The Sky is Falling!

Another creative writing workshop tonight. Another philosophical quagmire. What do we writers do to ourselves? And, in the name of fun! Tonight's blue plate special is Modern vs. Postmodern literature, which is really just another arm of Is Art Subjective. Now my professor, very nice pregnant woman who loves to use movie analogies, a woman after my own heart in that respect, believes that all characters must have arcs--they must change, have epiphanies. Our stories, literature in general, is better, it was hinted, when there is an apparent theme. We cannot meander along through the stream of consciousness, whetting our thirst where we may--every girl scout knows that we must boil that water to make it potable--but we must tell stories with an agenda, or discover our agenda as we tell a story, but a point there must be. A point I say!

But if life represents art and life is often pointless... Step back, my existentialist self! Is there not beauty in chaos? And, is it not meaning when the reader derives that meaning for themselves? Personally, I think that meaning, like anything else in Zebra land, exists in shades of grey, in both fine and wide strokes of ink.

I had a conversation this summer in Italy about Andy Warhol. About how Warhol is not art. Soup is not art. Repetitive figures of movie stars in pre-school primary colors are not art. I could not get across that that is exactly what Andy Warhol was trying to say--that art is all around us. It doesn't have to be a depiction from the bible or a portrait of a stuffy rich man with his pet terrier at his side. It lies in everyday objects--It lies in nothing. And in literature, you don't have to be Austen or Steinbeck--you can be Plath and Calvino. You can play with language and play with meaning and allow your reader to... not to color inside of the author's lines but instead to pick out the lines among splashes of color. Existentialism may say that everything is meaningless. But, there is art in meaninglessness.

It came down to the age old rosy glow of nostalgia. We all love the known. It seems better because we've had time to digest it, to discover it, to consume and digest and grow fat with complacency. These writers nowadays, gee whiz, some of them just have no definitive theme, by golly. Yes, and that horseless carriage was unnecessary hoopla that abetted fornication at roadside motels. Yes, and the Beatles were Hell's Minions, sent to signal the rampant decline of morality in America's youth. Yes, and that darn South Park... let me tell you.

I suppose I take everything out of proportion. Especially considering that it was all fun and philosophical games (what we writers won't do for kicks!). But I suppose I consider it a slight against my generation and, more importantly, my style of writing--my lack of theme, my chaos, and my post-modern leanings. Perhaps, though, when I am old and grey, when no one picks up physical books anymore to feel the width of their pages between fingers or the smell of their spines in the nostrils, to curl up with on the couch or stack on shelves to stroke with reverent fingers, I will say, "Back in my day, when literature was still good... I don't know about the state of things today... What happened to the old classics like Napoleon Dynamite? Ha. A liger. Ha ha."

"Shut up, grandma, and go back to your rocking chair. Sheesh!"

Flash Fiction Friday

Ran across this game/writing exercise at http://purgatorian.blogspot.com. Check his blog for the rules and other writer's answers to the (Halloween) challenge--writing a short short story beginning with the phrase "It was just a bad feeling..."

It was just a bad feeling I had about those shrimp. They were slightly limp and spongy on that parsley-laden, silver tray. And the pink may have been off-hue now that I think about it but the room was dark and I had a little plastic plate in my hand, which is usually turns out to be a culinary blank check. Don’t know what that brown dip is sitting in the colorful donut of vegetables? Just try a dab then. Can’t pronounce babaganush? Doesn’t mean you can’t eat it. I mean, it’s free food. It’s an open bar. And with the open bar, the free food is the only thing that keeps most of us off the floor.

Free food. Open bar. Plus, costumes. No, John, I’m not me. I’m Count Chocula on the prowl for some mini-quiche and dipped strawberries. Have they put some more out? Throw on a latex mask, putty on fake blood and all the inhibitions go up in the puff of cigarette smoke that you quit inhaling three months ago. Or, if you are a girl, strip off as much clothing as possible and add the word “sexy” to whatever you have laying around the house—sexy cheerleader, sexy witch, sexy maid, sexy cat. Meow. Just call it what it is and say you’re dressed as a porn star. Or, on second hand, that might sound the moral alert inside a girl’s head and signal her decency to put on more clothing and, come on, it’s the only night of the year when fishnet stockings aren’t kinky or slutty and I wouldn’t want to take responsibility for the end of that little tradition.

We were all feeling good, artificially or not, feeling good enough to ignore my bad feeling about the flaccid seafood, waiving it off like extra rental car insurance. Diving into the cocktail sauce as from a bridge with a bungee cord around my ankles. Whoo hoo. What a dare devil. Check him out, ladies, the thrill-seeking shrimp-eater with no fear. And when the nausea struck at the strike of midnight, I thought it was just the pumpkin martinis, who lord knows had enough sugar in them to put an elephant into a coma. Midnight, pumpkin time, bye bye to the ball, bye bye Cinderella in your sexy southern belle costume and your hoop skirt, even though your corset is bursting with fabulousness. I’d prefer not to vomit on your scintillating lace.

