I'm actually prostinating my procrastination activities. Ridiculous, I think the stress of my apartment dramas (yes, plural) mixed with being inbetween gigs and jobs has left my mind a little frazzled. I should just type up some cover letters for my next batch of submissions. But goddamn, after reading my stuff, I'm petrified to the point of Prufrockdom. Inactivity. Alllll hollow ... well, not all. So that's what I'm not doing .. I'm also not doing the laundry list of other things I should be doing - mainly calling landlords frantically begging to see their properties. Oh yeah, and finding a crap waitressing job. It's gray out, I want to drink tea and write poetry all day! And read the New Yorker. So ... that's what I'm doing. Though I partially blame the New Yorker for this current Prufrockian state. (I'm so fucking pretentious, I swear I only mean to be 50% of the time). See, I was going through some publisher listings blah blah clicked over there, read Richard Ford's short story and was blown away. Gorgeous. But then I go back through my stuff and I'm feeling a little bit like a permanent member of the workshop circle. Forever workshopping. Giving others "suggestions" (criticism carries negative connotations). Perhaps some rad indie publication will save my deflated ego.
Really, though, this really wonderful person said just how cool I would be if I could swing getting published in there (New Yorker) and you know, I do want to be cool. And I said I'd send over some of my stuff to said wonderful person and that has me on this whole re-evaluation trip which I'm beginning to realize was the theme of the summer.
And I'm beginning to realize that this may be a near life-long process. This is a hallmark summer, is all, I'm on to some somethings, and I feel a little bit like Orpheus sometimes, needing to trust that the right ghosts are behind me. Lame. I mean, I'm lightyears from where I was, things are filling themselves out, but I feel the instruction manuel I had not only was taken from me, but what I remember from it is proving useless.
Really, you should just go read Richard Ford's piece. Go! http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/
I'm at the point where no matter where I am, I'm there and that's fucking beautiful. [this explains the new love/interest for installation work, hey?]. This has been a long time coming, needed, not feeling like I'm running away from, to something, simply moving.
Learning that storms pass, and I think I'm just evaluating what's left, for real, using what I've got to rebuild, renew. Hoping to marry the fright with the hope, build up better for future weather. It's good to be here, now.
Onward to productivity ... or some sorbet ...
What the Carpenter Said
THE moon's a cottage with a door.
Some folks can see it plain.
Look, you may catch a glint of light,
A sparkle through the pane,
Showing the place is brighter still
Within, though bright without.
There, at a cosy open fire
Strange babes are grouped about.
The children of the wind and tide--
The urchins of the sky,
Drying their wings from storms and things
So they again can fly.