who's a free agent?
uncle paul, what are your summer plans?
To burrow into the green earth. There's been talk of an Iowa (on Iowa!) Fourth-of-July reunion in Chicago; I would like to go, but will have to be sneaky about it because of California residency concerns. I'll finish that novel, which I'm not writing this week because it's incompatible with a crunch of schoolwork—I have been thinking really hard about Faulkner. So hard. Hurts so good. I hope to have some menial paper-grading work with the department and, I don't know, will continue to beg my parents for money to cover the deficit, because I continue to be a 26-year-old infant in a big old bonnet in a big old buggy with rubber bumpers.
Music and schoolwork are compatible, at least. That's how it was six years ago: write a paragraph about Salman Rushdie, record a guitar track. Paragraph, guitar, paragraph, oh my God if I tweak the pedal this way the guitar sounds like a helicopter! Badass! These days, after hours of frustration in the studio, the singing angel will descend and suddenly I will be able to sing. The angel stays about an hour before leaving me bereft, but you can get a lot done in an hour. I continue to hope for grace.
