The American Sublime

In that November off Tehuantepec
The slopping of the sea grew still one night.
And in the summer morning hued the deck

And made one think of rosy chocolate
And gilt umbrellas. Paradisal green
Gave suavity to the perplexed machine

Of ocean, which like limpid water lay.

Apologia

When Billy Name was sick and locked up in his room
He asked me for some speed, I thought it was for you
I'm sorry that I doubted your good heart
Things always seem to end before they start.


Lou Reed, "Songs for Drella"

First Grade Feelings

Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose.

I did get in to Yaddo, but I think it's good to ponder that truism in any case.

Ha ha. No, I didn't get in. I knew as soon as I held the envelope in my hand, with their return address, that it was a rejection. I'm a bit psychic that way.

I was stung, but not really surprised. Yaddo's a very prestigious place, very competitive. I kept telling myself that as I threw the letter and envelope toward the garbage-area of my kitchen. (Mail isn't very aerodynamic. It's annoying considering how much of it I fire at the garbage.)

I haven't written a word since getting this letter. Not just because of this rejection. But it has played a part.

But how lame would it be if I bagged my work because of some star-studded artist colony? Shouldn't I struggle on with my story about a mixed-up woman who dreams of affecting public policy?

But what if they were like, Oh not this again. Not this boring theme of the mixed-up woman, the leftist hopes squashed, the unhappy relationship -- that sounds boring even as I type it out.

Other people probably had much more inventive plots and better prose styles.

I feel like I did in first grade when I heard someone had a party and I wasn't invited. But then I'd go home and my mother would comfort me and I'd have grape juice and Fritos. I'd go lie on my bed with all my stuffed animals. Who cared about their stupid party?

Oh Crumb

I exaggerated everything, below.

It really isn't that big a deal!

I've started doing yoga. It is nothing like what the picture suggests. I used to think it was MAINLY sitting still, breathing and tuning in to the cosmos. It turns out it's almost NEVER that. You're upside down most of the time, leaning on your hands, or lunging forward with your arms over your head, or "leaping" your feet between your hands so you can rise up, swoop up your arms again, drop over and lunge again. Then you do that again, much sooner than you're ready to.

I've been to two classes so far. They're awesome. I feel fantastic afterwards. Loosened and lightened and pulled open in ways I never have been.

So, my point is, anyone who can get through two yoga classes is on the path to enlightenment. Worldly rewards, like invitations to artist colonies, don't matter.

I think I really threw out some dark karma there and I hope I've erased it by pledging myself to an INNER truth.

Anyone who knows how to do italics in Blogger, please contact me.

Give Me Some Kind of Sign

Blogger won't let me upload a picture today.

This is the week I hear about getting in to the artist colony upstate. Depending on the mail (they send out the notices tomorrow). Yes -- in a quaint nod to the olden days, they mail you your acceptance or rejection.

Lately, I've been picturing how it will feel if I'm turned down. It's amazing on how many levels you can register defeat. Immediately I'm sure I'll go into my rejection mode, where I believe my essential rottenness and falsity has somehow been divined by the search committee; where my social awkwardness has somehow also been sensed and correctly judged as egregious and a drag to be around; where I go over and over the things I said in the application and experience them now as dumb, over-confident and shallow.

Then I move on to shame over the hubris that led me to believe I had any chance of being accepted into an inner circle of gifted people ...

Then I will relive every other rejection I've ever had and identify a lifelong pattern that will never change ...

Then I might look at my novel and recognize how laughable, uninteresting and conventional it is ...

Then I might start finding my shoes and wallet to go purchase a bottle of red wine ...

In the liquor store I'll experience myself as forever doomed ...

Later, I'll feel better.

But I'll probably give up on the novel and maybe on myself as a whole.

Not that a lot is riding on this.

Hope everyone has a good week.

Oy

This is me, except less male, for the last five days. I have a cold that's socked in like bad weather. I lost my voice and rasped inaudibly at people for two days. I drank gallons of tea and juice and TheraFlu and still coughed and rasped.

Anyway, I had the best time. It was four of the nicest days of my life. I lay on my couch reading. Sometimes I walked around my apartment. When I wanted to, I drank grapefruit juice. When I felt like it, I took naps.

And I worked on my novel!! I had all this time!!

Time is the biggest gift. David Berman sings, "Time is a game only children play well." It's so true.

"Time is a jet plane," let's not forget that one. True too.

I had enough time to work steadily on my novel and realize that what I most need is more time.

"Nothing but time" -- Cat Power.

If only.