La Jolla!

Well and so. Today was a beautiful day, coincidentally Easter (although Ilya and I didn't figure that out until we tried to go to the bookstore this evening), so we piled in the car and went to La Jolla, where the sea is sparkly and green and the people are not sparkly and green. Mostly they are very tan. 

Anyway, I got a chance to wade a little bit (hence: photo). And by "a little bit" I mean I was mostly ass-deep after I got soaked by a passing wave and basically said fuck it. Cause why not get wet? While I was standing there, three people came by and offered me sunscreen, which was sweet, but let's be honest: do I LOOK like I go out without it? That's how I got to be this fluorescent white color in the first place!

Who says there's no "Porn" in Inspiration?

So, as most of you know (if indeed there's anyone out there at all), I'm writing a book called "Stories are the Dreams of Lesser Gods." Yes, it's a long title. Yes, it's actually a sentence. Okay. Thanks for the input. 

What I love about this manuscript, which is a collection of short pieces that are loosely connected, is that I can write about anything I want-- usually some sort of metamorphosized human being-- a boy with one wing, a man who becomes music, an inventor who only invents things that have already been invented, etcetera. There's a lot of freedom, and when I get bored, I can start a new piece or go edit an old one. Sort of ideal. 

Most of my inspiration, such as it is, seems to come from misreading things. This had always been an irritation before-- I frequently mix up the end words of two lines from a book. So for instance, "The man in black walked down the dark street/ Hoping that no one would be playing stairway to heaven" might be read as "The man in black walked down the dark heaven" (Totally pulled this out of my ass, by the way.) 

Another way I end up wanting to write a piece is when I hear a line that I like. My friend Jericho Brown and I were discussing church recently, and I was imitating the people who sing or pray with one hand in the air. Jericho Brown made some comment about "One Handed Praisers" and I knew right then that'd be a title. 

But the purpose of this post was my most recent piece, inspired by... porn. And most specifically, the legal message that comes before porn, reassuring us all that everyone's over the age of 18-- I saw the lines "Keeper of Records" and had to stop the porn and turn on MS Word. 

Gee. Thanks Porn.

Woohoo!

 Just got news that I was accepted at Brown for their MFA program in Fiction... with a $33,000 scholarship! I called Ilya to inform him, and after some mutual celebration and back-patting, he let me know that he'd flinched two rejection letters from the mail before I could see them-- Iowa and Michigan. Good thing he told me now-- I'm still floating on air!

I'm trying not to think about all this implies, though-- I love San Diego (contrary to my expectations)-- I have such great friends here, a beautiful apartment, three kitties I adore, and oh, yes, what's his name? That big guy who always leaves such a mess in the bathroom? Right. That one. On the other side, Brown is just the best program for me, writing wise. It's experimental, I've heard it's incredibly supportive, and, well, they want me. And who doesn't find that sexy?

I'm still waiting back to hear from a few places... Irvine, which is probably still my first choice, because it's A- Close, and B- one of the best programs out there. It's a little more traditional in style, so it's probably not the BEST fit, but it'd mean a lot less logistical problems and probably a little less heartache, too. I'm also waiting for Johns Hopkins, which has a fantastic program, and University of Virginia, which is up there too. But I'm kinda thinking that unless JH and UVA include two houseboys and a happy ending, I'm going to go with Brown if Irvine rejects me.

Oh, I'm all a-flutter. Hope you all are having wonderous good days!

Have you ever...

Shuddered with delight upon climbing into bed? I mean, I have serious love for The Bed at any time of day or night, but real, true physical, emotional, and mental exhaustion combined is rare. Tonight, I've got it. Oh, I cannot waaaaaaiiiiiiit. 

