This is the Only Place

I realized recently my work computer had a floppy disk drive and so all these old floppy disks I've been holding on to could finally be gone through. There are about 10 of these disks. Most were full of college essays and drafts of stories  from when I was about 16 until probably 21. I found the picture to the left on the disk as well. It's me, obviously, dismayed that I and my two college friends could not get a fire started somewhere in the wilds of Alabama.

We had taken this road trip during the summer between freshmen and sophomore year of college. One friend and I flew to New Hampshire, where the other friend picked us up and drove us back into his hometown of Boston. From there we drove a southern route across the country. It had rained most of the day/night when this picture was taken, and we were just not having any luck getting a fire going.

Just a week ago I received an email from an agent letting me know they were passing on my book. I'm not entirely surprised. I've prepared myself for the numerous passes (or rejections as the realist might call them) I will surely receive. Nevertheless, it's still disappointing to receive a no. Oh, but I don't want to complain. Of course, I'm likely living closer to my dream than a lot of people get the chance to. There's a vast system of support beneath me which launched me toward being so privileged to even appeal to agents and people who publish books, writers and other makers and thinkers.

To the right there is a picture I took while at Janey Smith's 851: The Squat reading series. Brandon Brown was reading and just before he began he accidentally knocked over a martini glass full of cough syrup. You can't exactly tell from this but his hand appeared bloody. That is what I was hoping to capture actually. The martini glass full of cough syrup was there because the previous reader Cassandra Troyan was sipping from it while she read. I had hoped to also take a picture of her reading as well because she had hand-cuffed herself to this chair, but I thought a flash might disturb the environment, I'm sure no one would have minded, but seeing as I had spilled my drink just moments before, I didn't want to disrupt the proceedings any further. Beside her a laptop played a video. Cassandra seemed to be in a type of duet with the video. The images in the video were sometimes of cityscapes, the type you see while driving through a darkened town, or of a woman's legs. Shouts were heard. Meanwhile, Cassandra was reading, possessed maybe, bouncing between voices/phrases comical and corporeal. The micro-press Solar Luxuriance (run by Mike Kitchell and Cassandra) just put out Cassandra's book Throne of Blood.

Brandon Brown's reading was also wonderful. He read 3 pieces about his name, in addition to some others. After the reading was over, I spoke with him about my pleasure in hearing him offer periodic asides within his pieces, which I suspected were mostly built-in to the writing (he confirmed this). He came off as relaxed and improvisational - and that appears to be purposeful. And I love that about his reading. It's almost as if he's offering us a bit of stage banter but it's more important than that. A lot of wonderful readers do this, I think. Of the most recent readers I've seen, Dodie Bellamy, Kevin Killian, and Brandon Brown do it. I also remember, from quite a while ago, when Eileen Myles came to a class I was in (with Dodie actually) and I fell in love with the way Eileen seemed as if she were just speaking directly to you as she read. It's like at any moment the topic could change (and it often does), but as most conversations go, it will find its way back to the original concerns. Or maybe it won't, and then you wonder why not?

This is a picture at the end of the night. Janey thought to gather one representative of each of the writing communities in attendance. I'm not sure which communities they all represent, but the two people in red/burgundy might represent the new Alt Lit/internet writing scene (I'm sorry I didn't catch their names). Janey, far left, represents 851. Brandon, next, represents the East Bay scene. And Mike Kitchell, in the beanie, represents... I'm not sure, because I forgot how Janey organized it all. But, Mike would probably fall into the SF scene (if you go by regions). Really, I would classify him as 'writers I'm envious of for their output'. There are a lot of writers in that classification actually.

Finally, I wanted to add a picture taken by Kevin Killian as part of his "Eyes on the Prize" photography exhibition at [2nd floor projects]. Kevin came to my house a few days ago and we had a fun time, he taking my picture and me trying to be the best model I could be. There's a lot more to say about Kevin's photography project, but I will just encourage everyone to check out his exhibition. And if you're not in the Bay Area to do that, you might want to ask yourself why you don't live in the Bay Area... Why would you live anywhere else? 