I just made it through the door when the bad feeling I had about those shrimp returned to me through a martini-ed fog, just as I threw up those still chunky buggers (I was never a good chewer) on the grass in the ultimate surf and turf combo. I wrote off the vampire teeth. Even if they did cost twenty dollars and I had justified the expense at the time by saying, yeah, I’ll use these so many times, it’s worth it to not get the hollow plastic jobbies. But even if they were twenty dollars, who wants to fish the teeth out of the fish, regardless of price?

Up in Smoke

I want a cigarette. It doesn’t seem to matter that I haven’t had one since last Saturday or that, last Saturday, it was mostly because I drank too much or that, last Sunday, I spent most of the day being nauseated by the taste of furry smoke on my tonsils. It doesn’t seem to matter that I just ran for 30 minutes at the gym. Or maybe clearing the lungs out just makes your body crave re-pollution. Doesn’t matter that the boyfriend (fiend of perfection that he is) gives me the pursed-mouth stare if and when I indulge.

Doesn't matter. Screw it. No use philosophizing on the whys—I just want a cigarette, plain simple direct period.

Now this may seem off the nicotine subject (bare with me) but I watched Alien last night. It is our Halloween goal to make it through the whole series before the big event. Okay, so it’s Brooke’s goal and I’m going along. We don’t really own It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. Not that Brooke would watch that with me anyway. No, he’s the kind of guy that would watch it with me, I suppose, but not without commenting about how Halloween is for being scared, not campy. Gooey fake blood and flowing black garments and chainsaws and outlandish, complicated masks. Not, like I think, for dressing up like Marilyn Monroe or a naughty, sexy little girl scout. (Last year, my brother-in-law wanted to dress up as George Dubya Bush and have my sister pose as the WMD. So he could walk around the party all night saying, “Where are my weapons of mass destruction? Has anyone seen them?”)

Alien is a great scary movie, don’t get me wrong. I jump outta my skin over and over even if I know what’s coming and the whole world that the movie creates, with its silences and empty rooms, is entirely creepy. But even there (here it comes, the point!), even in the distant future, in a galaxy far far away, in an enclosed space with little ventilation where one would think air would be a scarce commodity—everybody smoked! Every f-ing body! They come out of a long nap during light speed and, bang, light one up. Have one hanging out of their mouths while fixing hull breaches or round the table with their bowls of synthetic food. Sheesh!

I think the only one that didn’t smoke was Ripley. Of course, maybe that’s why she survived. The alien was attracted to all those smoke-smelling crew members so it could kill them and steal their luscious, delicious and satisfying cigs. Ah. Sometimes it seems like it would be worth facing an alien with tiny sets of teeth inside medium sets of teeth set in a large head with a large set of teeth. Seems like it. But I’m probably wrong.

Whining's Rewards

You know, I really should just start bitching about more things in my blog as the act of bitching seems to make them about face, bow down in tribute, and become un-bitch-able. In other words, my writing about the lack of response from internet job searches has provoked such an inundation of phone calls and emails and interview requests that I have dusted off and ironed my good, professional, "I am a responsible adult" grey skirt. Not that this blog directly provoked said job prospects--as in the employers looked at this site and said, hey!, look at this fun/witty/talented/hirable girl (although if you happen to be an employer and happen to be looking at it, Hi There!)--but just like magic. Like something in the cosmic scheme of things made my resume pop to the top of everyone's list and look very appealing, like a chicken salad sandwich with pecans and chunks of apple and mmmmmmmm. Sorry, it's lunch time.

A magic blog for this questing gnome, granting wishes through high-speed wireless connections to the world. Perhaps next time I should idly rant about, hmmm, the diameter of my thighs or my apartment complex’s failure to stem the tide of field mice in my kitchen or that my car doesn’t get good gas mileage. I’m feeling lucky so I say, c’mon seven. Momma would like a new pair of running shoes (or some cute black boots for fall).

Definitions

What is art? A fundamental question which had been revivified for me thanks to a new creative writing workshop I’ve begun through ASU. Man, I haven’t had that many dry erase fumes and uncomfortable chairs in quite some time. I always have the problem of my arms. They don’t want to be at my sides so they’re sloppily weighted over the desk or crossed in isolation across my chest and I don’t really want to be sloppy or isolating. However, I now remember my passion for doodling while taking notes that I had almost forgotten and that one must remember to turn one’s cell phone off before class. (Bad Kate, you do not get a gold star today.)

