Sunday Update #36something.

 

If a Sunday Update is just that, a Sunday Update, then I’ll keep it simple (I think I’ve written that sentence before).

I moved out of the bed bug motel. A friend generously lent me her attic space to store my stuff for the time being. I got my money back in order. Or at least it’s on the mend.

This is enough.

I finished a phenomenal book. I Love Dick. I’ll tell you about that later.

I’m changing my habits. I anticipate failure because I’m only human. Even so, I’m excited. I’m excited to be human. I’m excited to be calm. I’m excited to think with futurity. I want things, and I believe I can do all in my power to attain them.

I’m reading Virginia Woolf’s The Waves now. I’m working only one job. I’m keeping it simple, stupid (me, not you).

Everything I have, at this point, fits neatly into less than 10 boxes. My mother reminded that this time last year I was selling all my possessions. She remarked that maybe I’m not supposed to lead this life with very much. In lieu of writing new content, I thought I’d share this doodle I found from a few years ago. It’s a large block of text, unedited. It’s kind of an impenetrable wall, so if you can’t stand to read it, I understand.

“What’s important? I can’t stop asking myself. I’m twenty three years old. Twenty four next month. Nothing, not a thing, in this apartment seems vital, but I’m scared. I’m twenty three years old. Twenty four next month. I graduate college, after so many stops and starts, none of them seem important now. I want to get rid of it all. Every last stitch, every last page, not to forget, the body doesn’t forget, but to rest. Each page each line each carelessly formed letter can carry its own weight. I don’t need to feel the physical presence of these books to know I was here. I am here. They only make me sad. They only make me see how selfish I was, ha, how hard I am on myself. Each turn of the page, I fear the appearance of trauma. Each line I sniff for the stench of darkness, but maybe my childhood wasn’t all that bad. The journals are that too. They are simple and overly dramatic, here I am, ten eleven twelve, as foolish and funny as any girl child at that age. I hate my pimples. I want to be in love. I hate algebra. Being a teenage is a waste of my precious precocious time. How is it any different now? There was a girl, documenting each day each flower each passing feeling and fancy as though if she wrote it down it would—what? Stay forever? I already knew it was all real. It all felt so real. Each piece was real. It isn’t a question, a preponderance, of reality. I’ve known where I am. I’ve always felt my feet on the ground. I also have no instinct for destruction. Years ago, I might’ve fancied myself capable. Even at my worse, I could never implode. Calling myself spineless, a clear deep shaking part of me will always reach for air above the surface. There is a gasp inside of me. Always pushing towards air. What’s important? I can’t stop. I could burn all these journals and it wouldn’t stop. I could disappear from my internet and it wouldn’t stop. In the narrative of who I am, who I was, was she ever here, I fancy someone will look back and chronicle the brilliant shards of me through these journals. But I know, inherently, I am no more immortal than Constantine and Edith Wharton. Death comes to us all. I’m twenty three years old. Twenty four next month. I don’t have the stomach for archival. Nostalgia is nothing but a sprung leak. I’m not afraid anymore of what lurks, what doesn’t. I was a happy child. I am a happy adult. For whatever shit concoction of superfluous hurt I’ve brewed over my brief lifetime, there’s no need to save it all on a hard drive. And even the good parts, the best parts, I know them. I will myself to know them. To save them on the sun bleached driftwood white of my bones, long long after my husk has dried and blown away. What’s important? I’ve stop asking myself. We must know. In that infinite space between gut and spine, stomach and heart, whatever glorious blackhole I’ve felt enclosed in my ribs (I cannot make you believe it’s there I only have known of it since I could walk), there is the knowledge and the calm. Put there by insidious god, whom I believed in. Put there by whatever is burning in the stars. Put there by heaven by hell by the sound of conception and breaking bones. It all heals. It all starts again. What’s important? Do I need to know? What’s important? Does anyone? What’s important? The word itself unreal. The feeling’s back. Vast. Forget what’s important. What am I trying to convince myself of? “

I’m super dramatic.

On Friday, I’ll fly to Texas until Monday. Jake’s coming with me.

Life goes on, rah.

The most exceptional thing to happen this week is the rain.

I love you. I miss you. I hope to see you soon.

The Cover Letter I Cannot Send as It Is Not Appropriate

To Whom It May Concern:

Is it whom? I’m fairly certain it is. You see, I graduated with an English Major in Literature and Cultural Studies (the specificity sounds good in conversations such as these, like I have focus and direction in my life. Like I know how to research. Like I’m proficient in cultural theory as well as bullshitting. Bullshitting is a highly marketable talent. As I’m sure you know. Which isn’t to say you aren’t qualified! Oh goodness. This got away from me. Please leave the parenthetical now. Right now. C’mon.). Anyway. Prior to that degree, I spent two and half years pursuing an acting degree. Crazy, right?! I was young! I’m not from here! It was all bright lights and the Queen City, you see. But even during the old acting degree, professors have told me so often that my voice is strong enough so as to not need to learn “too much of that technical stuff”. Leaving me at a seeming deficit when it comes to the old Who vs. Whom debate. Rather than a deficit, I chose to see it as a chance to learn and grow—learning and growth that demonstrate to you my adaptability and self-motivation. Skills crucial to your job description, might I add. Oh, yeah, I read it. And about that who vs. whom. I could Google it. But I’m writing to you about employment right now and don’t need the distractions (see there? That focus we discussed being put to good use).