666 666 666

Saw this address in the Richmond district of San Francisco and took a picture of it. I think I was returning to my friends Jason and Jamie's apartment after drinks in the Inner Sunset. At some point we stopped near the DeYoung Museum and took pictures on our phones. It was late and there were hardly any people around. (I may be mixing two different nights)

I only partially intentionally included 9 chapters in the second part of my novel. When I realized I could squeeze everything into 9 chapters, I figured it made sense in terms of the demonic, etc. Also there are 27 chapters in the first part of the novel. Sometimes I wonder if all these little parts of my book will be discovered, whether I should alert everyone to them or not. I like the idea of leaving little bits for the reader to find on their own. I guess a lot of the latest revisions have been about making those discoveries for the reader more exciting and potentially powerful.

Recently, I received an email letting me know one of my 'stories' will be published in the next/final volume of The Encyclopedia Project. One of my former teachers co-edits the book. When I found out it was accepted, I was with my family in Sacramento for Christmas. My grandma asked me about the story. I pulled up the pdf on her laptop and read a little bit to my grandma, my mom, and my great-grandmother. My grandpa was in the living room and could hear me, I think. At certain parts my grandma laughed and that made me feel good. And she understood it. And that made me feel good.

Here's a picture of me at Highland Hospital in Oakland. I wasn't feeling good then. I was on my way to work when my back and side started to hurt. I thought I just had to use the bathroom but after I unsuccessfully used the toilet at the MacArthur BART station, I remembered that I had felt this pain before, about a month earlier, though a much less intense version. I hurried home and called my dad who told me to not be stupid and go to the hospital. I would be stupid to not go because I don't have health insurance. The insurance I did have had expired about a month prior to this, actually.

I woke my roommate and asked her if she could help me get to the hospital. Luckily, there was a hospital right down the street so we walked there - a walk that should have taken 5 minutes but apparently took 30. This was a children's hospital however so they weren't really set up to help adults. But, regardless, they gave me some drugs and called an ambulance. My dad had called my mom and soon she was there too. The pain ended up being a kidney stone. I was taken to Highland eventually. I'm actually hamming it up in this picture because I was texting with my dad, and he had sent me a picture of himself in the hospital when he had a kidney stone. By this point I had been on drugs and in between and at hospitals since 8am and it was probably 4pm, and still I hadn't eaten anything. While I lie there, a man was brought in who had been shot in the back of the head. I like that behind me in the picture, the hospital seems empty and peaceful, I guess, but actually behind my mom there was an entire drama playing out.

I stopped writing this blog post so I could meet with two friends for coffee. While I waited for my friends to arrive I went into a bookstore and bought a magazine - Boston Review (BR). When I shop for groceries, I stare at the magazines the store places there so you might buy them last minute. In the past, I've never been tempted to buy the magazines, but recently, I've felt this urge to buy them all: the New Yorker, the Economist, Time, Newsweek, Vanity Fair, etc. For a while when I was living with B, the New Yorker was always around and I liked looking through it. I don't know why I never picked it up on my own. I resist the urge to buy the magazines in the store because I know if I just go online and subscribe I can get a better value. I haven't subscribed to anything yet. I will likely subscribe to Boston Review however. I started following the Boston Review on twitter because twitter told me I might interested in them based off of other accounts I follow. I don't follow many 'news' magazines, mostly literary journals so I thought at first the Boston Review was a literary magazine. After a while I noticed the BR's tweets were mostly about politics and while on my long work commutes I was actually reading the articles their tweets linked to. Basically, they grew on me. Then tonight when I saw their actual print version, I had to get it. I look forward to subscribing.

On Two Readings and Five Writers

That's me after I shaved one half of my head. It had been growing out so long. I had this reading with Dodie Bellamy and Francesca Lisette coming up at Woolsey Heights (thanks to Andrew Kenower for inviting me!) and for whatever reason, if I don't feel like I look my best, I won't be my best, and so forth. It just leads to me feeling insecure. Dodie had promised me that the audience would be receptive to my work so I don't know why I would be so nervous. I guess, it's because never before any reading had I felt everyone in the audience would be a better writer/reader than me. That must sound silly. This would be my audience so I wanted to impress them. Any sign of me being a fraud and they would sense it immediately. Maybe I should think about why I don't have a certain confidence in myself when I'm in a room of people whom I feel are my peers. I remember a discussion B and I had where, this was my impression at least, she just wanted me to shout into the phone, "Because I'm the best!" Of course, maybe it's not about me being the best. Naturally, I am not trying to be better than the audience or my fellow readers - about Francesca and Dodie's readings in a minute. I just want to be among the many who people like and appreciate. Is it embarrassing to admit to such an ambition? I don't know. Anti-capitalist feelings pull me one direction and tell me to eschew popularity and capital and all of that. Why am I writing, really, if all I want is to be loved? Isn't writing to be loved a perfectly good reason to write? I think Rachel Hyman from Banango Lit posed this question on her Facebook and I tried to answer it sincerely.

