This isn't me, but I'm not you.

This week has been kind of a blur, being back on campus. But at the same time, not on campus, living in this tiny apartment. I'm keeping it surprisingly clean, my laundry stays in the basket, and the garbage is taken out regularly. I find myself wondering almost daily, what it is that all of these families living nearby do. Most are too old to be students, and very few seem to speak good English. What do you do if you're Asian, alone with your family, in a college town?

Classes are ok. Most of my teachers are intimidating, but they get that way in the 400 levels. And Diane Wakoski is almost always so. Her ability to lecture, quote poetry flawlessly and stand in front of an un-air-conditioned classroom with long sleeves and not sweat, scares me but fascinates me in my core. I'm not really sure, but I think I'm going to enjoy her criticism when it comes time for her to read my poetry.

Thirteen ways to pay for this,
twelve involve perfect recompense.
I don't need those choices.
The last one is for me
we'll call it choice fourteen, and
think outside the box.

Wait at the front door
smile as she walks up the steps,
then hand her a box
of all the photos I burned today.

Baby, I'll be your Aragorn any day. Just take the Dimholt road to find me.

So apparently, blogger is being difficult today when one has the oh so original idea of blogging about their dreams. I had to refresh this page upwards of say, 6 times before I could type in the pretty little box that they provide. In any case.

Dreams are fascinating things. Some crazy crap happens in them.

Like running around the countryside, dodging hundreds of falling, exploding space shuttles. I honestly don't know why that's what I dreamed about last night, but I did. My friends and I were just trying to avoid being burned alive as space shuttles fell from the sky. And its not like we were in a logical place for such occurrences, such as Florida or Texas. I'm pretty sure that we were in the mountains of Colorado. Odd.

Life is getting more stressful as I continue to search for that elusive job that will make all of my dreams come true. All I desire is a writing job where my true talent is appreciated and no one minds if I'm a bit of a smart-ass. That being said, I think I'm more likely to end up working in the chicken-feed industry for the rest of my life.

Writing isn't as easy as a lot of people seem to think it is. Write what you know, they say. But I don't know if other writers have this problem, but what I know is apparently a pretty drama filled personal life. While I keep in contact with my best friends, the wider circle of people I know seems to be in a constant state of flux, throwing me into an upheaval that I have trouble coordinating with creativity. I'm not sure, but I think its turning me into a bitter old man before my time.

That could just be the food additives though.

Re-eject

So I'm moved into a new apartment, and I think its going to be a pretty conducive environment to writing and creativity in general. Why do I think this? Two reasons: It is really nice and I got a good luck charm before I left home.

My first rejection slip.

A lot of people would probably not consider an item like that a good luck charm. But for a writer, and for someone who is just beginning what he hopes to be a fruitful writing career, that was, to lose a cliche, a breath of fresh air. It means that someone read my writing. They considered it for their publication. They kept it, and whether they filed it or threw it away, it exists for them now, in a manner similar to how it exists for me.

And if thats not a lucky sounding thought, then I don't know what is.