Such workshops always begin with the function of its own existence, hence the question: What is art? In general, in writing? Well, to me, art is something that is not purely functional, that provides something that is purposeless, an end result that exists wholly in the scope of the mind or the emotions, all while wooing the right intelligentsia to write the right reviews. This stems from the question of why all of us—retirees, closet novelists, journalists, and pink-toed NPR reps—have signed up to be in this classroom on a Monday night to sit in sloppy and isolating chairs. That question being “Can art be taught? Can you learn to write? Or, is it innate?” And as always, I must admit that my best answer is another question: Do we want to believe that writing is only a talent, something that one cannot graft onto someone, to bask in the arrogant assumption that we are those special, gifted individuals who have what others cannot? If so, why are we seeking out a community college course that deals with writing if, theoretically, we will walk away have gained nothing?

I’ve asked these questions before and debated them with much more vigor that I did last night. You see, in my mind, where nothing is black or white but where zebras roam freely over the savannas of unconscious thought, some in pink tutus, I don’t need an answer anymore. Art is subjective. Writing is subjective. I read books that I like. I read books that I know I am supposed to like. I secretly read books I know I am supposed to loathe. I only know that writing is something I like to do and something that I dream about and pray for and pull the wishbones of turkeys with hope that I am good at it. And hopefully I will be able to gauge how successful I am at that goodness when I turn in a story next week to receive the group’s judgment about whether my work is merely functional or Art, with a big capital A.

But hey, I can always appeal the verdict.

Is there anybody out there?

God bless the internet! Yessiree. I have embraced the online universe with all my heart and empty, anonymous soul. I already partake of the electronic cornucopia in so many areas of my life—online banking (www.compass.com), online pharmacy refills (www.walgreens.com), online bill pay (www.paypal.com), online long distance calling (www.skype.com), online lingerie shopping (http://www.experiencewonderyou.co.uk), etc. Even the online dating thing worked out for me very well (Hi, Brooke!). And now I am deeply enmeshed in the world of The Internet Job Search.
Gone are the days of "hitting the pavement" to find a job. No more wrist-cramping applications. No more, lord forbid!, face-to-face communication. Say goodbye to that pretty resume paper of hefty thickness and colorful grains. Nope. Now it's just .DOC resumes posted with formulaic cover letters, sent into the vast, faceless emptiness of the blessed internet. Oh bless.
I have lost count of the number of jobs I have applied to in this fashion. I suppose I could dig into my email records and count--looking for sent items with attachments and subject lines like: J7X6025VVS1XQZ9Y3G7_cbga_tap~gatap003^ILKG application or Product Description Writer Position: Ref.4174165. And I try to be interesting and I try to tailor the resume and letter to the job's specific requirements but even I can see why responses are non-forthcoming. Everyone looks so similar! There is no opportunity to make eye contact or have a concrete conversation. The process is streamlined to dates of employment and job descriptions without any human dimension. And I have such nice human dimensions! Well, I’d like to think. But maybe I’d like to think that because my strengths are in my personality and education, not characteristics blatantly visible on a .DOC resume.
I know I can succeed at the positions I am applying for. I hope my resume brings that across. And who knows? Maybe my internet job search will yield a perfect job, with interesting duties, that pays extremely well, with no commute of which I would be proud to say, “Yes. I am the new J7X6025VVS1XQZ9Y3G7!” and hand out my business card at cocktail parties.

Monday, Oct 24, 2005 - 10:05am (PDT)

The Third Degree

I had a job interview today, on my first day of freedom, which I thought was very responsibly responsible of me. Okay, okay. So I also slept in a bit and, well, took a small nap, but hey. The job interview went really well. But I put on a skirt for the occasion and went through the hoops. Besides an inordinately long personality test (112 questions!!), it had all the standards:

• How many years of experience do you have?
• Why do you consider yourself an ideal candidate for this position?
• May I contact your references?
• Would you be willing to take a drug test?
• What do you consider your greatest weakness?
• Are you a registered voter?
• Would you be willing to sign a petition stating that the institution of marriage is meant to be solely between one man and one woman?

Granted, the interview was for a nanny agency and took place in the little old lady interviewer's living room/home office. She taught the piano as well and had primers littered across the instrument’s bench, gold-leafed scenes from the Bible on the walls, PBS Home Videos near the TV, and a little plaque of encouragement and affirmation (to her) on the side board:
"Good morning. I have everything under control today. I will not be needing your help. Love, God."
I was able to politely decline, citing a voter registration issue. I did not want to give her any grief about her point of view merely because mine is different and I'm glad I emerged grief-less too. I have no hard feelings, even though a job interview should never include questions about political or religious affiliations. Understandable. It seems all of her friends at church had thought of the idea, of passing around the petition, and the peer-pressure level at such meetings can be so very high. You know, embroidery is really only a gateway craft--it leads to much more serious activities such as macramé and quilting. Or dabbling in politics.