There is a feeling in me that I began to write stories to receive the attention. I remember in pre-school or perhaps early elementary signing up to read a story in front of the class. My memory now tells me I was doing it because I wanted everyone to like me. This goes to all kinds of questions about why we write and so on. What is writings purpose? Sorry, I can hear people yawning and saying, Oh god! after that question. I guess I stopped asking that question when I was in undergrad. I don't think writing needs a purpose. I will show my philosophical leanings here and say nothing has a purpose. Everything just is or becomes.

In any case, when I gave my reading with Dodie and Francesca, I was extremely nervous. I had chosen the end of the first part of my book - the part that is contemporary. It's all about sex and death and the main characters d/evolving into their chosen wild nature. It's my favorite part of the story and I'm really happy when I read it. I also pulled out a chunk of the second part of the book - the part about Catherine of Siena. I had never read anything from this story and I figured a receptive audience would be willing to go with me to 14th-century Italy. The best comment after I read was, "It's like Twilight, but good."

Francesca Lisette read after me. She's from England, and I'm not afraid to admit, I'm a sucker for accents. Isn't everybody? It's so easy to listen to someone who does not sound like you. It may mean something else to about being infatuated with imperial power but... Francesca's reading was hyper and relevant. She created these humorous moments for us and everyone laughed and then sped along to another image. I loved it. If I had had some money at the time I would have bought one of her books she had with her.

Then Dodie read. I think this was my favorite reading of Dodie's. Perhaps only because she was reading absolutely new work. Since I'm such a fan of hers I'm always pretty familiar with what's happening, but this time she was reading from her new book about (among other things) cults. I had heard her speak about the book but never any actual prose. So I was anticipating this for a while. As I watched her read, I realized that Dodie is pretty much a rockstar. She is such a master at delivering her writing. I found myself tearing up a bit because I was lucky enough to be her student. I wondered how many readings Dodie has given and how long it took for her to become so good at it? Maybe this is embedded into Dodie's writing but her readings feel as if she is merely speaking to you one on one, telling the most interesting and wild story - sometimes about herself - and at times you're laughing and at others you're flowing in the rhythm of her images. Because Dodie just published a book about a recent romantic relationship, I'm sure everyone has a good idea of what character "Dodie's" life has been like. But for this new book, Dodie the author is going back to a completely different time and for me it's enlightening to hear one of your favorite authors open up about other times in their life.

I don't remember if my reading was before or after Kevin and Rob's. Rob Halpern was my first creative writing teacher at UCSC - that's him to the left. I've only seen him a few times since that first quarter, but we've emailed quite a few times. I got to the reading a little late. All the seats were taken. Rob was standing up. I think Kevin was standing too. Rob said, And there's Jason. Then the audience turned and looked at me. I sat on the ground close to the wall. Rob read first from Music For Porn. I had heard about this book for a while but I think it just recently was published. I think what I love most about Rob's reading is the sound of his voice. The cadence of his words, obviously his images, his earnestness. I've always found his voice and his writing to have a particular type of weight to which I aspire. The interesting thing is it's been nearly 12 years since I first met Rob and he still looks the same to me. I don't know how much different I look but I know the student I was then does not resemble me now. I scratch my head now thinking how Rob could have recognized some small hope in the awful stories I wrote for him. Maybe he just saw the philosophical issues I was grappling with and then knew to offer me some help. Who knows. If I read my own stories now as a teacher, I probably would be embarrassed for the student.

Then came Kevin - he's there to the left standing, Dodie right in front of him. Like Dodie, Kevin reads as if he is speaking to you one on one. Or at least that is how I hear it. He appears so relaxed, his storytelling feels direct and somewhat classic. His new book Spreadeagle seems complicated however, if only because he had to break from the reading to explain a character or something. This wasn't a problem at all for me because I love when the curtain is drawn away from the book and the author fills us in. I'm having this image come to me now of Kevin as Willy Wonka. Not the Johnny Depp version - though I love that version too. There's Kevin leading us into his vast factory and stopping in all the different rooms to explain the alien machinery and the little men who keep it all running.

