Time's a-wastin!

Today I have things to do.

Namely:

I must get some groceries. Not a lot. Just a little.

I must write at LEAST three new drafts for poems. I'd also like to get jumping on some short stories, or, at least one.

I need to make some food for the week.

I need to schedule in time to exercise. I really, really need to do that.

This past week has been interesting. I've been reading all about Alexis' life in Moscow during the coup, which was fascinating even without the photographs.

I also had a formal review at work, which went exceedingly well. My boss told me that I have really powerful writing skills, which was just a wonderful thing to hear; it was extremely validating.

My company also had a beach party for its employees; so at noon on Friday we shut down and drove to the beach in town (I work on the N. Shore of MA; lots of beautiful beaches nearby). It was part of a large estate known as the Crane Estate (visit http://www.thetrustees.org/pages/4130_crane_estate.cfm for info on this stupidly beautiful place), which is a giant castle surrounded by beautiful grounds and even more beautiful beaches -- they are really unspoiled, which is why unless you are part of an event or a member, you have to pay a fee to enter.

There was food and alcohol; many of us, including myself, shed our inhibitions and went swimming. It was nice to know (of course) that I was not the only woman completely insecure about being out in public among the people who I report to professional in coverage about equivalent to my underwear. Mhm.

It was fun. My friends and I carpooled over. We had a lovely time.

Yesterday, I went out and bought a dress for my friend's wedding. It is a black with white polka dots empire-waisted get-up, with a ribbon at the waist and a black netting detail at the bottom of the skirt, which is otherwise a-line. It is tea length, with straps. I love it. You'll love it too.

I may try scanning some old family photos today. We'll see how that works out.

So much to do! So little time!

Top Down!

I have a revised poem which is garnering critical acclaim from my readers.

This is extremely encouraging.

One more round, then where to send it? I have my best on it.

We'll see.

I'm excited. I'm going to take my fiction writing professor's advice about submission: from the top down.

thank you alden jones. that's some mighty fine advice.

That Girl is Poison

Or, rather, I was poisoned. By my food.

Oh noes!

On Sunday evening, I made a delightful chicken sandwich. Lettuce, fresh tomato, mayonaisse, and fresh deli sliced rotisserie chicken. Mmmm.

In the middle of the night I found myself in terrible pain, crying, and other unpleasant side effects, none the least of which was the pain in my abdomen. Eventually, I got redressed, and went to the hospital where I shivered and shook and waited an inordinate amount of time for help and had to deal with an extremely belligerant nurse. By the time I saw a doctor (three hours later) the situation - food poisoning -- had resolved itself.

A fantastic waste of time.

I came home, slept -- I am still awfully tired.

Now, where did I get the food? Well, I bought it at Shaw's in Salem, which I will not be returning to. I'll go to another store, going forward. Not only did I get bad deli meat there, but I"ve had cause to complain before:

* The regular meat -- packaged chicken, beef, pork, etc, is regulary rotten. Cleary, disgustingly rotten.

* The potato salad incident -- I ordered a pound of potato salad. The deli guy took a container and swiped it through the potato salad without the use of a utensil. That means that any bacteria or anything that touched the container, the lid, and the guy's hands went into the potato salad. That's not ok. I complained.

* Rotten fruit and vegetables, insects in them, etc, on a regular basis.

And now their less than stellar practices have made me actually sick. I don't know what happened -- if the meat wasn't refrigerated fast enough upon arrival, etc, but I am not going back there. I'm done.

It's late. I'm in a jumble.

I am getting increasingly excited.

I really, really think I may be able to make things happen. The fact is, I've tried to make things happen, and when I put sincere effort into things I want to achieve, typically, I'm able to achieve them (barring genuinely significant hurdles -- like stays in the hospital, family emergencies, etc.).

Let's use the example of my current job. Some people I know will say that there is no reason I should not have been hired, but, let me tell you the story.

I applied for a job in an area I did not have much experience -- but I prepared for the interviews (three of them!) and discussed my previous experience and how it applied to the job for which I was applying. I was confident, listened, asked questions, and showed that I was motivated. These are all really important things in the interview/application process.

I was a nervous wreck for weeks and weeks. There were many other applicants, because it's the sort of job a lot of people want, in the publishing industry. However, whenever I ran into any of the people with whom I interviewed, I acted confident and sure and interested --- which are all attributes that were present in me, but difficult to demonstrate when you're nervous and worried about a situation that is important to you.

Needless to say, I got the job. When the job was offered to me, I was .....surprised. Proud. Excited.

Grateful.

Anyway.

My point is, regardless of how discombobulated my thought-to-written word process is right now, is that when I force actions to reach a particular goal, I typically reach it. Exceptions include making honors on my honors thesis, but -- and I hate making excuses -- I had a severe seizure (which seemed to temporarily limit my mental capacity; I was often confused), infections in both my hands, and a family member died in my final semester. Plus, I was still working a number of hours in addition to hours of research and writing and revision. I just couldn't pull it together.

However, the situation has since changed.

I have a full time job which I love. I have a stable commute, and I do not strain myself on a regular basis, which makes it significantly easier to pursue my goals.

One such goal is to publish a chapbook. I'm going to do it.

I'm building a collection of poems now. I have written some recently that I'm very proud of. I need to write more.

I also want to send in single poems to magazines; I expect rejection, but I don't care. I'll keep trying. Rejection is part of the process, and so far, I've had very positive responses to my previous efforts. Promising.

I'll enter a content or two as well, though I don't have as high hopes about that option.

I also keep looking -- on and off -- into grad school. I'm really torn about this matter; I already have a job in my chosen profession; also, because of my not necessary exemplary academic record (because of full time schooling combined with full time working plus poor self-care) I don't think I could get into a school with a program I value. If anyone has thoughts on this matter, throw them this way. I'm also limited geographically. Considerations, considerations.