Countdown to Liftoff

Apparently, I am not allowed to leave my job. No, young lady, you are not allowed, said Bryant with a wagging finger, looking as if he was about to snap his fingers, wobble his head and do the "mm mm, I don't think so, girl." One of the hazards of working in the family business--everyone is hyperconscious of the fact that you are somebody's daughter, somebody's niece, and that sometimes in the not so distant past your daddy called you Princess. Doesn't help that my Pops does slip up and call me that sometimes. And Uncle Mike calls me "KayKay" but he is Uncle Mike and, therefore, completely allowed, no matter what the context.

Answers to Uncle Mike's Question: "Whatever shall we do without you around here?"

• Start making only black and white copies again.
• Seal your own envelopes.
• Lose ten pounds of lunch weight or the gas money for the drive thru.
• Remember where the digital camera's USB port is.
• Find someone else to poke and tease you with sarcasm and a smile.
• Learn how to approve a check with a Canadian Driver's License.
  
• Not have clip art on monthly incentives and memos.
• Find someone else to over or undercharge customer's credit cards on a weekly basis.
• Not have Soy Milk in the employee fridge.
  
• Open an account at Kinkos
  
• Not take so much lip.

"We need to talk," I said to Myself

A twenty-something on the road to somewhere but currently at a rest stop someplace inbetween where the rest rooms smell of bleach and the vending machines have no diet soda. And the rest stop is Arizona and a job I fell into. Not that it is all bad. The view is great. The desert can be truly beautiful in a purple sunset, rust-colored soil way. And I have excellent companionship. Family and friends and a "domestic partner" who is all I could ever want. But it's time to get back on the road again, I think. This gnome's journey.

I am applying to graduate school again this year. I have decided. I have said the sentence aloud. I am applying to graduate school again this year. So at this moment of this blog's creation, I have two more days of gainful employment before my two weeks notice runs out, eleven new links to creative writing program websites in my bookmarks, and a sick boyfriend upstairs. (Poor guy. The big, blue IBM devil works him into a weak immune system and swelling tonsils.)

And, I am going to work more on the work of my heart--writing. Practice makes perfect. And hopefully, soon this will not be the only place that practice will be published.

Application Essay - Draft #1

SWF seeks graduate program for intellectual development, personal growth, and candlelit picnics on red-checkered tablecloths (Oh, and an MFA). Broke with my first love (DU) with a BA in '02 but am ready to give my heart again. Must enjoy passionate discussions, constructive criticism and the whole, wide world of words and wit and wonder. Excellent vocabulary and respect for double entendre a plus. Valid Poetic License a necessity.
Me. 26. A graduate of the University of Denver and resident of the world, America, Arizona, Maricopa County, Phoenix, second apartment on the right. Look for the Chinese Market: non-beheaded fish and 366 types of tea. Because there should be a tea for everyday, even in leap years. Turn Right. Yup. Right, right there.
I love Sudoku but not math, hiking but not running and Steinbeck, Cisneros, Morrison, Bukowski, and Amy Bender. I love pocketing $8 from friends by making a queen-high, spade flush on the last hand. I hate hearing about certain specifics "looking good on my resume" because the only thing on that piece of paper that will take me where I crave to go is the addition of some all-important letters--M, F and A. Give me a P, H, with a little 'ole d, someday. My yoga sticky mat is my best friend. I feed a cold and a fever. I feed everything and everyone with fresh herbs, soy protien and love. I like to write evolving sentences, with endless commas, that spin a thought away from itself by degrees with the force of free association, like dominos, like true thought. Or at least, my thought, whose train might not cross tracks with anyone else's. Where each one is a catalyst, each thought birthing another and another until unconsiousness takes thought's place and, BOOM, you're dreaming. I've been told that I have an excellent telephone voice and a lot of literary potential. I like to the think that both are true.
Goals. To integrate more folate, calcium and stout beer into my diet. To quit my day job. Cure breast cancer. Sit in one of the stuffy, fluffy chairs at a national book store and hold my name in my hand. To mortar letter to letter and word to word, inserting puctuation in mostly correct places, and to frost it all with a cover and buttercream roses. Make a souffle. Sing in a slinky dress while perched on a piano. To become a rebel without a genre, subverting everything I lay pen to, be it a predictable metaphor, a standard trope, or a social norm. To teach. Oh, to be immersed in the dynamic, bubbling, naive world of the college student forever with their pourous world views and burning sense of purpose. Contributing to the life of the mind and a life of learning.
SWF seeks graduate school, for third consecutive year, that will deign to take her money and change her life. Sprinkle some fairy dust and make my dreams come true. So, if you know anyone, well, hey, let me know. Okay?