The steak at these places, the steak, every Friday

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.

 

 

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Found

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-

Got the news

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.

This is the story

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.

Tomorrow,

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.