A life so full of joy.

So I keep track of my people on that ancient social networking tool, the Facebook.  Was bumming around and came across the pile of pictures from my hometown theater’s faux-prom. Everyone all dressed up snappy sassy and getting wild.  I miss Patty, and Laura, and Rich, and every time I see pictures of Matt my breath catches a little because even when making terrible faces with a garter on his head, he’s still the prettiest thing ever and I miss him.  I even miss the grumpy ones, the bitter ones, the ones who didn’t like me all that much.  ‘Cause they’re my people, you know?

And I know, because it’s theater, that likely as not all those laughing people are probably harboring secret resentments and crushes and what we see in the picture is an illusion and blah and blah.  Then I have to keep from idealization in absentia.  If I were there, I’d be desperately wishing to get out.  Now I’m out and I’m pining?  WTF?  I want to tell all those people to look through those pictures and see the happiness spilling out everywhere.  Good to stop and notice joy every now and again.

I just submitted to Clarion, two brand new stories, both of which I’m actually rather proud of.  It’s been so long since I devoted my brain to fiction, it was a rusty trap, and yet once I pushed through the shitty first drafts, well…yeah.  Working titles: existential crisis of robot and gender-swap Jesus.  As I said, I’m actually pleased.  If I don’t get into Clarion this year, I’ll at least know I did my best.  Opened the docs up last night and spotted five (five!   How?!) typoes, but that’s just Murphy.

Last night I rode the bus for two hours going nowhere.  I need to learn to read maps.  Was trying to get to a steampunk meet-up, but…epic fail on my part.  That said, Chicago night bus drivers are sweetness itself.  This guy was determined to help me reach my destination, despite the fact that I’d written the directions down wrong.  He was genuinely disappointed when I gave up and got off the bus to head home.

Chicago is worlds of awesome.  I went to see Brian Dennehy in Krapp’s Last Tape, $13 nosebleed seats.  I’ve never seen theater like this.  Luis Urrea is still a love. Although I’m tragedized that I missed Neil Gaiman’s pitstop in Naperville.  Director of the Program for Writers is setting up a mini-class with me and the other trauma memoirist, to “address issues you’re having with the form.”  So that’ll be fun.  And tonight I’m going to Mexican food and then on to a giant reading/party for a literary magazine run by one of my colleagues.

When I line everything up, I know I’m happy here, happy and productive, my little brain chomping away at everything I’ve been feeding it.  Critical theory!  Memoir!  Fiction!  I can see myself getting better, which means change must be happening quickly.  I fear plateauing, boredom, and loneliness.  But it’s almost Spring Break, when I’ll get a shot in the arm of Flag love.  Almost there.

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A good day.

I am attempting to teach a pile of freshman intro to feminism.  It hasn’t been going well (shocking, I know).  Breakthrough today after discussing the ERA and why it didn’t pass.  Staring down the barrel of thirty-some-odd papers to grade tomorrow, but I think I can bear it now.  And at the end of class, a student was giddy.  Giddy, I tell you!

Had my first workshop with Luis Urrea, and I could not love him more if he was entirely made of chocolate.  I got amazing feedback on my essay, and for the first time in years I think I might be within a few revisions of a piece worth sending out.  I never send things out.

I got the first season of The Wire, which apparently white people like?

And by some magic feat, I not only made it through the Hegel, but dare I say enjoyed it?  He lays out one of the more coherent defenses of what memoir (if it is to be art) ought do.  More fodder for the end of term trauma theory paper.   And I was only a .5 on the public shame chart, instead of X5 like last week.

Things to do: revise my Clarion submissions, for serious.  Grade.  Go see a Mamet play this weekend.

It’s hard to believe this life is mine.  Not sure where it came from, but oh, I’m happy!

Not bored. http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/24/books/review/Schuessler-t.html?ref=review