Description of Mother: Birth Mother was born 12/5/69, the youngest of three children. She is a High School student, 5’7” tall, 135 lbs., having strawberry blonde hair, blue-green eyes and a fair complexion. She is a strong, athletic girl who particularly enjoys swimming. Her mother is of Irish descent; her father is of Lithuanian extraction, in law enforcement, said to have a drinking problem.

Description of Father: Birth father was born 10/22/65, the oldest of five children. He is said to be in the field of marine construction, 5’10” tall, 145 lbs. He is of German descent, having light brown hair, blue eyes and a fair complexion.

It’s incredible, isn’t it–how important those tiny, relevant details can end up being; and how we are so often inclined to make up the other more relevant details when we’ve been given so little to work with.

1. When living in a city with a violent crime per 1,000 of 14.6, it doesn’t take long to learn the differences between fire, police, and ambulance sirens. If you’re watching The Wire, though, it is difficult to figure out whether or not said sirens are coming from outside of your window or the TV.

2. It’s always good to live next to a hospital, just in case you need any duct tape.

3. If you’re looking for a good mint julip, Justin Sirois is your man. He’s basically the Robin Leech of these parts. If Robin Leech wore cowboy boots, that is. And listened to hardcore.

4. If you want to know whether or not your dog is fat, ask him to climb three flights of stairs. He’ll let you know immediately afterwards.

5. If participating in a Show + Tell, always sit next to the old guy who seems to be smiling too much. He’s going to be a little loud, but he’s going to ask really ridiculous questions about your chromosomes.

Bonus: There’s no reason to say goodbye to the thing you aren’t leaving.

“It all comes down to how much you need to inflict yourself on the world. You’re good enough. If you kiss the right ass, you could certainly make a career. Get some show. Teach. Like me, for instance. I’m nt a failure. I’m in a very envied position. You have some big-dick fairy-tail idea of the art world, so you don’t understand this yet, but hanging in, surviving, so you can keep working, that’s all there is. Sure, there are stars, most of them hacks, who make silly amounts of money, but for the rest of us, it’s endurance, perdurance. Do you have the guts to perdure? To be dismissed by some pissant and keep coming? To be dumped by your gallerist? To scramble for teaching gigs? It’s not very glamorous. Is this what you want? You’re good enough for it. You’re not the new sensation, but you’re good enough to get by. But you have to be strong. And petty. That’s the main thing. Are you petty enough? Are you game? Are you ready to screw me again? You must be.”

-Sam Lipsyte, life coach

edit: this sort of happened somewhere else.

I’m posting this here because it doesn’t really belong anywhere else. I’m very in love with the world right now.

“If You’re Worried about the Weather, Then You Picked the Wrong Place to Stay”

