Pittsburgh? Pittsburgh!

I was accepted into U Pitt's MFA program for Poetry. Boo-yah. Now, all I'm waiting for is news on funding, and word from the other schools I applied to. U Pitt is my first choice, so we'll see how good the other offers are...I'm excited. I'm not biting my nails (well, I am, and Em's gonna strangle me, but I'm not biting them about MFA programs cause I fucking GOT IN!!!!!) OK.
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I'm reading Chabon's The Yiddish Policeman's Union and Espada's The Republic of Poetry.
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I'm also working through my novel, The Story Thief. It's at 140 pages now, and I've only got four chapters, plus some insert stuff/creation/destruction stories. BAM. It's flying, but it's got a lot more to do. Right now The old man and Martin are at Tom Robbins, and Blake and Loach are hitting the road with the fox. Sorry, here's a synopsis:
The story takes place on the edges of an unnamed Indian Reservation and small city called Ridgeville, located in Montana. This novel mostly follows two twenty-something men named Blake and Loach who remain stuck between Ridgeville and the Rez; neither place accepting them as “one of their own.” So, they spend their days wasting time, smoking cigarettes, and drinking coffee outside the general store. They tend to cause problems with both sides of the border, but at the same time they are searching for some level of acceptance from either community. The novel opens as an old man in a Black Cadillac pulls up to the general store, looking a Native Indian woman named Eva. After the store owner refuses to give the old man directions to Eva’s, Blake and Loach offer directions to the old man for a bag of money, but as they soon find out the money is no longer inside, instead there is only a fox. The two boys head into the Rez to find the old man and get the money they are owed, only to witness the old man removing a cold blue substance from the head of Eva as she lies asleep in her front room. Here, they confront the old man, but he eludes them, and they return to the store, mildly defeated, and fall back into the same old habits. This is when the fox starts showing up, and they feed him, thinking that is what he wants. Dan the Rez police officer comes by to ask the boys if they saw the old man. They deny it and return to what they do. Here is the prologue for the novel:
They were lying boys. Liars one might call them. But aren’t all boys liars in some sense? They told white lies like exhaling. Their bodies were made to do it. They told bigger lies like throwing stones, maybe. Their lives were connected by other lies. I won’t spell it out or diagram it, but you get the picture. It’s easy to understand. They knew it and clung to each one. Continued. Elaborated. But I guess liars might be the wrong description. Personally, I would rather call them story tellers. After all, they knew how to narrate.
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Plus I'm still tinkering with my thesis and starting a newer collection. Yikes. I got my hands full, plus all this film stuff I'm working on...OK. I gotta run.
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Later...

Almodovar, Tropic Thunder, and a whole lot of poetry

I'm trying to write a paper on Almodovar's All About My Mother. I'm examining the scene that mirrors Cassavete's Opening Night. They're basically the same scene in action, except for a few differences. Both have fans coming for autographs and in both films they die. Cassavetes explores the inside of the (actors/playwright/director/etc), Almodovar explores the loss outside of the car, and in his case, the people inside the car never know of the death. In Opening Night, Gena Rowland's knowledge of the death is the catalyst for her behavior throughout the film. It's amazing. Anyway, I have to write it, so I won't blab on.
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So, Tropic Thunder. Do I need to say anything? It's good.
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I'm getting ready to send my manuscript out. It kinda scares me that I'm sending it to the same place as my thesis chair. I've been working on it since March, I guess. It keeps changing on me and mutating. But I think I got it now. I think. I'm pretty stoked with it. We'll see what happens. I'm sending it to a pretty huge contest...Yikes.
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I wanna watch Hot Fuzz...

Super Bowl Sunday

I'm not that excited. Hell, I didn't really know who was playing...but I'm gonna watch the game, then I will watch the Office. Truth is, I gave up on sports awhile ago. It wasn't just one of that I'm-throwing-in-the-towel-cause-I'm-Artsy (even though my Dad jokingly accuses me of this), it's because I have given up on Seattle teams. OK. Call me a wuss, say I've got no backbone, no spirit, whatever...but for those of you who can remember the Seattle Sonics losing to the Denver Nuggets in the NBA playoffs? Do you remember that? I was heartbroken...I might've cried. But that was it for me. I tried to have hope for the Mariners and The Seahawks (but I had completely given up). So, when my hope for Seattle sports went out the window, so did my interest in other teams, but I can say that I do enjoy watching games when they're on--hell I don't know whose who anymore--and I do enjoy the pastime. There's something nostalgic about it and I flashback to hanging with the Young Fam watching on weekends when I was young. But anyway. I'm actually looking forward to the Super Bowl, but I'm not like shitting-my-pants excited. All I have to say is, "Fuck the Steelers."

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I read some poems last night. And I was nervous. Like REALLY nervous. But afterward, everyone was like, "Oh, you seemed so relaxed and natural" and I'm thinking, "Are you fucking nuts, I was sweating and about to fall over..." Either way, it was fun and it was good to hear my stuff aloud, in front of people. It was also great to see some friends read pieces from the thesis they are working on. Good stuff. For the most part (and there are exceptions) I'm proud to say I studied with these guys and gals. A talented group.

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I know I shouldn't be reading stuff not for class...since I have so much for class...but I'm reading The Yiddish Policeman's Union, which is really good, and a pretty quick read. Chabon is great! His range is everywhere, and I've read everything of his except his serial novel and a handful of stories...but he's so good. I also had a dream about him that was weird. We just hung out and talked about writing. He was appalled that I wanted to study poetry rather than fiction. But we had a good time. Then I woke up.

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Band: Pop Unknown
This band is cool. The drummer from Mineral, some dudes from Austin TX. Good poppy, indie rock. Shitty label, though. OH, Deepelm. The self-proclaimed "Emo" label. Basically the guy who runs it is a business dude who heard about "Emo" and started signing bands. The bands that've worked with him say he's shady and purely buisness, but the early stuff on the label is fantastic (Appleseed Cast, Pop Unknown, Imbroco, Cross my Heart, etc) I guess he was good to some of the bands; he let them put out a ton of records...anyway, I don't know where I was going with that.

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I just got back the first two chapters of my novel How We Started Bumping (Thank you Matt). I haven't looked at it in a year...I've been researching agents and publishers and writing a new novel, and poems...but I still like it. I'm excited to send it out, regardless of what agents (I got one in mind right now...he's rad and legit), I'm stoked that it's good enough to get out there.