(no subject)
Paul McCartney looked very wrinkled and mortal on TV tonight. It was a bit like watching my dad trying to carry the Super Bowl Halftime show. I imagined Sir Paul leaving the stage, catching a ride back to his hotel, having a glass of milk, calling his wooden-legged wife, and then going to sleep.
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I have a craptastic work schedule tomorrow. It is as follows:
9:30 - 11 AM: teach a class
3:30 - 5 PM: teach another class
Yes, that's three hours of work, with four and half hours in between that I'll probably spend walking to Borders, sitting in the cafe with a cardboard cup of chai and a lunch I will pack tomorrow morning, generally whiling away time with my paper journal or some short story collections or another pleasantly selfish pursuit I could easily leave to the weekend. When I started with this company, they told me the work would be part-time, but I didn't think it would be this part-time. It's good experience, though, which is why I'd like to stick with them until I have something better (the New York program, preferably). So I'm looking at getting another job to do in the afternoons and evenings, possibly at Borders, since I spend so much time there, anyway. It's not a long-term plan, of course, but it works for now. Maybe if I work at a place that sells books, I'll start craving words and ideas with the fervor I did a couple years ago.
I feel like I've mentioned a lot of things lately that I've been quietly rebelling against, so it can't hurt to add another one to the list. I was so engrossed in the English Major Image back a couple years ago that now the behaviors and even the thoughts of Literary Obsession are a bit repugnant to me. No, I don't want to sit in a dark coffeehouse and ensure that the cover of my Faulkner book is caught in candlelight just enough so that everyone else can see what I'm reading (nevermind that I sit there for three hours and read perhaps ten pages). I don't want to be overheard in a bookstore swooning over Dave Eggers. I don't want to fantasize about what it'd be like to get an acceptance letter from the Iowa Writers' Workshop. I just want to enjoy reading and creating in my own comfortable realm, untouched by all my college fantasies of living amongst literary people in a perpetual Georgia autumn of crisp new notebooks and Quentin Compson quotes and vegetarians wearing leather sandals, and untouched by all the other idealistic twerps who came before me. It is much easier to be an idealistic twerp when you don't have anyone against whom to compare yourself. My local friends are all people very different from myself, and that's fine with me. I've finally gotten pretty good at being a friend to myself (the secrets appear to be sleep, frequent walks, bunny slippers, Six Feet Under afternoons, and the occasional cup of chai from Borders Cafe); I doubt I could handle another like me.
--
I have a craptastic work schedule tomorrow. It is as follows:
9:30 - 11 AM: teach a class
3:30 - 5 PM: teach another class
Yes, that's three hours of work, with four and half hours in between that I'll probably spend walking to Borders, sitting in the cafe with a cardboard cup of chai and a lunch I will pack tomorrow morning, generally whiling away time with my paper journal or some short story collections or another pleasantly selfish pursuit I could easily leave to the weekend. When I started with this company, they told me the work would be part-time, but I didn't think it would be this part-time. It's good experience, though, which is why I'd like to stick with them until I have something better (the New York program, preferably). So I'm looking at getting another job to do in the afternoons and evenings, possibly at Borders, since I spend so much time there, anyway. It's not a long-term plan, of course, but it works for now. Maybe if I work at a place that sells books, I'll start craving words and ideas with the fervor I did a couple years ago.
I feel like I've mentioned a lot of things lately that I've been quietly rebelling against, so it can't hurt to add another one to the list. I was so engrossed in the English Major Image back a couple years ago that now the behaviors and even the thoughts of Literary Obsession are a bit repugnant to me. No, I don't want to sit in a dark coffeehouse and ensure that the cover of my Faulkner book is caught in candlelight just enough so that everyone else can see what I'm reading (nevermind that I sit there for three hours and read perhaps ten pages). I don't want to be overheard in a bookstore swooning over Dave Eggers. I don't want to fantasize about what it'd be like to get an acceptance letter from the Iowa Writers' Workshop. I just want to enjoy reading and creating in my own comfortable realm, untouched by all my college fantasies of living amongst literary people in a perpetual Georgia autumn of crisp new notebooks and Quentin Compson quotes and vegetarians wearing leather sandals, and untouched by all the other idealistic twerps who came before me. It is much easier to be an idealistic twerp when you don't have anyone against whom to compare yourself. My local friends are all people very different from myself, and that's fine with me. I've finally gotten pretty good at being a friend to myself (the secrets appear to be sleep, frequent walks, bunny slippers, Six Feet Under afternoons, and the occasional cup of chai from Borders Cafe); I doubt I could handle another like me.