I think I broke my computer. I got home tonight, weary with today's eating and such (my mom was in town to wish me a happy Father's Day, etc), and plugged in my 'puter and sure as the pure driven snow, it froze up on me. So, obviously, I went to the Sonora House to get online and try and figure out what to do. Between the ipod (pictures), and usb sticks I think that most of the most important crap is backed up, so at worst it means a new macbook (pro?) but I have not the time or energy for that crap right now. And by energy of course I mean money. I don't have the money for that crap. You see, I'm quitting my job at the end of this fiscal year, which just goes to prove that it's my first grown up job. Who says "I'm quitting my job at the end of this fiscal year" these days? Wankers, that's who. So, anyway, I'm quitting my job at the end of this fiscal year, and don't have another one until mid-August. I'm hoping (like an asshole) that my vacay/sick will take care of the rest, but I don't think it will--my excellent nephew Andrew is getting married in July and that boy's going to need money. I also happen to be starting my other arm on July 26, and that's going to cost, too. We'll see, but I've been waiting on my tattoo date for six months now, and I'm not too down to cancel. I won't have another one until September, and that will work out just fine. So, all that's to say that right now I'm sitting at Sonora, typing on a dell keyboard, a... drink, trading in some submissions that I've read at home for some unread submissions of poetry. When I got here the air was on (freezing--good to know!) and the lights were on inside and out. I expected Don to be in here ordering cactus or something, but, sure enough, nothing doing. It's nice to be an editor for something--you get to impose and censor according to your very own taste. It does make me wish that I'd find someone like me to publish my own poems, but the poems that people want to publish of mine are crap, and the ones I'm excited about get blown off by The Man. I feel pretty stupid for being a poet right now--and this whole past week, actually. I feel like I should have paid more attention in school, like I'm just a fucker that's sneaking under the radar, and once everyone finds out that I suck I'll get kicked out of school and go sling lattes for the rest of my life. I don't know what I wasn't born in Modernism--I feel so misunderstood and isolated. Like I mentioned before, my mom was in town and we had the Same Old Fight while we were all walking to Time Market to buy Onnavah a Clementine-flavored soda. My whole family thinks I'm either a joke or a Total Fucking Bastard. And, you know, for the longest time I just thought that's how life is--you struggle to pay the bills and people hate you and then something else bad happens and then you blow your brains out when you find out you have cancer. But now I'm thinking that there's something to the idea of trying to be happy. I think that for the past few years I've shied away from an existentialist practice of life. For good or ill, I've felt less in control of things, etc. I don't want to get down on being a father because O. has probably kept me from offing myself more than twice. She's the light of my life. But, I do think that she has made it more difficult to act freely. This makes me wonder if any of those existential thinkers had kids--Kierkegaard didn't, obviously: Nietzsche: no way. I think not for Camus--no to Sartre. I can't think of any of them having kids right now. This is the first time I've thought about this, but that strikes me as important. Being a father is really weird and heavy. I'll have to get back to you on this. Also, Mark Thorsby's a dad now. I miss him, and miss talking philosophy with him on walks in Flagstaff and over a wheatgrass at the hippie grocery he used to work at. I've been writing too long.
