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.