March 16, 2011
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the ides of march has passed, and but for the angsty malaise that’s more personality quirk than situational symptom, i can report no ill effects. though i did dream two nights ago of a suicide bomber who had selected me, personally, as his target. the scene involved a Last Supper-esque banquet table in a house that i’ve never been in during waking hours, though its setup was vaguely reminiscent of a former friend’s new jersey summer house. the event was a feast of chinese take-out with maybe fifty strangers and acquaintances (no, you weren’t among them), and i had ordered noodles (atypical; i’d ordinarily opt for spicy tofu & mixed vegetables), and i sat slurping them up even as i knew the terrorist was in close proximity and surely scouting out openings. the dream culminated in my realization that there was an ownerless take-out container at my feet, my simultaneous understanding that this container contained the bomb that was intended for my person, and then the explosion, which sent my body flying away, up and out, sent it straight into the waking world, where i found myself sitting upright and sweating. but definitively alive. though perhaps not the best start to a day, it offered some clarity regarding my attachment to life and general distaste for violence. so there’s that.
four days from now i have to send an email. the email will be from me to a woman i’ve never met whose name, according to her email, is Linda, and it will contain an attachment entitled aplaceworthgettingto.doc. A Place Worth Getting To is the name of the novella i apparently completed yesterday, the first few thousand words of which earned me pride of place in the Paris Literary Prize‘s longlist. and four days from now they will receive the rest of the document, read it, potentially love it, potentially despise it, and then make a decision that will undoubtedly affect the way i interpret and value myself and my accomplishments pretty drastically. it used to be that every six months or so i had a litmus test of attainment in the form of a report card, and every time it came back free of consonants i felt justified in existing once more, in using up my share of the world’s oxygen. i miss getting graded. to make up for it, i submit my writing and apply for jobs that i don’t want and/or am not qualified for; i play online scrabble; i make inexplicable demands of myself. though i don’t hate the title of my novella, i would change it now, if that were an option; i would also like to change a phrase or two in the initial 3000 words that i submitted earlier, but such alterations are against the contest’s arcane rules. so i bite my virtual tongue.
last night i got a writing assignment that’ll keep me mildly occupied for two weeks and pay the rent for two months. so, yeah, screw real jobs. (except you, google. i really would like to be your communications manager. i promise to buy real clothes and smile pretty.)