Fitzmas

Hee hee. I think the sentiment behind the term "Fitzmas" is irresponsible, but I still can't resist it.

I spent a lot of time in the car today, so got to hear Patrick Fitzgerald's press conference twice. I keep having to remind myself that these people are evil, because I keep feeling interest and sympathy for Libby--not unlike the way I feel about Severus Snape, actually (I just finished Harry Potter #6 last night).

But anyway, you just can't argue with the idea of a great American tragic figure named Scooter. It's indescribably perfect.

Fun Night

Haven't had one in a while. Turns out it hurts in the morning. Plus my class gets observed later today and my lesson plan's not done. It's like my old life from last year!

Good god, I hate the pledge drive. Right now they're trying to give away an "emergency kit," which just seems a little morbid.

John Grisham

An author I have never sufficiently appreciated. I'm trying a new tactic with my tutoree, who's demonstrated an (adorable) interest in law and politics: English-learning through novels. It's way more challenging and just as vocabularly-filled, but also much more fun than SAT exercises. Today we were talking about taxis in Beijing (as the city tries to clean up for the Olympics) and when we turned to the cost of taxis in the U.S. he clutched his chest and said that fares make his "heart hurt." It was hilarious. That part of tutoring is going so much better.

I just deleted several hundred unread emails. Now I'm going to the gym. Really. Really.

Seasons

Although there is no weather here, there are seasons, and I always forget about my least favorite one until it is upon us. Pledge drive: it's the worst influence on quality of life in "the southland" of any external phenomenon.

That reminds me of how many people in personal ads list NPR as one of the five things they can't live without. Even though that's dorky I find it kind of endearing--like people who mention spelling and grammar skills, a phenomenon I want to write a Sunday Styles piece about.

Notes from grad student housing

I am a sick man, I am a spiteful man. I can't answer my email.

Nothing's easy, not even going to bed. Why not?

Goodbye, Rosa Parks.

Breakthrough

Tonight I had a breakthrough with HenHen (the cat, not the person). Probably ten good minutes of petting time. I think it was Sex & the City that did it.

I love HenHen. I love Jean Valentine. I love Harry Potter. I love the Paul Mitchell Beauty School. I love swimming at night. I love my little stack of submissions. I love my black notebook. I love meatloaf.

Neat Little Poems

Just finished putting together my first ever submission blitz. Nice little envelopes, ready to go to the P.O. tomorrow. Feels good. Right now I'm optimisitc: maybe not this time, but someday someone will want one of my poems if I just keep writing and sending.

It's dreary and cold. I happily wore a scarf for about half an hour until Southern California finally won out. I've been thinking a lot about next year, and dreaming of moving back to Boston.

Beautiful Friday

Today I explained tax laws and political fundraising to my astonished tutoree, and then found out he neglected to graduate from high school before he left China. Hope that all works out for him. After that, I met up with Equinoctial for a quick chat at Wendy's before she headed off to a wedding with Joss Whedon. After THAT, I drove to LA to go to a reading with HenHen at the completely charming, ramshackle Beyond Baroque literary center. We saw Brenda Hillman, who was really sweet but didn't remember us from Squaw, and Jean Valentine, who was amazing. I think I'm going to love reading her poems. The reading was very sparsely attended--kind of sad--but there was a nice vibe nonetheless. Now I'm near collapsing, above a roomful of happy psychologists.

Whatever

Whether or not I'm invited to the Atlantic party, I think I'm going to be Ralph Waldo Emerson for Halloween.

Steelhead is a nice place to have dinner, especially if you skip the food.

Please don't leave a beer in anyone's glove compartment. It's just not nice.

Scooter

Have you read Lewis Libby's letter to Judith Miller, telling her she could give his name as her source and make a deal to get out of jail? Here is part of it:

"You went into jail in the summer. It is fall now. Out West, where you vacation, the aspens will already be turning. They turn in clusters, because their roots connect them. Come back to work -- and life."

So there are two options that I see. A, it's a secret code, or B, he's a poet. It's so iambic! Not to mention the imagery (HenHen and I read a LOT of aspen poems at Squaw. Aspen groves are apparently the world's largest organism, which I have to admit is neat).

I think it must be some kind of message, but I'll bet Scooter was also one of those snooty WR30 kids who thinks he's writing "The Waste Land" for every assignment.

Vino

Didn't take to mulling so well. Maybe I won't use 2 Buck Chuck next time. My computer charger caught fire earlier this evening (and I scurried right to the Apple store to buy a new one). But Equinoctial is coming to town next weekend, and Collier is coming 2 weeks later. I think visits are what the doctor should have ordered.

Autumnal

This morning there was a cold wind. I kept trying to do autumnal things, and thinking to myself, today is autumnal. I'm wearing a red sweater. I think I'm going to turn the sangria I made into mulled wine. Fall is a wonderful season.

I'm also in a good mood because I kicked the practice literature GRE's ass. 99th percentile, baby.

Fur

From the amazing E&T, I learned that goosebumps are the body moving around vestigal fur. When we're cold, we raise our the hairs of our fur for insulation. When we're afraid, we bristle. I love that something in our skin remembers the animal past.