One Big Awesome Miraculous America

and the picture to the right is me at my graduation from CCA. I didn't mean to align my fist so evenly with the flag; it just turned out that way. Though I liked wearing the gown and the silly hat, the graduation was a little dull. The school crammed all the graduates off to the side of the stage, behind large wooden beams. I could barely see the audience or the speakers. It was very hot. I sat with two peers whom I am friends with but we could only entertain ourselves for so long. I don't even remember the main speaker's name now, but I wasn't impressed. Some representative from CCA introduced this main speaker by listing all the reasons we should be impressed by him. He had done a lot of things; like inventing the first laptop or something like that. Then this main speaker gets up and proceeds to give us his basic life story... including his accomplishments again. He hadn't come from some impoverished background or anything interesting. He was just a man who made good on his talents and now he was here at CCA receiving an honorary degree. He didn't have to pay 100k for his I guess. I'm sure he's fine person and it's good he's done what he's done, but I didn't feel inspired by his speech and let's face it, that's what these speeches are for. The rally your reserves! sort of speech. I know you've been through a lot and never doubt how important your art is to the world. Look at me! I invented the laptop for chrissakes! Ok. Thanks. I've never doubted why becoming writer was important. Just wondering if other people care. I think I've written about this before. Anyway, I guess it's not really this guy's job to get me excited about the future. That's my job. But still. It was hot. I would have been happy if he ended with CLEAR EYES FULL HEARTS. And we would yell back CAN'T LOSE.

A while ago I bought some Google offer deal groupon thing for Green Apple Books. I used it to buy David Graeber's Debt from Melville House. My teacher Miranda Mellis recommended I read it as part of my research for my next book - which I guess I should call another novel. So yes, I'm writing another novel. Anyway, Debt just blew me away. I read it in a week I think. Maybe parts of his book are obvious to others, but not to me. He surveys a few economics text books and shows how they falsely claim (and by claim I mean teach) that ancient peoples bartered and then invented money. Wrong. Credit existed before money and rarely, if ever, did people barter. He sets up credit as a moral dilemma. Guess which side he comes down on? It's not the banks. It's hard not to read the book, look at the world around us, and then wonder why things aren't changing. I think he even altered parts of my brain, how I view transactions, human and financial. I feel this is a rare thing these days. My brain being significantly altered does not happen too frequently these days. The paradigms up in my skull rarely shift but in regards to Debt the paradigm shifted. It was the perfect book to read for my next project and I took a lot of notes for the THING.


Not too long ago I also gave a reading as part of The Grinder Reading Series at the Telegraph Cafe here in Oakland. It was fun. The picture to the left I took right when I got off the bus to head to the reading. I was on the bus and all these teenagers started running by me and jaywalking across the street. Ahead of me I heard the screams of hundreds of young girls and boys, yelling and crying. I thought, Wow, I'm getting popular. All these people are coming to my reading? Of course, I knew this wasn't true; I just thought it because it seemed like a funny thought to have. So I catch up to this horde of teen-dom and realize all these girls and boys are screaming after some British boy band called One Direction. The energy level was insane. I could literally feel the VIBES floating in the air and I thought, How exciting! I wanted to shout at these busses too! Who are One Direction? I asked some crusty Oakland cyclists standing off to the sides with their bikes. They shrugged their shoulders. Then a parent told me they were a boy band, and she shrugged her shoulders like I Don't Know Either. I kept walking past the crowd and got to the reading.

I felt a little funny at first because 1) I had no book to sell 2) the reading was outdoors 3) I didn't know anyone too well. But, quickly, I realized it didn't matter if I had a book to sell, and the sun was nice, and then the organizer of the series Jason Schenheit, a SFSU writing pal, came up to me and gave me a big hug. I felt good then. I was welcomed. Obviously, I was never around for The Beats, but I had the impression this was a beat type audience. They talked back to the open mic readers and laughed and reacted to what was being read. Oh man, I thought, usually people just sit quietly and listen to what I say. Is this going to be like stand-up? Will I have to make witty banter, etc? After two readers I was up, as a featured reader. I guess this made me a little more important than the open mic'ers. I read three short works. The first probably worked the best because they were collections of random topics where I unbelievably (to myself) made some witty observations. I usually don't find myself too witty. But, the pieces worked and people laughed. Then the second work didn't work so well, at least not all the time. It had to do with my last name and how I don't say it in Spanish. JIM instead of HIM. I wasn't feeling the vibes when I read it. Like I was offending everyone. Maybe not. The last piece worked because I talked about Jodie Foster and attributed some fake quote to her. I guess everyone likes Jodie Foster.

