Cop Out

I have lost myself again--accepted into a teacher licensure program as a potential high school English teacher. A writers cop out on every level, right? Does a law school student accept a job as a fast food cashier? I know, I know--teachers are necessary and the job itself is anything BUT a cop out. But what does it mean for a person who was adament about making a living as a writer, no matter what it takes, to bow out so easily? Lack of self-confidence, I think. Thesauras or none, I have not allowed myself to sit with a notebook for hours on end since I left Santa Fe this summer. "Where do you see yourself in 10 years?" Not deciphering hip-hop tunes and comapring them to Frost.....in my own space with warm paint and comfortable furniture--but just enough for myself and maybe a guest who is proof reading--a typewriter and a computer and lots of fabulous pens (no ball points allowed). Then to have time and peacefulness to spend with my own family.
But now benefits and social security plague those dreams
Repaying loans and movie tickets take precedent
Can I be more excited when I tell them?
Bread Loaf was far better than this.
Life sentence--until you retire.
But I will still get to teach Native American history,
well at least I can tell them the true story of Navajo,
okay, maybe I will settle for a Yellow Raft in Blue Water
Let's be realistic about administrations
No child left behind without a deficit.

Moments of Being

What are the moments called right before we fall asleep, as we realize our best story lines, or the perfect words to quit that job and maybe the lyrics that will make us famous? Answers to questions and absolute clarity--and then it melts away into subconscious. Waking at dawn wondering how those things seemed possible--maybe it was just a dream--feeling your muscles contract and becoming aware of the weight that you have to lose and the dog to walk and the loans to repay. I should have gotten out of bed and written things down last night--tonight I will--but what if the burbur on my soles ruins it? I will keep a notebook at the bedside table--but what if the lamp wakes him up? I will have a flashlight to see my manic scribbles--but what if I sit up and the moments disappear? I can't take those risks--I will be thankful that I have moments at all--moments a pen or tongue could never replicate--moments of being that can only be.

As I write this I think about my father, who will be turning 61 in 11 days, and the gift I hope to give to him. Moments of his being that changed my life in accidental ways--moments he may be unaware of and those which he rarely gets credit for. Moments are just those--but memories are forever.

Fonts Matter

Seemingly perfect choice for the first entry-- Arial--though spelled slightly differently from Ariel I think the point is made.

I have been told that Sylvia sat at her desk with a thesauras on her lap--constantly searching for the word that would have more imapct than its dead-weighted parent--or maybe a cousin? She was afraid of dead weight--as we all should be--and now is disected with scholarly scalpels that were sharpened in the Ivy libraries. The thrill of a Cut, followed by promises of Tulips, make for smoke filled screenplays and abstinence from trust funds.

Bitter? yes. Jealous? maybe so.

Not having material to write about makes dwelling on the past seem productive. Read someone elses story and come up with your own "Live with like-minded people in a setting that supports total immersion in your work. Food and lodging included free for those who qualify. Gamble a small fraction of your life on the chance to create a new future as a professional poet, novelist, screenwriter" (Haunted)

Will I qualify? The "small fraction" will be worth it in the end, won't it? Five summers of travelling the globe in search of the most refined English will most definitely bring me to the other side--but who will know the difference except for me?

Most importantly I will learn that fonts matter.