waiting

Last year the university of my choice summarily stamped my application with a classic red ink rejection stamp. I waited all summer for them to offer me a spot in the 2007 fall semester but like a character in some paltry Beckett knock-off, it never came for me. I was devastated. Nevertheless, the instinct was to push forward. I had no plan but I knew that there was no sense crying over spilled MFA milk. That isn't to say I didn't sniffle once or twice. I'm not too tough to cry and i am man enough to admit i did. But it hurt. And it didn't hit me all at once either like a bullet. It was a slow tortuous burn. I couldn't tell you that the reason I had revised the same line on a comedy sketch 15 times hating it even more than the last was because I had lost faith in my ability and didn't want to repeat the same mistakes over and over, but it was definitely why. Still -- I knew I had to pick up and just try again. I knew I had to get on the horse, dust myself off, do-over, all that stuff, whatever. So I reapplied, which was the easy part. Because now I am sitting here, poised, waiting again, having my fate rest on the balance of a simple thumbs up or a thumbs down and the waiting is killing me. Still the age old question -- is it better to be in limbo or in hell? Obviously I want to be in (insert University here) but right now I'm just killing myself. If I get rejected again, how do I just get back up and walk away? None of my friends seem to have an understanding of this because they've all been successful in their lives and I've done nothing but fall into pitfalls. This is/was supposed to be my ticket out. This was supposed to be the silver lining (another cliche hmm maybe that's why I was rejected) because no one can really have that much bad luck. Can they? It's strange because I've never really wanted anything as much as I've wanted this. It isn't the lottery, it isn't an emmy, it's just getting into a program that I feel I deserve to be in and have worked very hard to get in to. From my standpoint, I am a prime applicant. Notice how I didn't say I was the best candidate, I'm just saying I'm right where I need to be to get into this program. I thought the piece I submitted was probably the best thing I've written to date, and if it was perfect I wouldn't need to be in an MFA program anyway, but the question is really what do they think. Well I'll find out soon enough. I could find out tomorrow or a week from now, or... and I've already prepared myself for this, god forbid, get on the waiting list once again. If that happens then I'll know that truly I am the butt of the universe's joke. I can't even write this blog because I'm critiquing it for being so shittily written as I write it. Well... there's nothing I can do. I have a full growler of beer in the fridge in the event of either outcome and there's always the seminary. Although I can see it now "dear mr. pfeiffer. Thank you for your interest in our abbey. Unfortunately we have so many qualified people apply each year to our program and we can only take a handful of monks..."
who wants to be a stupid monk anyway? I guess I do. If they'll take me.

wandering brooklyn

I'm not sure who, but someone famous once said, "old blogs never die. They just fade away." And this case old blogs about your 2007 summer road trip from California to New York just fade back in. Or in a fit of inspiration, brought on by the blogging muse and possibly too much coffee, they suddenly spring back to life. As if they never really left. Which of course they didn't. Because they were never really dead to begin with. (or did i just blow your mind??)

Anyway, I decided to start writing this blog again because I wanted to keep a journal of sorts and I figured the best way to get, keep and cultivate inspiration would be to continuously write stuff down. So that's what I am doing. This was also somewhat brought on by a perapetitic I had today with a friend of mine through most of Brooklyn. I'll probably write more about it later but suffice to say it involved paper-machier busts of Grover Cleveland and Chester A. Arthur. enclosed in a glass box.