Not that I'm delaying the pressing work to be done to finish up with this semester's MFA work, but I do feel the need to blog about a few things happening in my life, and to vent a bit on the seeming impossibility of writing these pieces at times.
Not that I have not been impressed with my own writing as of late (but judging from the double negatives I just used, I'd say my writing isn't improving...I'll leave it there for a later reminder of when my downfall began to occur), but I feel stifled, creatively pigeon-holed, and the arduous task of putting my creativity back together seems just as daunting as writing itself sometimes does. I have been able to write a lot of more abstract work lately, focusing on stream of consciousness, and floating more into the ethereal and abstract than the concrete, but, as always, returning with the force of an emotional wave to the concrete.
Get it? Good.
Back to the MFA magazine work still at hand. After hearing back in marginal amounts from my contacts at the different places I have queried, I am becoming more and more discouraged with the future of magazines in this Great Recession. I hope they don't go the way of the newspapers and begin to dwindle until they fade out and we're left with People, Good Housekeeping/Gardening, and "Everything Else" magazine. Though I'm sure that would be the ideal place to submit my story on how the WWE affected my childhood and eventual ability to decipher imagination from reality, but that I graciously praise it for assisting in my 'boundless' creativity now. I use that term in quotations and more or less lightly because, of course, I do think there is an end to my bounds...not like the universe in Stephen Hawking's theories.
The project for my mentor is tough and trying, lengthy and rather redundant. I just realized a week ago I missed a deadline as I thought the assignment was due partnered with this one. Oops. I expect to be docked some serious points for not turning it in on time, but all I can plead is insanity. Or unemployment. Or poet. That always works.
Writing about the WWP for the umpteenth time seems to be an exercise in driving further into the story and discovering the real meat behind the figures (the opposite of ribs behind the meat, I suppose), but writing about it again and again is getting to me a bit, and reminiscing about my grandfather's painful Alzheimer's diagnosis and the aftermath of it is difficult to continue through.
And Allison just went home on Idol. She was the penultimate pick I had in the contest; won, of course, by Adam Lambert who is like the universe expanding. But she is so precocious (yes, I do realize Simon also used that phrase), and talented for only 16 (recently 17) that she deserved to be in the finals, and with her vocals, it should have been a no-contest. But with Dopey Gokey and Kris I-Want-To-Be-Howie-Day Allen up there instead, I'm disappointed and debating saying sionara to the remainder of the season.
Now time to say the same to this blog and refocus on work for another 1/2 hour before bed. Ciao.
That's tres languages for those keeping track. Ahora, cuatro.