The employment! Yes! About that! To you, dear Whom (Unless you prefer Who. As a queer person, I’m very well-versed in proper interpersonal respect. I also fulfill your desire to cultivate a diverse working community. I also see we’re in the parenthetical again. Dammit.), I’m writing you to say hire me. Please.

I’m excellent at smiling. All my life men have told me so (this is my subtle way of telling you I’m a woman. I can provide top notch emotional labor for your department in addition to costing you much less than my male peers. I’m a win-win and we aren’t even to the good stuff!). I’m also a morning person, so I can provide you with that smile from the top of the day until the end. I’m human, so I do hit a mid-afternoon slump but you’ll probably never hear about it because I’m good at keeping to myself as well. Middle child, you know.

I’m a “creative-type”. Anything you need proofread, brainstormed, troubleshot, or looked at, I’m your girl. As a Millennial, I’m super great with social media and being relevant. My jokes are highly culturally informed, but I’m also well-read and Southern. I mention this because the well-read means I’ll probably get most of your dated references. The Southern means that, while a Millennial and a creative, I was raised to believe in the Bootstrap Narrative. This I no longer adhere to ideologically as I learned about intersectional feminism and social hierarchies, but it does mean I work really really hard.

My long term career goals include being a writer and an actor, so you know I’m yours for life because those are pipe dreams, amirite?! For God’s sake, I’m in Cincinnati, Ohio! Goodness me! This is to your benefit: my self-esteem is terribly low considering all the rejection and minimal opportunities I receive! I might go and get a Master’s, but that will be far in the future and I’ll probably have kids before then so let’s you and I bet that I’ll be tied here and get it remotely and keep plodding away at your institution.

All of this is to say, hire me. I’d really like this job. I’m tired of not having matching bras and panties. I’m tired of wondering if I can feed myself AND pay my cellphone bill. I’d like to work for you because I’d like to get out of debt AND move in with my boyfriend. I’d like to buy my friends a round and not break out in cold sweats the next morning when looking at my bank account. Hire me. I’m effusive, enthusiastic, effervescent, and excellent with alliterations.

My mom gives me a strong recommendation, as does the coffee shop I worked at in Brooklyn when I couchsurfed there for three months (ask me about it! It makes me sound terribly interesting!).

Anyway, that’s it. I’ll be good for you. You don’t even really have to be good for me. We can talk salary at my interview, and I’ll settle for less because my generation is financially illiterate.

Also, I did enjoy your website format. I really mean that. You do seem hip and cool so I won’t have to be too embarrassed at selling out the next time my friends and I grab drinks. And I’ll be salaried, so my dad can finally be proud.

Contact me over email, phone, twitter, facebook, instagram, snapchat, or groupme. They’re all on the same device anyway.

So. Lemme know. I have other plates spinning but they’re, like, picking my nose and stressing out about bills in my underwear. Pretty easy to reschedule.

Thanks so much!

Mia Vera, really funny Millennial*

*if you’d like writing samples, might I recommend my blog or my Twitter. I mean. They’re good.

Y’all wanna read some poetry?

Here’s a piece I’m working on. It’s a doodle right now. Feel free to freely feel however you might feel about it.

I’d put a picture of a squirrel here to punctuate how I feel, if I had one. Or the motivation to Google one.


I told myself to stop writing about the human body
it’s everywhere
it’s easy
it’s six thousand innumerable components and not one person
seems to remember what they learned in anatomy class

I have an English degree because
the naming of things
makes them real
makes them containable
eventually exposes the limits of language to feeling

there aren’t words enough for devastation
there aren’t words enough for leveling a city to the ground
or a body on fire
or a heart exploding out of time

I told myself to stop writing about trauma
you haven’t got it right yet
just wait until you know how to say

I’m fine
I’m bleeding
sometimes the wound stops
cauterized by living, 

the fast furious passage of time occasionally stopping up the leak
the wound
and you forget what your body will not let you. 

I’m fine
and everything hurts
and I’ve never been happier. 

I want to write a stream of floating “and”s, not a single “but”, 
because the world is a continuous course
no stopping
sometimes a lazy river
sometimes a riptide

I have an English degree because
I’m scared of forgetting
so I got really good at writing down
I mix metaphors the way I mix memories
they’re all true, just not necessarily mine or in the right
order

I like poems about water, bodies, love
the kind that are generic in their conjuring of cigarette smoke and 
soft soft soft morning light
but I love them
I love them

I blanket my perfectly unacceptable body in language and hope
someone with an ability to edit can sift through
this armor like panning for gold
it isn’t someone else’s job to love me
but a gift I barely know how to receive

I keep my hands open

I try not to think of the names for all the bones and barriers and blood vessels 
housed in my palms. 

