINTment.
OK, maybe spirit is a little too far. Don’t give them your spirit for God sakes.
Donna and Beth ordered the exact same thing. A ceramic bowl of brown rice and poached eggs. I had bacon and kiwi. We talked about famous people. We had no advice. I didn’t know Beth was born again. I can’t wait to tell Sam that Beth is born again.
My gosh.
I do not remember creating this blog or writing any of the entries.
Hope there’s nothing too embarrassing.
But, check it out:
I’m hosting the next HCL Open House, this Saturday at 6:30pm.
Hope to see you there.
Proudly barfing, hardly sleeping
of the air in the brain and the strain in the eyes and the notes in the piles and the strings in the cups and the jobs on the lines and the pink in the cheeks and the checks in the mail and the glare on the screen and the forks on the floor and the pain in the back and the folders in the stack.
I love my deadlines so much I could pop them. I could pop them off and crush them between my floor boards and my bundles of socks. I could hang them on nails and speak to them in Scottish accents until they have seizures and die.
70 degrees and over cast. I’ll wear my jean jacket and I’ll look forward to eating oysters on the half shell. And he will wear denim shorts and tall black socks. And we’ll talk about fires and books and mineral water. And we’ll quote Byron and try to remember our plans, and then we’ll go to an event. And the thing about these events is that it is the drinks after that really bring the people together.
When writer’s talk to each other, they maintain eye contact. Sometimes for several hours. It’s alarming.
Bring Chapstick.
of the writer who wrote a book. And then submitted that book. And that book was accepted. And now that book has a home. A place of it’s own. The writer is so happy. Happy for her book. And also just plain happy. She keeps laughing deliriously and trying new food. Chicken feet and satan. And baked oysters. And yellow beets covered in sea salt and burnt sugar and dark coffee grounds.
This is the story where you say out loud to yourself
someday I will be published
and today is that day.
Oh my fucking god.
Yes.
Noemi Press
of the paper on the calendar and the network on the phone and the hair in the sink and the cookies in the fridge and the grounds on the counter and the beer on the porch and the bacon in the oven and the crumbs in the butter and the hole in the floor and the water on the stove and the dirt in the sheets and the books on the bed and the porn in the kitchen and the radio on the island and the scotch tape on the ceiling.
The writer works from home.
3-11pm.
Jessica Anne 