Books Are Heavy

Reunited!

Yes. The three of us just saw one another at AWP in Chicago.

To amend: We didn’t attend the actual conference. Speaking for myself, I got paneled out last year. The Diaspora and Diaroma Aspect in the Multi-Genre Lyrical Essay did me in. The event was more of an excuse to see Chicago (Blues at Rosa’s! Myopic Books! Bratwurst!) and remingle with Montana MFAers.

I DID crash the book fair on Saturday. It’s a bit awkward, trying to cruise all the tables. The protective stance I adopted was pretty much the same I use to deflect 1-10 underpass panhandlers in New Orleans. Sorry bud. I turned and walked away from many outstretched palms. But you always cave to a couple. It’s something in the eyes.

So I bought the Oxford American New Orleans issue and a mag from Ann Arbor called Hobart because it looked cool. My friend Anna bought the latest issue of PMS and Black Warrior Review. (Member of our nonfiction class Naomi Kimball is in the current issue.) Plus all the freebies. Had to give a little grunt to load my suitcase overhead on the plane.

As I walked around that Hilton lobby, I kept swearing I saw people I knew, but then I just realized we all look alike. As in refugees from the Writers’ Gulag. I don’t know how many scarves, messenger bags, adorable haircuts and square black glasses a person can take. If I ever go again I’m wearing a track suit and white athletic shoes.

I’m not sure it’s wise, getting writers together to schmooze. Most of us spend hours and hours alone muttering to ourselves. Some days my only social interaction is scooping the cat off my keyboard.

If you get me on a good minute, I’ll smile and regale you with wit. If it’s a bad one, I might start crying and blow my nose on your hipster skinny jeans. Or I might just look off and walk away, not even realizing you said anything.

So if you looked at me, grimaced and turned away, I remembered not to take it personally. I hope you did the same.

Healthy brain cells

Jacket on Oppen. Because hanging out in my department's mail room is not intellectually stimulating, I need brainy critical essays.

At work I did learn that healthy human brain cells do not allow perfusion. Diseased cells, however, do. This is how, in part, MRI scans sense cancer.

I ate too much for Thanksgiving. At an over-populated home in Columbus, OH. With 75 people all sharing the same last name (not of my family tree, either).

Also, as us writerly folk look forward to a cold-ass wintry trip to Chicago for February's AWP conference, I think of this essay Kay Ryan about the antisocial approach to AWP (an outlook I wholeheartedly support). I also remember how damn enjoyable the book fair was. Seeing Kevin Young et al. close.enough.to.touch. And John Irving telling us to write backwards to meet your beginning sentence; last chapter first, first chapter last. Joys!

End Times

On Oct. 30, a man set himself on fire at the university that employs me. A couple of people from the other side of my office witnessed it. He was a former custodial worker for the U.

***

So the job is going fine, I guess. It's hard to really know what fine is, right now, what with the cognitive dissonance of the recent election. I'm re-learning how to mail merge, mostly. And making copies. Lots of copies.

***

I wish I could say that I'm writing. I guess I am, in that I write ideas or lines down at least once a day. Nothing is really striking me, though. I may be a little too overwhelmed with the immediacy of the day-to-day world to be reflective or generative at the moment.

***

I reserved plane tickets to go to Chicago for the weekend of AWP, though I will not be attending the conference. Rather, it will be an opportunity to have a reunion of sorts with the MFA diaspora and my college roommate. And perhaps attend some off-site readings around town. On an unrelated note, I also registered for my 15-year high school reunion over the Thanksgiving break. I haven't begun the requisite stock-taking review and evaluation of my entire life yet since June 10, 1993, but it's coming. Oh, it's coming in a big way.

***

Am considering applying for fellowships. I think this is one of the stages of denial that follows the MFA. It's the No-this-can't-possibly-be-all-there-is stage. Or the I-must-cling-to-academia-for-validation stage. Or both. I've actually set some wheels in motion regarding recommendation letters. It is very possible that someone may need to slap me until I come to my senses.