August 12, 1997
Sunday December 26th 2010, 11:09 pm
Filed under: Boozy,calendars,holidays,memory,nostalgia Tags:

That’s when the bottle of Bunnahabhain I’m drinking was distilled. Unchillfiltered, bottle no. 26 of 376, cask 5499. Acquired locally a week ago. My god. A lifetime, that week, the 11 days since I finished the manuscript. Let alone the 13 1/2 fateful? years since distillation. Since the summer afteer graduation, on again off again on again (who is now quite pregnant) would have been, i think, off again, between particularly meaningful bouts of on again. Not sure where bruises easily is – either with me, or on her way to grad school in the Midwest. And I’m either still in the sublet on again off again and i subletted, or in the warehouse, Xanadu. The plan, for the coming year, is to have something resembling 1996, the year before i graduated from college, or 2004, the year before the dphil was awarded. This stile before i jump through yet another hoop of ever increasing sophistication and compleplexity. But, mostly, another hoop. And thus the year leading up to might as well have all the angst, drama, mobility and motility of past rounds. Not only once more with feeling, but, what the fuck are these feelings for, now. Old enough to know who you are and young enough to do something about it, i read, somewhere, sometime not long ago. Damn fucking straight. How to be very Selby, the list on her bedroom door read, and for the most part she’s lived that life. It’s time to make my list, not because i haven’t lived the life, but because i fear skipping or skimping on some of the more important details in the near future. In the crush. To do something about it. As I did when this scotch was distilled, a few months before applying for grad school, choosing/chosen knowing/known the path that has led me here, intentionally and accidentally, purposefully and through incredible luck. I reject the narrative of lucky me that some, many, would apply, but to do so is not to fail to credit the luck Ive had. But I’ve worked, bled, burned, earned it, too, in the long years since distillation. I’ll have to get still older scotches in another decade or so, to reminisce properly, but for now, the youngest of the old ones will do….



again
Wednesday December 15th 2010, 10:37 pm
Filed under: damn,exit pursued by a bear,leaving,something new,Work Tags:

The mind balks, really. Because ive done it before? Because it will need doing again, probably twice, before it’s done? But even as I fight off the anxiety and stress of the next rounds to come, trying to bask, however briefly, in the oh fuck i did it glow of the now, well, yeah. Last time it seemed in doubt, also. Last time everything was riding on it, also. Last time, the stakes were only everything, the future entirely contingent, the release not untroubled by the consequences. Then of going, now, likely, of staying. But I’ve been here before, as it were, almost exactly five years ago, and 8 years before that, and 4 years before that. Transitions, they happen. So grab an a440, tune up, and make em work. Once more, with feeling.



rinse repeat revise
Thursday December 09th 2010, 10:34 pm
Filed under: fear,myjobfuckingsometimesdoesntrock,seasonal,tempest in a teapot,whingeing,Work Tags:

Mostly because I want a record,doing this again. Again. Again. In classic Proustian fashion, the real tragedy here is that doing it only means it will happen again. It’s an insane final push, this, to get the manuscript shipped and shaped to send out. But it will come back, the odds say, and require rewriting and revising and resubmitting. There will be, then, another insane final push to get the manuscript shipped and shaped to send out, hopefully that time followed by first prize, a contract, which will prompt a third round of revise, though sans resubmit, leading to yet another insane final push to get the manuscript shipped and shaped to send out. With such a thrilling tripartite and repetitive future, yet everything riding on it at the same time, you might see how the exhaustion and the 18 hour days lack the charm they might once have, etc. Final days, though, minus some grading, a dinner, and a fucking trip to the dentist. And the status bar gives me a word count, and i wonder if it all might be better spent writing the other prose, the epilogue I hope to conjure, the transitions yet to be crafted for paragraphs lacking elegance. But there’s always the next round, inevitable as it is,as they are. How much of a fuck is enough of a fuck to give to make sure I get the rounds in, rather then ending fucked? If you see what I mean.