I told myself to stop writing about the human body
it’s everywhere
it’s easy
it’s all I am. Worshipfully made to fit, to fuss, to fracture and fuse back together. 

Took an L.

But tonight I bounce back.*

*(an edit: I wrote this last night, and then fell asleep face down, spread eagle, while editing it. so. it’s late. which is funny because it’s a post about that very thing. hehe.)

Here’s your Sunday Update, my sweet. I got too silly last night to get much of anything done today. I spent today dropping the proverbial ball.

There would be days, they say.

So I’d like to tell you about choking in an audition. I’d like to tell you about my after school programs final performance. I’d like to tell you about having breakfast with four of the most incredible women I know, the women from the sexual assault survivors group that saved my life.

And I will, damnit! But not tonight. Tonight, I’m beat. Bushed. Pooped. Done.

All my own fault! I take full responsibility! No one mans this blog but little old sleepy imp-faced me!

I want to tell you well. Accurately. Clearly. With the right amount of yucks and honesty.

So I don’t want to half ass it, y’all. No half assing because of an arbitrary deadline I set on myself

Imma work on it. I’m going to tell you all the good, even the good arising from the embarrassing or potentially not so good.

For now, a quick update.

This week in History, from my corner of the world:

Monday: I worked my second shift at my new job. Cute shop girl can be added to the list of survival jobs I’ve now had.

Tuesday: I worked at said cute shop, and went to late lunch with two girls from my old job. They caught me up on all the good gossip (and y’all, let me be the first to say it was indeed salacious). And they talked their lives–mormal, beautiful, ostensibly tedious day to day stuff. The signs of life, so to speak.

Wednesday: I caught up with friends and took time for myself. To fret over auditions. I fretted more than I ought to have. That time would’ve been better spent working. Don’t toil, ya idiot.

Thursday: I worked and then bartended at the Know. I also took a shower, I’m noting now in my planner. Why did I write that down?

Friday: I had that aforementioned breakfast. And my kids successfully performed their end of the semester play. I also walked to Skyline in a monsoon with the cutest guy I know. I would say smartest, but a smarter man would’ve told me not to go out in the rain.

Saturday: I attended three auditions. I ran. I bought a Mexican blanket and a new face mask mix. I got stupid at the bar later. Nothing untoward.

Sunday: now we’re here.

If you read this far, you’re probably wondering how I had to energy to write all that but not the actual update. Me too, man. Me too. (Walt Whitman here: “Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.”)

I love you. I miss you. I hope to see you soon.

 

Hey! This is a poem!

A few weeks ago, a dear friend from high school posted a poetry prompt to Twitter. They’re currently super active in the poetry scene.  Even going to competitions and performing in teams, from what I can deduce from social media because I’m a creeper. I’m super proud of them, proud of who they were as a sophomore a LDHS, and proud of who they are now. (Side note: I’d love to plug their work, but I don’t know if they have a website, so I’m going to post this to FB and tag them to see. I don’t know why I’m telling you that.)

Anyway, the point of this being, I’m sharing more content with you in an effort to 1. write more, 2. see what this blog can be/feels good as, 3. show my work to grow my work. So, on Wednesdays we wear pink. And post poetry.

Here’s the poem from the prompt. It’s its X number of edits. I’m learning to edit in general. So here it is. In an ideal world, I’ll perform it and continue to hone it. In an ideal world, which is this one, because it’s not gonna change overnight so we might as well have fun with it the way it is.

Enjoy, my little clem.


She asked me what my heart was like
and I said it was like

what it was like

Texas, I said

a Texas summer, and it never stops sweating

(back home, the A/C in buildings arctic cold

your body never adjusts to the blast of artificial cold exploding from automated sliding grocery doors, I suppose this is a part of a heart too. The heat and the over adjustments to the heat. We swing too far and pump too much blood. Lightheaded.)

Texas might be my heart mapped out, split into halves, ventricles exposing veins and capillaries 

vessels and musculature

a template twin of the land I was born on

too big too arrogant

delineations of latitude, longitude (how far I can love how wide how many miles to ache or break or sick or full) kin to degrees on the old Coca-Cola thermometer we kept on the front porch

Hearts, I’ll bet, are hotter than you’d like 

a heat you can’t escape.

so my heart instead is a crape myrtle  

saccharine barbie pink sharp against the endless cloudless sky
a wild blossom over and over, taller than most of the neighborhood kids

just sit under it

a crape myrtle the tree spits sap down on you
like a silly girl spitting at a boy she likes as he rides by on his older brother’s bike

my heart is a silly young girl spitting

crape myrtle branches against
vast landscape bordered by oceans that never cool
a handful of sands that are not beautiful but coarse and dark dangerous
someone’s roadmap ticking off towns with quick names

                   Hell Waco Austin Abilene Raymondville Corpus Christi El Paso

she asked me what my heart was like
and I said home. 

the muscle best healed by use,
the only thing I carry everyday,
filled with blood and heat, blooms and salt water, the sweat and the dust of me. 

my heart is like.