I am failing completely to do anything but listen to the birdsong through the window. The sun is leaving for the night. Will be back tomorrow even if I am not. English major without a minor thus far to round it all out and to make economic sense of it. My rationality will kill me. I must act on impulse. There is a terrible cover letter half written to send out to a small time local publisher for some sort of vague paid intern position beginning as soon as possible. I must jump on this like a leopard on a vervet monkey. Opportunities like this seem rather frequent but my impatience will rise up in my throat and choke me if valid attempts are not presently made, so write for the sake of my life I must. There are formal written applications to attend to. But I drink a cup of coffee and then a glass of wine interchangeably until they seem to cancel each other out. I have a caffeinated booze buzz. Red wine latte to go please.
Comments made to me by strangers about my pursuit of English today.
“I studied Oceanography,” said the bearded man with the clipboard outside of the natural foods market, attempting to solicit money from me for a vague cause regarding disenfranchised children starving all over the world. “You see that’s why I didn’t study English. Because I already knew English.”
I asked him, “Why are you here for starving children whom you will never meet rather than scooping up plastic out of the ocean?”
No I didn’t ask him. Whatever. He held me captive and I shook free with a spasm and a wave. I don’t think he had much of a point but even still. My anxiety registers his words with a red light.
Amicable man playing clean blues riffs at the guitar shop where I strum some 12 strings and picked up sizzle sticks for the acoustic band I just informally joined. We talked for awhile. Music scene. Los Angeles. The dirt and scum mixed in with the ability to do whatever the hell you want in the arts. He could not imagine living there and neither could I. Although I did for two years. Long, arduous commutes and a knack for driving around piles of trash in the streets.
I said I came down from the campus to check the place out. He asked me what I’m studying as he wrote down some information about my purchase in some huge archaic receipt book. I said English. He looked up slowly, “Not a lot of money in that. But take that from me, I was a Fine Arts major. $50,000 in debt from student loans off of $10 an hour.”
I changed the topic asking if he had a band. Musical friends to play with. Make it seem worthwhile. He shook his head sadly. But brightened up. “Just had a kid. Not much jamming these days. but I’ve moved on for now. I’ll return one day.”
On my way there I had passed a cd/record store and realized how nice and also sad it would be to work shelving in one. The smell and the constant music though the dying society and the choked up business. It is indeed a changing world.
How can an aspiring writer thrive in it?
(not sure… quick rant)
I’m job hunting without correct camouflage
dressed in rags of hand me down uncles
not the sophisticated ease of a toothless grin
I don’t know how to blend in with the environment
or avoid predation from snakes, hawks, ticket-scalpers
hostile beggars desire the constant cigarette or
“got a light?”
booze belly breath burps
I try to build something based around my current opportunities
the school and all of its resources!
tap into it. it could be a gold mine for a productive schedule. the literary folks. the musical geeks. come on!