Status Report

My room is the cleanest it's been in weeks, although it's still more stuff than floor. I decided to write a sequence of poems using as titles terms from cognitive behavioral psychology jargon. (Don't steal my idea, yo.) I also tried to write about the fact that I slept with a spider directly above my head for three nights and when I finally dealt with it it was not, as I had assumed from the fact that it hadn't moved, dead, which was, I found, a little freaky.

Over the past three days I have met with all 15 of my students (as well as doing six hours of tutoring and teaching my class as usual) and I now feel an almost physical pain at the sound of my own voice. At the same time, I'm sort of excited about the way my class is going. This is the first time I'm actually trying to improve my students' poems. I've pretty much kicked their collective ass on the use of cliches and generalities and they're taking it really well. I think they may grow to understand something, which would be pretty much a first in my teaching career. I also feel like I've clarified things for myself that I may be able to use.

Right now, however, my plan is to go to the gym and read Harry Potter. Isn't that enviable? I would envy me if I wasn't so tired that I'd rather just watch 18 hours of television while eating tuna casserole and gummi bears.

"The greatest!"

If there's anything that I have learned from the Supreme Court nomination of Harriet Miers, it's to avoid exclamation points at all costs. You never know when they will come back to haunt you. Also, I will never again use in writing the word "cool."

Does she dot her i's with hearts, I wonder.

Do I want to go?

I know a lot of people who have never ended up going to graduate school because of the October second thoughts, because grad school often stops seeming like a good idea right when application season rolls around. I understand the OSTs to be a predictable pitfall, but I am having them anyway.

I love teaching and I want to teach college, but I know that a PhD doesn't guarantee anything in that regard. And it would mean uprooting again, starting over again, not only in a new place and with new people but also with a new set of things to worry about and try for, a new system to get sucked into and use to distract myself from actually getting anything done. It's taken so long to feel at home here, to not be spending all my energy acclimating. Is it worth it, is it a good idea, to do it all over again when there's not even exactly a goal in sight? Will I keep going to school forever? Will I get to some PhD program and not be able to get into the spirit of it because I've been in grad school already and will probably be old enough to be my classmates' grandmother?

Someone at Bread Loaf told me I shouldn't describe myself as a student any more, because it makes you sound unprofessional, and so I've been trying to do that: "I teach at UCI and edit Faultline" instead of "I'm in the MFA program." But I realized recently, it's true. I'm not really in school any more. I don't go to classes, I don't see professors, I go to my peers for advice on my work. It's sort of a scam that I still get health insurance and to live in student housing. But the relative freedom of this year makes me doubt more strongly whether I want to be back in the hardcore school environment, especially studying something incredibly difficult that's not in all respects my cup of tea.

So does anyone have any advice?

"The monkeys were sad, too"

I was saying to HenHen today that I feel like a real Californian now because I like the feeling of flip-flops between my toes.

My students did a fantastic job destroying The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter in a variety of ways. For instance, one group, whose task was to update the poem unsuccessfully, changed "I desired my dust to be mingled with yours" to "I set my cell phone to vibrate."

Theory

I like theory. It's welcome to hang out anytime. I just don't want to marry it.

That seems reasonable. Can I write it on PhD program applications?

Apres Steelhead

Schauff called me "Cohen" tonight, and that made me feel cool, like a hip comic-book-writing teenager who's going to inherit the Newport Company someday.

I love my 7th graders. They're so flirtatious, though, I fear they will break each other's hearts some day.

I'm too tired for another beer. What's wrong with me?

Special Election

So my question is, is voting for a Democrat in Orange County the same as voting for Nader in a presidential election, in the sense that it's a symbolic vote for the purposes of self-expression rather than to actually elect a candidate? In the special congressional election tomorrow, there's a moderate Republican who is socially liberal, pro-choice, etc, and the real race seems to be between her and her freaky-conservative Republican rival. She's targeting Democrats, which explains why I've gotten a shitload of mail from her. Following the Nader-logic, I feel I should vote for her (and then spend an hour wailing and tearing my hair about where I live), but I just don't know if I can pull the lever for a Republican. Her campaign did me a huge, misty picture of Jerusalem at sunset with the words "SHE'S ONE OF US" superimposed on it, but I'm not sure if that works in her favor. It's just a little weird.

In other news, tutoring, O ball and chain, is all I do anymore. I'm so over it, but these SAT types really know how to turn the thumbscrews.

Bad News

Sudoku. It is evil. Don't ever ever start. It feels like being plugged into the Matrix. Time goes by and some alien thing is using your life force while you just sit there in a trance feeling busy but disconnected.

Especially never play in bed.

I have sensitive ears

and they hurt. I think I have to wear earplugs next time we jam. I guess three boys on guitar plus a cello trying to be heard can do a lot to a vulnerable eardrum.

Antler Chandelier

There is nothing like a semi-spontaneous party to make you feel like things are good. We played music and showed the trumpet player what late night sounds can be like. My roommate came home in the middle of it and joined right in, proving herself to be the best roommate ever. Mom's famous ice cream cake was a hit as always. I think it was a good birthday for the birthday person, full of unwanted but benevolent attention.

Dinner at Claim Jumper produced names for my future cat--Peter Elbow--and for my book of poetry--Antler Chandelier.