I didn't stay too long after I read because I had forgotten to bring a sweater or jacket and when the sun went down, it became cold and windy. I hopped back on the bus home. It was a precision strike, I thought. I just went in there, read my stuff and got out. I wondered if anyone would remember me. Maybe they would, right? Eventually they'll see me somewhere. On a bookshelf or another reading and they will say, Hey, I remember you from that reading! Finally, I thought, it was so nice what Jason S said to me. He said, it was good to have someone at the reading with my kind of caliber. How amazing! I have caliber! I have caliber!

So, now, I'm finishing up Kevin Killian's Impossible Princess (one story left) and it's amazing. I can't help but wish I had discovered KK and the rest of New Narrative before college. I think some things would have been different - as far as writing style is concerned. Also, I'm finishing up Bret Easton Ellis' The Rules of Attraction. I guess I liked Less Than Zero. I definitely liked American Psycho (sometimes). I guess I prefer the movie, well, Christian Bale anyway. There are things to appreciate about RULES. It doesn't have a typical narrative arc. That's always pleasing. Like my best friend, Jason, said about it though, I just can't buy into his cynic view of the world. And I agree. Everything isn't so bad as Ellis believes. Then again, if you read Graeber's book you

Spring Beats

I'm listening to my lastfm library right now. I will write each song that comes on while I prepare this blog post. Right now, Best Coast's "Happy". On March 30th I read with my fellow graduating writers at our Word. World. celebration. My family came from out of town. B was there. Two of my closest friends showed up. Three of my other closest friends showed up right when I was wrapping up my reading. I tried to dress like a priest for my reading because I thought my story was like a sermon. Before the reading began I ran into my dad and his girlfriend. I was really out of it and nervous but glad to see them. I flashed back to this memory of my dad coming out of his room (our room) at our Cottage Way house. I was about 9 or 10. He was getting dressed to go out dancing or something. He came out into the living room and threw his arms out and said, "Do I look sharp?" He smelled nice and he looked really cool, I remember thinking. So now every time I dress nice I think of my dad then and I either say "do I look sharp?" or I think it in my head. When I ran into my dad before the reading I wanted to ask him if I looked sharp, but I was so nervous and out of it, I forgot. B was also down the hall and I didn't want to keep her waiting for me. I don't know why I worried about that. My dad sat me down and pulled out a gift: a powered messenger bag with all sorts of bells and whistles that only recently have I figured out how to use. My dad's voice became sort of solemn and serious. He said he was giving me the bag as a way to say congratulations for graduating (though I haven't actually graduated yet) and just to say 'good job'. I flashed back to another time when I was a sophomore in high school. It was in the fall, at the cross country section championships. It was raining. (Ride's "Leave Them All Behind") My dad and I stood beneath a hallway near the race course. He pulled out a white envelope and inside there was a small necklace with a gold medallion of some saint, I forget now, and a letter my dad had written. It said something like he was really proud of me and that the medal belonged to my (deceased) grandpa. Then my dad pinned the medal to my running shorts and said that when I ran my grandpa would be with me. I ended up winning that race and the sophomore championship. I'm pretty sure this is the only race I've won.

All of us readers sat in a row off to the side of the audience so I got to stare at my family and friends as they listened to the other readers. When I took the stage I was still very nervous. The lights were very bright; I could only see the very far left side of the audience which was only 3 or 4 people... all former peers incidentally. But, that was good I could see them because I felt like I was speaking to my friends, though because of my story I mostly had to read from my pages. I read my story in a way that I've never read before and I think it was much different than the other readers. I didn't know at the time if the audience would pick up on this or not, or if it was just something I sensed. This particular story cannot be read so much as performed. After I was finished I talked to Kevin Killian (one of the teachers here that I haven't worked with yet... or ever will since the year is over, but maybe some day) about the performative aspect of my reading. He liked all the hand motions I made and even suggested I turn it into a type of dance. We were speaking mostly in jest, I think. Kevin brought over Dodie (Bellamy) and we all shared a laugh about the little dance Kevin and I made up for my story. It seemed that most people liked my reading and they really enjoyed the hand motions that I made while reading. (Cut Copy's "Where I'm Going") Some people thought what I was doing was funny and some thought it was serious. Thankfully, B knew that I am mostly always serious and earnest in my writing and understood, later, my frustration that people laughed while I read - though I guess I have to admit I did throw in some 'funny' parts. On the other hand, people laughed at parts which I don't think are funny. The biggest surprise was that here I thought I was explaining this extremely complicated concept and I was really worried people would not understand me, but it seemed as if people did understand what I was reading and that made me feel good because part of the project of this story is to be understood, what it means to understand others, to be understood by others. And then all of the sudden, here I was, after the reading, and it turns out I made sense to people! In classes, a few days after the reading, classmates even reference some of the language from my story in class - like I had introduced this whole new way of talking about things. Obviously, I didn't, but it feels good when people talk about what you have written, especially when they don't have to or aren't forced to by the workshop environment. (Jonsi's "Animal Arithmetic" - my favorite song of 2010)

