Taco Fantasy (long)

I'm writing a paper on Philip Larkin and I can't stop thinking about these new shoes I got today after trading in some older, less exciting shoes. The new ones are beautiful, pointy, black, and killer. They're probably the nicest shoes I've ever owned, and I'm kind of a shoe-slut. My arm is almost healed and set-in, so I'll try and post some pictures in the actual light, you know--where you can see things more clearly. I have to say, and I'm sure Adam and Matt et al will agree: it's nice to have the arms balanced again. I don't really know how to explain it, but something just feels better now that that balance has returned.

I found a wallet today in the street. When I looked at the guy's license, I saw that he was born six months after me, and for some reason that was wierd and really bothered me. There was all his bank account information written down in there, and a picture of him with his daughter or niece or something, and mickey mouse. I also ran into susan mullen yesterday. I saw a picture of her daughter, too--she's almost four now. As I sit here, month by month, carving the arc of my life out from the nothingness, it's sometimes depressing to look at what I've done, and what I do, and see how little all of it matters. I work, I get tattooed when I can, I write poems that I hope will live on while knowing that they won't, I put biodiesel in my new car and it smells like frenchfries, I sleep, I fail at relationsips; the only thing that I do with my life that will live on is what I invest in Onnavah, it seems. No one will remember anything else. For me, I mean--I find lasting meaning in my life: this arc-carving is what means something. --I am what I create and all that sort of stuff. That doesn't change how much I'm into my new shoes, or how excited I am when someone likes what I write, or when I get to daze into my arm and block out the world for a few minutes to see the beauty in it, or in the clouds of the western sky as they darken and a storm decends, and when I close my eyes and feel the vibrations of my guitar against my forearm as I play it quietly & alone. They're fleeting and meaningless, but they're also great to me! Sorry, that's sappy & boring & lame, but--somehow seeing these pictures of those two kids really called my consciousness to this crap.

In other news, the MFA kids here at Arizona are up to the usual: the 1st years are still, as a whole pretty lame and boring. One of the poets is batting out of his league a little bit--twice over! For now the winners/losers shall go unnamed. I am, however, suprised to see the pipe this kid's laying. Bravo! None of the new kids are writing anything interesting yet--maybe it's coming, but so far, it's not. Classes have been mostly lame. My workshop with Jane has been best so far, and that only got a good/bad split of maybe 60/40. My Poetry in Forms class has been a nightmare. The prof is totally out of control/outsmarted in the class, and it's kind of embarassing. My last class is a dumbfuck party that a few of us normal folks somehow got invited to, and I spend most of my time making smart comments to the Jane under my breath that she then makes me iterate at an audible level, which she then asks me to write up on the board, which I then tell one of the (very) few smart 1st years, Zack, the Naked Dude, to write on the board for me. He's not my bitch or anything... he's just closer or something....