I Have Become Accustomed To Rejection

Rejections: 2, form.

Yet another form rejection from the Los Angeles Review. I  also received a form rejection from Indiana Review. Aim for the sun, burn brighter. I am really starting to develop a complex or rather, the complex that has been developing is now flourishing. I water it twice a day.  At least I am writing through the carnage. I have several stories in progress and when they’re done, I hope they find good homes. May false optimism become true.

I’m reading Laura van den Berg’s short story collection. It is better than the buzz which is big. It is….perfect. I mean, no it isn’t a perfect collection but it is perfect, you know? The book is such a satisfying read; the stories are so rich and beautiful and human and I just want to crawl between the words of each story and build a new world there. I will write a review this weekend but suffice it to say, if you have not picked up a copy of What the World Will Look Like When All the Water Leaves Us, you should. Between that book and Lori Ostlund’s The Bigness of the World I am humbled and just so happy to be alive in a time and place where people who can write so exquisitely exist.
There has been a discussion about race at HTML Giant, one that is interesting, frustrating, painful, sad and useful, I think. I want to be able to participate in such discussions more productively. At some point, I lose my shit every single time and my argument devolves. This time, I did lose most of my shit privately and I’m proud of that. My poor friend J. He heard an earful but it was nice to be able to just spew all over him because he’s not a writer and he’s not online and he thinks all of you are imaginary. I feel alone. I really do. I feel like I am the only sane individual in a world of crazy. The older I get, the less I want to participate in these kinds of discussions. People will not change their minds. People will not acknowledge their racism or privilege. Perhaps it is that they cannot. Every single discussion about race follows the exact same depressing trajectory. I do not exempt myself from culpability. I am no more equipped to be graceful about difficult conversations than anyone else. I am a broken record. I have said all this before. I will say it again.

I take pictures sometimes. I will tell you some little stories about them.

Though the location changes, near the entrance of the Econo Foods where I buy groceries is a display of creepy dolls. Look at them, how they are just hanging there with their wide open faces staring out in the distance plaintively. My hair stands on end when I pass these dolls and I always try to walk on by quickly. Only a bad parent would buy this kind of psychotic doll for a child. Please also note that they are wearing dresses as if they are members of a polygamist sect, which is a definite possibility because they also have long hair.

Here is another display of creepy dolls in their little seats just hanging out with their doppelgangers, waiting to rise up and overthrow the establishment once night falls. Look at them, with their unblinking eyes and perfect plastic arms and perfect plastic legs, all dressed the same, not a stitch out of place. I pray to God I’m never locked in a store at night where dolls are kept. I just know they would get all Gulliver’s Travels on me and tie me down with tiny little stakes and they would run around in such a terrifying frenzy that the air would be thick with the stench of Cheerios and new plastic from China and they would find lighters and burn themselves and they would feel no pain and I would click my heels over and over shouting, “There’s no place like home.”  If such a nightmare should come to pass, I pray that the dolls show mercy and dispatch with me quickly.

I try to avoid Walmart but it cannot be helped sometimes. While I was in there the other day, I noticed this curious display. Eyeglasses by Daisy Fuentes. Now, I  am 35 so I remember Daisy Fuentes but she is not culturally relevant. How is this some kind of selling point? You might be asking who else has their own line of eye wear. Scroll down.

That’s right, dawg. Randy Jackson. YO!

I am not a morning person. This is how I will glare at you if you wake up at 7 am, TURN ON THE LIGHTS, and then think it’s a good time to take my picture. This is a look I like to call Death Star. You can hardly see it with this fuzzy picture but there is a faint scar on my forehead. When I was a kid, I hit my head against a corner while I was standing on a chair trying to grab a balloon that had floated to the ceiling. It’s a very pretty scar. Aren’t they always?

I like to find typos in public places. I saw this at the casino and I cracked up because someone had put so much time into the pretty colors but not enough time into proofreading.

This typo appeared in a commercial for one of those crackpot buy a crappy, five year-old computer for $150 a month companies with names like Tronix Country. Talk about preying on the consumer. Anyway. I have to go verify my resiency now.

I see this guy’s truck on campus every day . This is where I live.

I am not really a pet person. I never had animals growing up and don’t have any now and I don’t want a pet ever unless it’s a goldfish and even then, that’s a bit much. This is my brother’s dog Elliott. He’s huge. I want to ride him like a horse with a little saddle but I don’t because that would be mean and I would break him. Elliot is supposed to be a guard dog but all Elliott does is what you see him doing here–he lays in front of doors and poses for pictures with his snappy kerchief. He doesn’t even bark. He’s like a fake dog.

Yesterday morning, while walking to the garage to get into my car to go to campus to start my day, I saw this pink balloon just sitting there in the snow. It was so unexpected and beautiful.