Ilya had a reading in LA today, so we hopped in our little car and drove up today-- which would be exhausting anyway (we went 90 most of the way, made it to LA in 1 1/2 hours, which is SWEET time, but spent another 1/2 hour to go 5 miles. Really. I blinked at my speedometer, said boo, but it was only five miles. Insane!), but I spent 11 hours writing a paper last night, and stayed up till 5 am to do so. It was a very good paper, but I am ZONKED, especially after making nice-nice with the poets and organizers (easy this time because they actually WERE nice-nice), and attempting to find some food and gas in downtown LA, which is deserted after 5 pm. Ghost town. With tumbleweed and everything.

But tomorrow, tomorrow my friends, will be a vacation. We're going to this macaron shop I've been waiting to visit for months, and then we're going to museums, and we're going to eat vegan sushi. And it will be fabulous.  

10 Things that make me Happy

1. This print of a polaroid by the lovely Spaniard Urizen Freaza. I bought it from Etsy, a brilliant place to pick up art on the cheap.  Ilya absolutely hates it, but it makes me absurdly happy-- of course, as I'll be posting other works that I've bought, it will become clear that anything with additional wings makes me absurdly happy.

2.Did you know, that when you open a Breathe-Rite strip (ie those snore strips) in the dark, their adhesive makes blue crackly light? This has brought me the first real jolt of unexpected joy in a long time. Not to mention it cuts down on A Certain Famous Poet's less than lyrical night-time sound effects.

3. Scented candles. This has been a life-long obsession, but some weird hoarding instinct has always prevented me from actually BURNING them, until the last six months or so. I credit my friend Chrissy's lesson in ambiance-- which basically consisted of plonking a bunch of candle holders down and lighting a match. God bless her.

3.. Self-help books. These are less the "I'm Okay, You're Okay" sort (incidentally, my father's Most Life-Changing Book, which should come as no surprise to those who know him. Or me.), but rather, the "how-to-live-life" sort. For example, I just picked up (at no small cost) Colin Cowie Chic: A Guide to Life as it Should Be, a book in a faux-alligator cover, which presents such titillating tidbits as "Lighter colored cigars usually taste milder than darker ones, though there are exceptions." I find this kind of advice comes in rather handy at the most bizarre moments.

4. In general, I consider myself pretty much the opposite of vain. But I keep growing out my hair, which is higher-maintenance than the rest of me put together. Honest. In the time it takes to comb, wash, and condition my hair, I can shower, shave, eat breakfast, learn to paint in encaustic, and find the cure to eczema. Why don't I cut it? Cause it makes me happy. When I'm not combing it, or washing it. Or not washing it. Or bitching about it...

5. Organizing my clothes by color. Even if they're on the floor.

6. Shelfari.com  There is a longer post to come on all the reasons I love it so, but moving books from "Books I'm Reading" to "Books I've Read" once I've finished them is almost as satisfying as reading them in the first place.

7. Hershey's Dark Chocolate Brownie Mix, WITH walnuts, people. One of my prouder moments in becoming an adult is realizing that baked goods without nuts are like... like... Othello without Desdemona? Why is that coming to me now?

8. Whole classes devoted to reading one author. Although this can be a really exhausting proposition, it's always been the most profound and wonderful experience at the same time. I'm taking a whole class on Faulkner right now. I'd always meant to read Faulkner-- I love the Southern Gothic aesthetic, and two of my favorite authors are Flannery O'Conner and Eudora Welty, both Southerners writing around the same time Faulkner did. So it was Time. And it's been a really fantastic, if devastating, experience-- as Faulkner is a really fantastic, if devastating, writer. 

The last class I remember taking with such a focus was my "Plato" class in high school, with the crankiest professor on earth. He could pull his lower lip a full six inches away from his face-- it was horribly fascinating. He assigned a one-page summary of each of Plato's dialogues, and I turned each one in, written in 2 point font. He read them all with a magnifying glass, commented on every one, and gave me a Classics prize at the end of the semester. I still dislike Platonic philosophy, but at least I can talk about why. 

9. Mock orange in bloom. It's possibly the world's most perfect scent.

10. This blog's 12 day anniversary! It's small steps, people. Small steps.