my essay "Sweet Execution" is published in abbreviated form by Juice: A Journal of the Ordinary.
At one point I believed it would be fun/exhilarating to edit a journal, to be in the midst of contemporary art. But editors have little time to write. Add to that list teachers, moms, dads, livers. There really isn't any time to write except the time I demand and create; which, sadly, is often mediocre.
"Mediocre" is one of those words like "disappoint." Both make me feel cold-sweat twisted, little pinchers of hell. This week I've been less than mediocre and trying not to feel disappointed in myself. Someday I will probably have to lower my expectations, but I hope I'm dead at that point and full of actual wisdom. Since fifth grade I've been composing silly lectures in my head (just for the sheer enjoyment of it as I shower, do my hair, prepare for sleep). One of my favorites (they're all personal and silent) sermonizes on the fact that life is hard for everyone, that we don't understand the others' circumstances, and thus we have no right to whine--since everyone struggles to endure. This is a lecture I need to start listening to. As far as pregnant women go, I'm running marathons. Who cares about some fatigue? Soreness? Discomfort? Inability to stand, sit, or lay for more than a few minutes? We have Charles Lamb--and he's worth a lot more than forty weeks of incubation. What frustrates me most is that I have to slow down, but I don't know how and I don't want to. So in my resistance, my emotions flare and poor students and professors have to decipher why in the world I'm weeping in front of them. I have no answers for them.
Point of this entry: (like a gate) my "newly married" essay is published, which is weird since I am soon to be a mom and ecstatic about it. I'm not displeased with the piece, but it is not published in the form I'd hoped. Oh well. Read it at your leisure.
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