Tomorrow: writing. Closet cleaning. Organizing. Grocery shopping. Cooking.

Lots to do. Lots to do.

Satisfaction and Guilt

Right now I feel extremely satisfied. I just busted out a draft of a poem that I have had rattling in my brain for days and making my stomach absorb the guilt for the feelings it inspires. But now it's written, and I feel like I've had a good meal. I don't think I could ever try to publish it. No matter how proud of it I am, I still feel a terrible sense of betrayal having written it.

Any minute now MB will arrive, and we'll begin piecing together music. I hope it works. I hope we find it liberating, even if it sounds horrible and cheese-filled. At least it might be delicious.

I also feel immensely satisfied with work, and I'm currently pursuing some freelance consulting. We'll see how that goes.

I feel full of words again! I love that feeling. For the last few weeks I've been overwhelming by this void, and a complete lack of words even in regular conversation. Meaning, I couldn't find the words, even when I had something real to say. It's a complete relief that the sourcing of my vocabulary is no longer a problem.

Now for the moments of waiting, and then banging on the piano will commence.

Hallamajalluyah.

Awoman, ladies!

"Were we supposed to start a band today?"

Yes.

My friend MB asked me that yesterday. But really, we are flexible human beings and can handle putting it off until thursday.

I've been toying with simple tunes on the piano, and stretching the vocal chords in the car, which, frankly, is the best place to do it -- it's encased, climate-controlled, and heavily upholstered. Vocally-Absorbent.

I don't know where this going to go. It might just be us, messing about with instruments and yelling alot. That's ok. I'm ok with that.

I'd like to get at least one song done, and fairly soon, so we have a sense for how we want to proceed. Like a rough draft.

I'm fairly excited, because this is a new start.

In the meantime, I wish I could do a better job supporting my poor dear Kristin. She's in a....poop patch. Literally. The septic system at her place of residence imploded, and there is sewage everywhere.

But she is waaaaaay down there in the south, and I am waaaaay up here in the north. Sigh.

Such is the story.

Rain.

When I left the house this morning, it was gray with blue and white on the edges. At the end of the ocean was blue sky, but the storm hovered overhead. Waiting to unload.

It unloaded when I left work. It was raining, and I was thankful, as the world seemed to be completely coated in dust for the last few days. When we had the mini-massachusetts-monsoon in may, everything on earth here sprung green. Now things are turning brown and orange from the heat. I want that smell again: wet soil and growth.

It's such a nice smell, and I want it. When you live or work near the ocean, you get the smell of the sea mixed in and it's gorgeous and fresh and you wish you had breathed nothing else in your life, even though you know you filled your lungs with car exhaust and smog.

Anyway, it began to rain. Just regular, summer rain. Some lightning. Some thunder. Still far away.

I began to drive home.

Soon, I couldn't see in front of me. Cars had their hazards on, and were pulled over precariously on the curvy road I take to and from work.

The wind threw the rain at me. Lightning struck very close by -- when it flashed, it was so bright that for a moment there was nothing but light and a snapcrack so loud I thought my windows would shatter. They didn't. Thank goodness. The roads flooded a little. Cars began to hydroplane as a result of wet, wet roads and minimal visibility.

I reached my destination safely. The worst was that I could see the clear sky to the east. Just over the ocean. On land, it was all terrible t-storm.

I met up with my friend Marybeth, who is currently hating the job she has. I can't blame her. It's somewhat tedious, certainly. She's trying to decide what to do. I can't say for certain what I would do in her shoes. I would probably struggle on until I really, really couldn't take it anymore. Until I didn't want to get up in the morning. Which is far too long. I don't think she'll take it that far. She's a bit more realistic than I am. More aware of her psychological needs, maybe.

I wrote a bunch of crappy poems, and put down some of the words that were rattling around in my scattered brain for other poems which I couldn't quite put together just then.

Speaking of scattered, let me briefly touch upon social networking sites. I hate them a little bit. I love pieces of them, and the ability to see/talk to friends, etc, with ease, but I hate the politics of it, and the fact that I am represented by these pieces of what I like. It's so incomplete and really helps perpetuate a fractured self. It makes me wonder who I am, what I represent, how people perceive me. I am not really comfortable with categorization, which history shows us over and over, in certain instances, leads to certain forms of marginalization. Even if it's social marginalization, in the most absurd sense, I'm not interested. And yet -- I feel so roped in. Like I can't get out. These sites make me feel so piece-meal. All over the place. A poorly written definition.

This is a scattered blog post. If I were you, I'd scatter myself.

Propulsion of Time.

This is advancing.

By this, I suppose I mean everything. Time is progressing, primarily, faster than I can.

I have eighteen poems in the works. They are not total pieces of crap, as some efforts tend to be. However, I really need about 150 pages of poems to get going.

I have a dream job: editor at a small publisher which is part of a larger publisher. My work is appreciated.

From time to time, I consider several things: graduate school. moving. a shift to fiction.

All those things interest me, but I really feel that I need to focus. Writing daily -- even if it's just herein -- will certainly help me solidify my collecion of publishable work. And, certainly, the support of particular friends -- Kristin, Alexis, her mom, and Marybeth -- will help propel me. It does propel me.

However, I feel as though certain things -- like a complete body of work -- should have been completed by now. I was somewhat waylaid -- by disease, financial burden, exhaustion and my education -- but these are not excuses. They are facts. I am moving now. I just wish time hadn't passed so quickly.

The best I can do right now is to chase time. It's uncatchable, but the pursuit is forceful and worth the effort.