Life

Working at Vox is going pretty well. I worked almost full-time for about three weeks while we were preparing our arts guide. (I think I already mentioned that; oh well -- consider this a rerun post.) The guide went off to the printer today and I'm looking forward to seeing it all fancy and printed out. I got to see it in full color after spending HOURS editing a draft of it yesterday. I've long wanted an editorial position and boy howdy, I have one. I'm just glad I've been entrusted with tasks beyond working on the calendar. Now that the guide is done, I've been uploading film and theatre reviews. Some of the work is tedious data entry but I'm SO happy to have a job to go to and so happy that I can now call myself underemployed instead of that other word. My cats are pretty pissy that I leave the house with regularity, though. I got an earful from George this morning. I tried to explain that leaving the house is necessary if she wants to continue to eat but I don't think she's making the connection. Lately she's been spending part of the night sleeping on me, going so far as to do a little sidestep whenever I change positions. It's so adorable I can hardly stand to move her in the morning when getting up to tinkle beats out my desire to snuggle.

So... back to Vox. Okay. I will say from the start that I am crazy sensitive about some things. I could almost not stand to be in the same room at Verbose & Co. with Prince Asshat (my ex-worker that I renamed Cecil for reasons I can no longer remember) because the sound of him swallowing water or eating an apple drove me batshit insane. The fact that he got up at least once a morning and did push-ups (while panting softly, which produced retinal-scarring visuals) was also off-putting. My new coworker, the Earl of Pandemonium, is nice enough (friendly, literate, thought I was in my 20s), BUT... he throws down his bag, crashes into his chair (which he pops in and out of with alarming regularity), types like he's punishing his keyboard, heavy sighs about one thing or another OFTEN, taps his feet, bangs down his coffee cup, and slams his phone down whenever he makes a phone call, which is also often. He also does several of those things simultaneously and I get so frustrated that I begin fantasizing about beating him to death with my stapler. My non-prison fantasies involve a purchase of noise-cancelling headphones, which is the dream that immediately follows the one where Vox finds enough money in its limited budget to bring me on full-time (which would necessitate said noise-blocking devices). I have found that certain songs on my iPod, like Rihanna's "Breakin' Dishes," are good for drowning him out. I would, however, like to preserve my hearing well past my 30s, so I need to come up with an alternate plan. The room isn't really big enough to move out of earshot, but primarily I don't want to ask because I feel like a weenie for letting such silly things get to me.

I keep mentally spending the tiny amount of money I've saved up. So far, I've bought new furniture, the aforementioned headphones, applied the cash towards the deposit on a new apartment, started saving to hire movers (so not necessary but MAN it would be nice since moving sucks so much ass), and, I don't know, probably joined Costco or something.

I got turned down for another PR job and was telling my therapist (who I know I am lucky to be able to afford despite being underemployed) that I think I keep getting turned down for those jobs because they aren't my passion and the Universe knows this. As such, I'm working more on my art. I've been rearranging my house for a couple days so that I have a better space to make art. I've also been writing with Steele and/or Sterling for the past few weekends and been pretty successful with generating some writing, except for last Sunday's horrible social experiment. I wasn't able to meet on Saturday and knew the library wouldn't be open at 10:00 a.m. on Sunday, so I suggested the cafe at Barnes & Noble. Our surroundings were quiet for all of half an hour before the crazy distractions set in, including two chattering biddies who didn't even seem to stop talking long enough to breathe. Next week, it's back to the library. It seemed limiting since we couldn't talk about our writing or anything, but MAN, I missed that mandatory silence. Based on what I just said and congratulating myself on my self-control for not beaning the Earl with my hole punch, I think I would make a very good hermit.

I just remembered that I've also mentally used my meager savings to repair my car's trunk. It's refused to latch for months -- I popped it open sometime in the winter and assumed it was just frozen -- but spring came and the trunk never worked again. Considering the car is 17 years old, I'm impressed it's still chugging along, but it would still be nice to go over bumps and not listen to the bungee-cord-closed trunk go KABONK! (Fun with words! Next... on Oprah.)

Speaking of words, I found an iPhone app called Instant Poetry, which is magnetic poetry on one's phone. It cost $1.99 and is pretty fun to play with. The first poem I wrote, however, didn't get saved before my phone burped, basically, threw me out to the main menu, and erased all traces of my carefully-crafted words. I immediately tried to recreate the piece but could only remember bits. At least I could remember part of the skeleton but I need the rest of the bones. I did write (and maniacally save) these two earlier:

(untitled)

whispers are the passionate eyes
falling inside the embrace
of tender fragrant lips
the lover, a passing hunger
surrenders a soft kiss
long for her into the night

linger

blur the burning sea of sadness
melt the aching emptiness
spread the black body sleek
until she is serene flight
a sweet sky for dreaming
question the calm bright
we are between stoicism and destiny

I don't know how much sense they make but I love the organic nature of that kind of poetry. Writing with Steele and writing for Vox the last four months is helping me strengthen my writing muscle, which is especially important because I am once again considering grad school. I looked at the list of the top 50 schools in the country and picked out 14 solely for their location. Now I can start researching programs and seeing what sounds good, ideally for a dual degree in poetry and creative nonfiction. I love poetry -- it's what I primarily wrote until I took a nonfiction course almost 10 years ago -- but writing essays has become something I'm far more passionate about. I also know there are all kinds of dual degree programs. I've researched grad programs a number of times since I graduated from kollich and figure if/when it's meant to happen, it will. But it has to happen on scholarship or fellowship because I'm already Sallie Mae's bitch. (Yet another fantasy about where to apply my wee savings, although the gaping maw that is loan repayment makes me decide to keep my dollars and buy some throw pillows instead. Or puppies. Ooooh... bunnies! Clothes! Maybe just some gum. Or a LOT of gum.)