"Okay, I guess I'll pick it up right after the breakdown..."
- "To Live and Die in LBI," Lifter Puller
Life has changed. Stanley Kunitz famously said (at the age of 4,678 years old) that he was "not done with his changes." I suppose that's some what comforting after the nearly year long [rick]rollercoaster I've recently hopped off.
I have, through little fault of my own, ended up in a magnificent apartment in the Pearl District of Portland, OR. So I've gone from 8 puppies a day, to a short period of no puppies to just one beautiful (Have you ever Seeeeeeen such a face?) little pug named Winston Churchill (and our super favorite companion, Margaret).
My job is... well, most importantly, it exists - there was a strange fascination in holding that first check with the knowledge that more would come, steady income is kick-ass - but beyond that the whole thing crashes crazily down. If there's a bright literary spot in the universe I work at the place it's farthest from - Data Entry at,
noreallynotevenlyingthisabsolutelythegoshdarnkickyouinthecrotchtruth:
Waste Management.
What's more I have definitively proven that my job DOES NOT MATTER. I have run a series quadruple-reverse-blind-placebo tests and there remains little doubt in my mind that my bosses could not prove the difference between a fastidious day and one in which I do little more than gripe about David Dye and Bob Boilen (Maaaaan I hate those guys...).
So that's exciting. It's such a nice feeling, contributing so little to society. But... they pay me, and in the mean time I'm hitting Craig's List hard in hopes that someone out there is looking to employ a none too prolific would-be poet. Speaking of which, Powell's is currently hosting a Portland Poetry contest and I am currently failing at writing such a poem - any thoughts? Or, just draft your own and send it in. I think you get somewhere in the neighborhood of 25 free books? Pretty sweet.
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