Earlier today, M Kitchell (a writer who posts on HTMLGiant often) posted a question about Marie Calloway's new story "Jeremy Lin". So I read the new story and actually enjoyed it more than "Adrien Brody"... though it essentially isn't a "story" so much as a blog post. I thought, this is just a blog post, then I thought about how my mentor here, Dodie, her latest book came from a blog, and everything Dodie was trying to do with "blogging" and being female (I'm grossly over-simplifying Dodie's aims, but please forgive me!). I thought, maybe I shouldn't deride Calloway for publishing a blog post because then that would just be like discriminating against Dodie's book, which I absolutely love. Maybe, then, I'm just being biased and since Calloway is younger than me, and more popular, and hangs out with Tao Lin, and gives readings in New York, and isn't Dodie, I just don't like her. But, then, Calloway, in her new story, doesn't even seem to be aware of what she's doing or how she's doing it, and it all seems so contrived (in a bad way). So I guess I don't know. I like Calloway's new story more than the previous, but still don't understand, again still, why everyone's talking about her writing. This all comes, also, from being part of the 'intellectual n+1-loving' writers who find value in discovering good/bad writing... which apparently Tao Lin hates or dislikes... (Health's "USA Boys"), but Calloway, I'm assuming, doesn't mind. Whatever.

So, now, my thesis has been turned in, and I meet in early May with my committee and then they will tell me if I earned my MFA or not. Barring some anti-miracle, they will say I earned it. (Mirrors' "Lights and Offering") Then, what? The book becomes a book and not a thesis or something else. My other mentor Miranda Mellis challenged me to write a cover letter which I will then, conceivably, send out to agents or houses. When Miranda issued the challenge we talked about what my book is about and it was very enlightening to me. Also, it was the first time I expressed to someone other than B what I was really aiming at in the writing, at least in any cohesive way. I will have to explain it again when I meet with my committee. It was great to hear from Miranda that what I thought I had done was not the complete opposite of what she understood about my book. (El Guincho's "Lycra Mistral")

B took the picture above in my room. (I Break Horses' "Winter Beats")

Exhaustion Report

I haven't posted in over 3 months because I've been working diligently on my MFA thesis. At CCA we turn in our theses to a 3 member faculty committee and then we meet with that committee 2 times to discuss our projects. I've met once so far with my committee (Dodie Bellamy, Donna de la Perriere, Shanthi Sekaran) and it went wonderfully. I had been extremely nervous prior to the meeting but once we all sat down my nervousness went away, and Dodie, Donna, and Shanthi all had really helpful suggestions, and even boosted my confidence. Later, I met one-on-one with Dodie and she took me to dinner, and even though the restaurant had some sort of gas stove malfunction, the dinner was tasty and of course, Dodie offered invaluable comments on my writing.

Since I'm winding down my time as a graduate student at CCA I thought I would express some sense of how lucky I feel to have met the teachers and peers who have made my last 2 years amazingly productive. Just today I met with my mentor Miranda Mellis. We had coffee at Mission Pie. Had I already eaten lunch I might have ordered banana cream pie for dessert! But just a mocha was good. I had never heard of Miranda before coming to CCA; I had never heard of Dodie either, but now I can't imagine my time here without them. I don't think I would have developed how I have had I not been lucky enough to take their classes and be their "mentee". And even better they actually enjoy working with me! What a love letter this is turning out to be. But, it's not just Dodie and Miranda. I've met some really great peers and collaborators. I feel certain some of these people will remain in my life for some time. I feel certain I will work and write with these people in the future. Naturally, some people I will never see again and that's probably not a bad thing.

