The more things
Sometimes, the solution to a given issue can be terrifyingly simple. I'm 90 minutes from having a functioning website again, three months removed from the situation first cropping up. It was a five minute fix following a two minute conversation.
Sometimes, the solution to a given issue can be terrifyingly complex. The news out of the American midwest crawls and lurches like a hungry creature slick with steaming tar, dripping acrid confusion. It isn't something people want to touch, or closely examine. I took some time to post some thoughts on social media, and have some conversations to schedule, some face to face interaction and honest dialog. I feel like that's the best I can do. It probably isn't, but that isn't something I want to touch, or closely examine.
Tomorrow is the 1st of December, two weeks prior to the first of six grad school application deadlines I plan on preceding for this year's volley. I found some programs that fully fund their students, and for the bargain all that is required of me is violating the bounds of my comfort zone and do some driving when the time comes. Deep, deep down, I am happy at what this process might grow me into. I'm even grumbling less about it, by the day.
November was a time for a lot of people to crank out a lot of words, but hardly any came out of me during that span. I have finished the first ten chapters of the sci fi novel, and sent those off to be scrutinized be other individuals. I spent the time following working on some contemporary pieces, convinced that last year's rejections were due in part to my sending "genre fiction" in my creative packets. Last spring, when I received those missives, I was afflicted with a kind of blunt force trauma, then I was sad and frustrated for much of summer. Fall, I wrote. Here winter, I am trying again. I am confident enough now to say that if I am rejected again, I will apply again next year. I'm better than I was, because of that conflict, and I also know that I am better than those who reject me believe.
In another shift, I was called out for having an eight-year-old profile picture on that same social media. It's a photo of all the friends I made during my early college years. It's the only such record that exists, such was the differences that came to affect us all eventually. After some weeks, I took a different photo, of a pile of pages and notes and drafts, all with hand written and typed words. A notebook. My laptop, flash drives and ear buds. A pen. I figured that this was a fitting substitute, an update that was both lateral and progressive. This, I feel, is the best encapsulation of these fleeting days.
Change. A constant. Paradox.
Sometimes, the solution to a given issue can be terrifyingly complex. The news out of the American midwest crawls and lurches like a hungry creature slick with steaming tar, dripping acrid confusion. It isn't something people want to touch, or closely examine. I took some time to post some thoughts on social media, and have some conversations to schedule, some face to face interaction and honest dialog. I feel like that's the best I can do. It probably isn't, but that isn't something I want to touch, or closely examine.
Tomorrow is the 1st of December, two weeks prior to the first of six grad school application deadlines I plan on preceding for this year's volley. I found some programs that fully fund their students, and for the bargain all that is required of me is violating the bounds of my comfort zone and do some driving when the time comes. Deep, deep down, I am happy at what this process might grow me into. I'm even grumbling less about it, by the day.
November was a time for a lot of people to crank out a lot of words, but hardly any came out of me during that span. I have finished the first ten chapters of the sci fi novel, and sent those off to be scrutinized be other individuals. I spent the time following working on some contemporary pieces, convinced that last year's rejections were due in part to my sending "genre fiction" in my creative packets. Last spring, when I received those missives, I was afflicted with a kind of blunt force trauma, then I was sad and frustrated for much of summer. Fall, I wrote. Here winter, I am trying again. I am confident enough now to say that if I am rejected again, I will apply again next year. I'm better than I was, because of that conflict, and I also know that I am better than those who reject me believe.
In another shift, I was called out for having an eight-year-old profile picture on that same social media. It's a photo of all the friends I made during my early college years. It's the only such record that exists, such was the differences that came to affect us all eventually. After some weeks, I took a different photo, of a pile of pages and notes and drafts, all with hand written and typed words. A notebook. My laptop, flash drives and ear buds. A pen. I figured that this was a fitting substitute, an update that was both lateral and progressive. This, I feel, is the best encapsulation of these fleeting days.
Change. A constant. Paradox.
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