You know me well enough, I suppose,
to sense that this is something I want to apologize for,
as if it’s my fault that it’s over.
Thing is: I don’t think I ever told you how beautiful you look
when you’re bowing your head and singing about the Chesapeake,
or arcing your foot to pick out pieces
of a wine glass that I broke,
or swooning into an imaginary microphone
in that thick Cajun drawl,
or drunkingly shifting through a cigar box full
of pictures from various stages of your adolescence,
or sitting cross-legged on my floor
and looking for my Hall and Oates record
while he’s standing in my doorframe topless–
and he’ll forever be topless, because
I’ll forever be trying to show people his tattoo.
It’s so very besides-the-point to think these things,
I know, but I can’t help from wishing that we may forever be
pushing each other into bathroom stalls,
drinking wine and eating steak,
paying our rent with federal loan money,
relying on you for Facebook photos,
texting each other pictures of the bridge that connects our respected boroughs,
sparking up cigars with my lighter at 3 in the morning,
drafting cover letters to jobs in unrelated fields,
looking for pesto spreads in the bottom of dumpers,
wearing tie belts and boat shoes during late-night bike rides,
arguing about politics after Favre took it to overtime in Foxboro,
focusing intensely on verb tense agreement,
double-fisting bottles of wine,
wearing boob dresses to award ceremonies,
mixing grape juice and tequila while the sun rises over your balcony,
trying to remember the names of the pedagogical philosophies we’ve subscribed to,
getting spontaneous tattoos and being mistaken for relatives or lovers,
falling asleep during Joanne Woodward movies,
and watching the printed word bleed out into a puddle of its own mismanagement.
What I can never let go of, though,
is that brief glance I got of your hips swaying
while you were dancing to that Beatles song in my living room,
or of falling asleep in my lap while I traced
those words on your forearm that’ll always remind you of us,
or of how many times you’ve shouted “I love you”
as I ran off that porch of yours with the absolutely perfect view.
And it hurts me because right now,
our dreams seem bigger than the universe,
and the universe is too big for me to believe
that I’ll be there when you finally see these things through;
but what I can do is remember these days,
and I can hope to find you again
in the classified section of Poets and Writers,
or the “featured books” page in SPD’s newsletter,
or through a Google Alert that’ll send me to
the website of a small liberal arts school
near your hometown.
And it’s hard, I know, because the only thing terminal about all this
is that irreversible cancer of worry and negative capability,
and this little world of ours can quite frequently be a thankless mistress,
Thing is I cannot help but hold onto the handful of conversations
we’ve had that felt like revolutions in themselves,
or of the scent and sight of everyone
that I’ve sat at an oblong table with.
So the only thing I can do right now
to prevent this pathetic sense of Catholic guilt from slipping in
is remind you of what David has taught us about
“sacrificing for people in a myriad of petty, unsexy ways”
because at least for today
I’d like to convince myself that isn’t how it ends, but how it starts.

Shit that matters #2: I recently received a scholarship to attend The Juniper Summer Writing Institute, where I’ll receive tutelage from folks like Noy Holland, Mark Doty (I pray), Rachel P. Glaser, and Heather Christle (I hope). This is important shit to me because these are four people whose work I’ve frequently cited as “influential,” and I don’t think I could be happier to have the opportunity to study with these brilliant, beautiful people.

One of two pet-friendly homes Mike Young and I might end up sharing: $1000 – 2br/1bt (Hampden) Comfortable townhome located 2 blocks from “the avenue”. Situated on a wide tree-lined street, this home also offers a separate lower level entrance from the front (ideal for office, etc..). 2 Bedrooms with a full bath upstairs, modern kitchen with all appliances, finished basement with flush. Hardwood floors thru-out.

A Couple of Run-On Clauses about Spring: I often wonder whether or not I am doing enough and this becomes scary and daunting because I am so frequently exhuasted, like I am now (although that comes from physically excerting myself) but what’s good and beautiful is that almost everything that can bloom is in blooming, and in the South there is very little else more perfect than a day like today, which ended up being a day with a breeze that fanned the low, loose ponytails of all the soft-skinned girls that spent their study day sunning on the sprawling green grass between the library and spiritual center– and what’s lovely about these girls (women!) is that they are idealistic enough to tell me in poorly-lit rooms that they work at charter schools because they care about children damnit and it breaks their hearts it truly breaks their hearts; sometimes I’ll see my friend the librarian at the library that these girls spread out in front of like daffodil seeds and this friend of mine–30, married, father of an infant girl–will sometimes try to talk to these women that look like girls to me but are legally women, and if these women are reading Harper’s or The Atlantic he will make book recommendations; some of these women are pretty and–although young–they will look me in the eye and smile, and it’s when I have it in me to return the favor that I realize the district is a lovely place and there isn’t a whole lot to complain about.

In Capital Letters (ICL): What do you want remember about the program in 10 years?

Nothing ever got my pulse racing (in a good way) like hockey. Well, nothing except Beyonce, but that wasn’t until I was twelve or so. Then, all of a sudden, it was like I opened my eyes one day and noticed that the world is full of beautiful girls, and I’ve had a hard time thinking about anything else ever since. So it’s kind of hard to balance school and work sometimes. But sometimes, like, if I’m going to the White House and I’m in there doing a tour and stuff, that’s like school.

ICL: From being part of the program and participating in workshops and the Visiting Writers series, what do you think are the most important things you have learned about your own writing? How has your writing changed?

