There is nothing more depressing than that statement.
Actually, there might be.
I just saved “one square foot!” of rainforest for $100.
Maybe there’s an anthill on it. Then it’d be a really good square foot.
In the event that I lose all backpacker street-cred on this one, I need to admit that Carnival and I had a horrific week out at sea. It was just so damn boring. Never once was I convinced I might die, or get robbed, or contract food poisoning. In fact, I felt like I was locked in a jail cell, eating chocolate covered strawberries with towels folded into the shape of zoo animals, scratching “days until freedom” into the wallpaper.
I will say that I didn’t pack enough books, and the library on Deck 4 was appalling. You can’t call something the Alexandria Library and not have it fully stocked with decent material.
I slept a lot. Worked on my tan. Wandered around Mexican ports for a couple hours when I could.
But if you’re going on a cruise for work one week, don’t expect to get anything done. Unless you find a cantina somewhere when you dock, you’re stuck with $4.00 a minute internet connection and a desire to throw yourself of the closest balcony.
There is a fifty-something year old Hispanic woman wearing an orange apron, getting stoned at my kitchen table.
It’s three in the morning. She’s looking at me like I’m in the wrong apartment.
I am pretty sure I live here.
I’m not certain that she doesn’t.
Hello, home. You’re so strange sometimes.
Please bring back hot shirtless tattooed guy with the eye patch.
He was quiet and aesthetically pleasing.
There is a half naked tattooed guy who now stays in my apartment. I do not know his name, or why he never wears a shirt, but he is there and his abs remind me of when I used to sneak peeks at chiseled men on the covers of romance novels. Yes, I still blush the way I did when I was twelve. It is annoying, and I am annoyed.
Tonight I got hit in the face by a girl singing Danny Boy in the off key of F. I wanted to hit her back, but it seemed unprecedented, as she was “in the moment” and flailing her arms. I could have busted out a musical number and socked her right back, but it didn’t seem Christian.
I am not Christian, but she was. She asked me what I would name my children. She asked me how I felt about my father. I smoked more cigarettes than usual, and did not answer her. She had this terrible habit of swaying back and forth when she talked, like a metronome. Or one of those clown dolls you’re supposed to punch.
There was a psych study done (in the 60s?) on children about the influence of those punch dolls. Psychologists were surprised at one girl’s anger and originality at brutalizing the toy, but if that clown doll had been murdering Oh, Danny Boy the way this girl was, no one could have blamed her.
Most of my time is spent revising and editing. It is summer, the fan is broken, and the neighbors outside my window have taken up the xylophone and host a lot of Caribbean themed parties, at which I imagine they work on their limbo.
My headphones are half-broken, and the alley sends up echoes to my bed. It feels like I’m at the party with them, which is nice, because I have deadlines, and am locked into this city until they’re complete.
A couple of weeks ago, I managed to accomplish my New Year’s resolution: submit to my favorite publishing house for their annual submission call.
This has been on my To-Do list for years, so it was a crazy proud moment listening to my favorite poet in my voicemail saying Candis, you sick fuck. This is Derrick. Check the website.
Turns out, the three pieces I sent in got me qualified for round 2, which placed me in an intimidating Top 21 spot with writers I very much admire.
Round 2 means you’ve got 20 days to complete a manuscript of 40 poems.
I hadn’t exactly written them yet.
In the end, I threw out all but six poems I had in my hard drive.
The rest are all new.
I just sent the manuscript in; there’s a lot of screaming self-doubt as I checked over the 40 and went “oh, no. No. That needs to be tighter, what was I thinking there, and that line? Why didn’t I catch that in edits??” And the big one: did I do too many tell versus show poems?
I’m banning myself from looking at the manuscript until the final decision gets made on the 15th.
Eight to twelve of us get picked for a book deal, and oh man that part is exciting—because even if I’m not in there with them, these writers are top notch awesome, and I can’t wait to curl up with their books while I work towards next year’s submission.
So that’s what I’ve been up to this month.
Making poetry.
