I'm still working on reading that book. It's been so long since I started reading it that I had to reread what I had already read, but I'm determined this time. After today, it's spring break at the University of Alabama, and I'm flying home tomorrow for Passover, so there will be plenty of time to read on the plane. Planes scare the shit out of me (much like most things that present opportunity for horrific death), but reading is one way that I can calm down a little. The drone of the plane helps me concentrate on the words on the page, instead of on my terror, and I really don't like small-talk conversations with strangers, so I have to keep my eyes on the page to avoid making accidental eye contact. Reading back through this paragraph, I sound incredibly neurotic, but I think that might be an accurate portrayal. I haven't been home for Passover since I was a junior in high school. When I was in college, I never went home on breaks, and my senior year of high school, I was on a college visit and I missed the seder. I knew I was going to miss it, and my Bubbe was in the late stages of pancreatic cancer, so I spent the night at her house before leaving town, and I missed the seder and then she died. Passover has always been my favorite holiday, but all the other holidays I've been home for haven't been the same, our giant family dwindling and shifting over the years, and when we get together around the dining room table now there are empty seats. My aunts always tell the same stories, repeat the same infuriating narratives about things I never actually did when I was a kid, but I let them tell the stories because it's a tiny piece of continuity. Remember the time with the bad cake. Remember the time with the choke-hold. Remember the time with the splinters. It's our oral tradition, and we have these holiday gatherings in a different dining room now, but we're still carrying around these stories. We're still getting angry at each other for old hurts. It's still my favorite holiday, because of the ceremony of the thing, the wine dropped like blood onto the plate, the calling of the plagues.
I had macaroni and cheese for both breakfast and lunch today, because friends came over and made dinner for my birthday and left all the leftovers in my fridge. I feel gross. I do not feel the need to eat dinner. Instead I am sitting on the couch, drinking Gatorade, because it is SO HOT here that I almost threw up during spin class and now I'm worried about electrolytes. This feeling might also have something to do with the amount of wine I had last night, which was a lot. I know I had several phone conversations with relatives that ended in them saying, Um, well. Okay. I'm going to let you go now, which I think means that I spaced out and stopped talking.
The last few days have been a rush of working on and thinking about writing, which has been great. A lot of people I know are doing the same thing right now, because A Really Great Small Poetry Press's open submissions period ends on June 30th. Today I rearranged and deleted and added to my manuscript, but I am still not convinced by its form, so I haven't submitted it yet. I'm doing a lot of writing my thoughts down, and asking questions of other writer friends, which has helped me to articulate those thoughts. I don't feel stuck--I feel like progress has been made, and I'm moving in the right direction. I DID, however, submit the Cheerleader chapbook to a different place tonight, which is EEEEEEEE and YEAH and OH SHIT all at once. Unlike the book, none of the pieces of the chapbook have been published (or sent out). Maybe I should do that. Yeah. Maybe I will do that tonight, too. Good thinking. It helps to write stuff down.