I have officially given up hope on replies regarding any of my interviews. Which means my hopeful bent for a job in the upcoming year has been unbent. I still have a number of applications out there, and have three or four more to write (at the current moment), but since it’s after the main rush, I hold less hope for those automatically, whether or not they have a better possibility for success (which they might).
This is sad. It is, even if I have to tell you it is.
I finished the brother poem to Sleeping Standing Up, With Eyes Open, the insanity-ridden compatriot, but don’t feel that hopeful for it at the moment, or that pleased with having it end. I also finished commenting on my friend Laura’s novel, and e-mailed that to here just now. Even with these accomplishments accomplished, a lackluster future weights on my head like an older brother covering me with cushions from the couch. An image, yes, that I’ve already used in a poem.
Tonight I’ll be running of to El Sol, a Latin club, with another friend. Dancing! It should be fun! Who doesn’t like to dance?! (Don’t raise your hands. There is no poll. There is no correct answer.) I somewhat feel like going to sleep (result of the heaviest lunch) or writing in the apartment, bringing to life the next self-assigned obligation. In strange writing news (brought to you by the crappiest font every), I tell of the television series I’m planning and how I’m planning what music to go with the episodes, which, some comment, is a strange level of detail to have for a project who’s existence is not even real enough to question.
And, last night, after I returned home, I was talked to (yelled at, by one) by two of my neighbors, women both, from two different apartments. As far as I could make out, they were upset at my coming back to the apartment hall late and being loud about it when I did so. I’ll be more careful–at least I’ve only a week and a half left to impinge upon them. But can you believe that I’ve only a week and a half before I’m done impinging? Impugning! Impacting! Im-ing (but not IM-ing).
“I can’t stand this indecision married with a lack of vision.”
Neither can I, TfF, neither can I.