MC: That I got up there and sang my little eighth-grade butt off, thinking this was possibly the greatest moment of my entire life — of anyone’s life — better than hockey, better than ‘Star Wars,’ better than Grandma’s turkey and gravy.

ICL: What is your favorite quote or line from a book?

“Dare to be a sucky skateboard or a lousy video editor or a completely crappy golfer. If we do only the stuff we’re good at, we never learn anything new.”

ICL: What have you read most recently that inspired you?

I try to read all of my fan mail. A lot of them send me candy, which I’m not allowed to eat ’cause my mom says it might be poisonous.

ICL: Tell us something about yourself that most people don’t know.

I have dumped a girl over the phone – it’s terrible isn’t it? We got into an argument during a phone call so I basically said, I don’t wanna be with you any more,’ and she cried. I saw her after that and it was a bit awkward, but we’re not enemies now, so that’s cool. But I wouldn’t recommend it, it’s very mean!

ICL: If your life had a theme song right now, what would it be?

The day I was born, Celine Dion was solid at #1 with “The Power of Love.” Not a bad start.

i am growing a long beard because i feel more and more like i need to fix myself: specifically the ontological side of myself, by which i mean why must you be the type of person who fixates on philosophical terms in a never-ending span of short phases?

i have always struggled with plot points. i remember being a kid and trying to dig, or draw or color something within the lines (a duck maybe, or a ninja turtle). these were constant struggles for me. my seventh grade teacher once caught me copying someone’s spelling homework in the coat closet. it’s behind closed doors where our truest failures come out, so now i often rarely go outside.

i worry for you if this all makes sense, i do.

i read recently (Michael Shermer, I think) that the quantitative difference between creative geniuses is their ability to distinguish which ideas are transcendently brilliant, and that picking and choosing between them was in essence their greatest accomplishment. and here i am, unsure of which color undershirt I should wear while I take the dog out for a walk.

you may have other opinions, but i do not think and i have never thought that i am more brilliant (or better-looking or taller) than you, nor am i trying to play the role of the tortured artist. i am a craftsman, one with fickle insecurities and a checklist of ways in which I’ve convinced myself I’ve failed you.

i now wear this truth on my chin.

(edit: but i’ll love you forever, Bethany Cosentino)

i am pulling what i assume–or hope–will be the last all-nighter of my academic career. i am not doing it by choice, but because of mistakes i’ve made again.  the story also calls for it.

i haven’t posted here because writing has not come easy for me lately. yet i should not complain; i should instead push on.

today, at around 8 PM, i will pass around a stack of papers. it will be the last time i do this for a group of people that do not refer to me as “professor.”  or i hope. i do not feel dread and i do not feel relief. it does not feel over: it feels like a sense, or an organ inside me that needs to proper nourishment, so i can function, so i can survive. but after today, it will all be over and i cannot do anything to stop it.

back at chester, i would relish these mornings. live for them, even. i would smoke cigarettes with pretty girls, and when the sky turned into that indigo it always turned into at dusk i would try to impress them. i would tell them that looking beyond the trees would remind me of the cover of my copy of waiting for gordot. i would use prepositions in excess and blame it on my accent.

there are people in my life now that i would stay awake this late for, that i would listen to intently and speak to in an engaged manner. yet they (and i) are older: out of shape, their face beginning to wrinkle, their hairlines receding, their teeth starting to look “more brittish.” some of them are about to be parents. some of them, i never respond to their e-mails.

will i ever look as beautiful to you again as i did the first time you looked at my calf muscles? will you ever again think, “those thighs of his, they look like a women’s (sic)?”  will i ever remind you again of the boys and girls you once wanted to let fondle you, and will you ever think of submitting to those adolescent desires, despite your age and your self-assumed maturity?

i swear to god, it’s not us–it’s DC

this is it; it is all over; from here, we will be more alive than we were the day before yesterday, but no more alive than we will be the day after tomorrow. it is now, and it is soon.

Bohemian Coffee House
1821 N. Charles St.
Baltimore, MD

if you come, i will kiss you, where ever you like me to kiss.