So I wonder what will we all do when we graduate. Right now I don't know. Certainly, there is no doubt that I will continue writing with the hopes of being published. I think just two years ago there could have been some doubt about that. I wasn't a committed writer. Now, I am. Wouldn't it be great to make living doing it? Or teaching it? Or somehow being involved in the publishing process? Do my peers feel the same? I haven't asked them so I don't know. Do some leave graduate school with an MFA and then never publish anything for the rest of their lives? Is that possible?

While I was on BART this afternoon, I imagined a scene. A fellow passenger would ask me what I did, and I would respond, "I'm a writer." I imagined society's response to that. Or its many responses. How does the rest of the world view what we do? I'm assuming there are no 'non-writers' who read my blog so they might not be able to tell me. Is there some statistic on what people think of writers? And not just economics. Judging how writers are paid, I can guess what people think of them. But, there should be a more emotional view too. Shouldn't there?

I would like to create something beautiful and good. I think I can do that by writing.

A few years ago I read the unabridged edition of Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. The last 200-300 pages were exquisitely difficult. The emotional power of the story made it impossible not to cry. I loved the characters and their struggle. I don't think I've ever been so involved in a story. I look to those final pages as the prime example of what I want to do not only for others but for myself. I would like to have that feeling again. Even if I have to create it. I would like to create something beautiful and good. This seems like the ideal outcome.

Words With Friends

As a forewarning, this will likely be a meandering, ponderous post. Let us begin: I'm in Antelope, staying with my mom in her new house which she shares with my aunt. My mom's old house, my childhood home, is somewhere over there. Anyway, I'm sleeping on the couch. At neither of my parents' homes do I have a room. Which makes sense. I just got an iPhone 4. Not the newest one, but to me, it's like stepping into a new century. Privately, I scoff at people who spend their train rides hunched over their phones, fingers noodling the screens, downloading apps. Such an ugly word and term. The internet age is full of silly words. Google. iPad. Zynga. Facebook. Twitter. Apps. Push notifications (I just learned this one). I'm sure people have written about this before. The language of the internet is ugly. I should have said I USED to scoff but now I know I can't because while my mom and I visited with my extended family I lay on the floor and downloaded Netflix, Words with Friends, Yelp, Fandango. Probably another, I forget. Now, I'm unable to sleep and so I'm getting completely annihilated by someone named Twihard Ninja on Words with Friends (for those who don't know this is a scrabble-like game). In between my turns I follow the #occupysf tag on twitter and watch someone streaming the SFPD breaking up an encampment at the Federal Reserve Bank. The guy streaming is clearly upset and then in between some usual ranting he claims that it's the Fed's fault we're in this crisis - or something like that. My immediate response is, "I've heard this before!" END the FED. I google it. It's the name of Republican presidential nominee Ron Paul's book. Does that mean the guy streaming is a libertarian like Paul? I know there's some sort of love affair for Ron Paul by people who are sort of like me. Young, hip, educated. He doesn't believe in war, he wants the federal government to stay out of everything. I don't know. It doesn't feel right.

In 2008 I remember going for a drive by my dad's old house in Roseville. For some reason it was okay back then (for me) to just drive aimlessly in the undeveloped parts of the vast suburb that is Roseville/Rocklin. I remember seeing Paul's "Revolution" posters. EVOL was backwards. LOVE. What did he mean? It was a love revolution? Revolution of love? Against love, for love, etc? I didn't understand it. I preferred Obama's hope and change slogans. They made sense. But, nothing makes sense now. We're off axis, it seems.

My game is about to end with Twihard Ninja. This person is very good. Or not at all and I am just bad. In my last move I had WORLD to put down but there was nowhere to put it.

The picture above is the head of Saint Catherine of Siena. After I read my mom a bit of my book, she told me she had been to Siena. I had completely forgotten her trip to Italy. She said she had seen Catherine's finger. I didn't believe her. Then she showed me the picture. When I looked up the finger I also noticed that the church has had her head. I found a picture of that. You can see her face. The whole time I've been researching this book, never have I seen anything that said her finger and head were kept at her church in Siena. While I write the story I look at paintings of her and in a weird way I start to see her and then I imagine her and then I write her. The picture above though is really her. This is the face of the character in my book. I'll probably sound like some shroomed out freshmen in college when I say this, but isn't it amazing that my life and hers are linked in this particular way?

Twihard Ninja: ~450

Me: ~290