Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Intern(ist)

I've looked deeply inside myself using no radical technology and have realized I am frantically, exhaustively busy, and if I work each bony minute I will just get by, and this has nothing to do with the space of the creative projects I need to access to edit, rewrite, revise. Louise Bourgeois' maxim - I DO I UNDO I REDO. I'm only unravelling.

Anyway. Blah blah blah. I have realized I need some help. I am looking for one or two brilliant interns for my prose projects at  Nightboat Books, to help with proofing, publicity, production. I promise to put you to good creative use but also need help with organization, etc. If interested email me at my Frances Farmer email! Tell me what you like to read and what experience you might have proofing/reading etc, and what encounters you've had with Nightboat Books or other small presses, if any.

Also am just generally looking for proofreaders in the future for book projects, not mine, but others, or maybe mine, always mine, but others, proofreading experience you can put on your curriculum vitae to say I have lived through this! Or something. Isn't that what a curriculum vitae is for? No? It's not? It's funny another gesture today it's become so worn and repetitive the handing over the CV across the desk while he or she sits, tweeded and tenured, and we never ever talk about literature or writing. It's not the life or death experience they're really looking for but whether you have the references to prove that in their world you even exist.

The most exhausting alienation of labor today an orientation at yet another campus. I got lost about ifteen times. Not fifteen but ifteen. It's a new number I've invented. Smile, smile, hello, sign at the dotted line. Break the photocopier. Plaid knights will fix the photocopier if I smile pretty. Grueling hours on highway. By next week I will have to be acquainted to teach four classes in three different cities over five days. 4,3,5.  I am becoming a teacher again and my tentacles are growing and I am reaching for gradebook, pen. And at this point students are just docile shapes and haven't grown into their human form, vomiting out excuses and papers and assignments are just hypothetical lines on a calendar. My reading, life, will be interrupted. Sometimes teaching is joyous but not I think when you must take on too much to survive, and it crowds out, submerges, any sense of self.

I am mourning the writer self. I must be latent the next three months.

Oh, me. Blah blah blah. Don't mean to complain. My office and mind is terribly cluttered. There's so much I wished to write about, here or there or anywhere, about this weekend in New York and seeing the yoga/spine/physiologist person, a sort of trauma, a sort of dawning consciousness about my fucked up body, such a compelling narrative presented, I don't know what to think about it, my loved one I've written about here as well is dying, is really dying, I don't know what to think about it, is this what happens to people who work their little fingers to the bone and pencils to the nub, they have no time to think, a sort of anesthetizing of experience, to have no time to think, to meditate, to reflect. Not just to act to do do do but reflect.

And yes, if you're wondering, I had iced coffee at 4pm today.