What Makes Paint Smear

I'm showing you a picture of my desk right now. It's pretty representative of my life right now. This is why I'm showing it to you. Let's see what we got here: it's small, cheap, and a hot mess. The moderately-priced tawny port is empty. (I was very sad to learn this tonight as I sat down to work.) The dvd is on various lost civilizations, and, if my semen are as virulent as the Mains Myth suggests, I am in the process of building and devastating my own personal civilization just this lifetime. I have a few journals in various states of use: still wrapped from Christmas (thanks, Dani), in use (thanks, LAMOMA; my five Sticky Fingers), and done (thanks, Graduate School). Poetry collections by Gerard Manley Hopkins and Eric Baus, a chapbook by Joshua Marie Wilkinson and Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino on the amp behind the desk, where also sits a camerabag and my MFA diploma, still in its cardboard mailer. The candle is from Target, and it smells like linen. It reminds me of the bible and it also reminds me of very sweaty sex on an adobe barbeque in the backyard of a home in Tucson while the rain reanimated the already-dried sheets on the line. The sheets were fancy, and were an excuse to fuck in the rain in the middle of summer. The candle was cheap. Well, I guess I already said it was from Target. Anyway, the point is that the candle-smell feels about right: the real thing is so, so far away, and the fake thing feels cheap and all messed up. You know what I mean. And still, just out of view is the Love Box. The Love Box is a small box that looks just like a soap box, which is probably what it was. Except I wouldn't know what it was because it's wrapped in a swirly orange and purple paper that looks like a three year old made it if the three year old was brilliant and an old soul and deeper than most of the adults I know. It's basically a re-imagined Pollock for 2009. Anyway, Onnavah made it for me, and before she wrapped it up in the Pollock she blew tons of love in it so anytime I was sad I could squeeze it and get a little bit of her love for me. If ever my apartment catches on fire, I will grab the Love Box and my computer. There is no third. The rain is so heavy now. 

You know what I mean.

***

Today in class I was giving a little lecture on essay structure. I asked my students for an example of a thesis. Because they don't normally give a shit, or because I'm very funny, they stonewalled me until I pushed. (They know I'll curse if they stonewall me, and they like to hear me curse.) So I ask one of the kids to use me to find a really simple thesis statement. Scotty says, "Professor Mains has spotty facial hair." Scotty entered a world of pain after that. But everyone else had a Good Old Laugh. I wish I had some corn liquor and coke at this point in the morning. They "beardstormed" some supporting elements to their thesis with varying degrees of intellect displayed. One that I liked, but ultimately struck down, because funny alone doesn't cut the mustard, was "It's an aspect of his post-punk aesthetic. He could have a mohawk, but that would be too easy." Another (bad one): "Well, he's trying to be a professor and he thinks you have to have a beard so the other professors take him seriously. He just can't grow one. --I mean, (to me) it looks good and everything--it's pimp--I was just sayin'... ." Almost in spite of their benign attempts at thinking while walking, most of their answers were pretty solid, and I felt great about the day's class.  I love teaching, but (and I'm sorry to sound like such a prick) I feel like my potential for teaching exists higher up the food chain. I know that sounds so bad, but I think I'm kind of a natural teacher and know my shit well enough to forget it and have them discover it in front of me. (This sounds even more douchey than I could have possibly imagined. I'm going to stop.)

***

They say it might snow in Tucson tomorrow. I already feel it creeping in.