Okay. One thing at a time.

Last Saturday, I went out dancing with a bunch of friends for Joey's birthday. It was hella fun, even though the club was snotty and had a dress code we were all breaking. (We got there early enough so that nobody noticed, I guess.) There was good dancing and great sushi and three male strippers.

The only low point was that some misunderstandings happened when some of our other friends showed up and couldn't get in. We ended up not hooking up with them and not ending up getting back into the club, so we went to a diner and had milkshakes instead.

But the fallout of this-- well, misunderstandings and overreactions and I don't know what all, partially my fault, partially not. Suffice it to say that things have gone rapidly sour between Probst and myself, and it's making me sad. Unbearably sad. Lest I turn this journal into a passive-aggressive mode of communication, I'll move on.

On Monday, I participated in a reading sponsored by City Lights, the big important bookstore in this city. Actually, to backtrack, Monday was an insane day. I drove into the city to teach my class-- which was great-- and then drove back to the East Bay to go to my Pound class, and then drove back into the city again to do this reading. And then back home again. The Bay Bridge: my new best friend.

So I was basically an opening act for these three big important writers from Los Angeles. I got a great reception despite the teeny crowd. I only had a few chapbooks but I sold them to people who told me how amazing they thought I was-- and willingly, I believe. I also had some great conversations with the people I read with, when we went out for drinks afterwards.

For example, one guy was telling me about being in town doing research for his new book, and how all these fortuitous things happened to him. I mentioned an essay I had read just the night before (talk about synchronicity) where Jack Spicer said that the poem makes things happen in the environment of the poet. I felt very smart being able to reference the obscure theories of Jack Spicer.

(But yeah, this essay of his was interesting. He talks about the poet as a conduit for some external Other, and claims that it's the job of the poet to get out of the way of the poem as much as possible. I strongly related to what he was saying, because the poems that I write instinctually come out so much better than the ones I have to force out for an assignment or what have you. But he thinks there's this Other, and I think it's just a deeply internalized source. Anyway...)

Two of the people who read are professors-- oddly enough, at a university in Los Angeles I almost applied to, before decided I needed to live elsewhere-- and it was strange interacting with them as a peer. Not only as a fellow writer, but as a fellow teacher. We discussed problem students and teaching strategies and stuff. It's the first time I've really had a conversation with a professor who treats me as an equal.

That's the other thing I wanted to talk about. This strange half-life between professor and student that I'm leading. When I am sitting in a class now, I am more inclined to talk, because I know how it feels to have students with nothing to say. I find it hard to exert any kind of "authority" over my students, when I sit next to them in other classes and hang out with them as friends. It's odd. But great, too.

This is a big thing for me. There was always the chance that I'd start teaching and hate it-- and then I'd have to change my whole career path. But no, I love it. Is it the attentive audience? The opportunity to impart knowledge? The sound of my own voice? All of the above? Regardless, I love it.

I've learned a lot, too. My latest lesson is, ironically, something I cautioned my students against on the first day of class. "Don't try and impose your aesthetics on each other," I said to them in my infinite wisdom. And now, I look at their poetry and find myself making commentary that reflects my own flipping aesthetic! But I've caught myself or, rather, my students have caught me, by being unafraid to disagree with me. I love it. I love it!

Wow. Even my tangents have tangents. But the only remaining thing I have to say about Monday is that one of my friends got drunk and almost kissed me! Or would have, if I'd let him. It was a crazy night.

And now it's Wednesday. I have to tell you that this week has been so strange. It seems like last Wednesday was yesterday, and last Friday was a month ago, and Saturday never happened at all. I'm confused!

I'm working on the Fulbright application, which is down to the wire. Like, "due in a week and barely even started" down to the wire. But I am going to get it done one way or another and then, if I get turned down, learn my lesson and start way ahead of time next year.

Also, I need to catch up on homework. I have been in this weird unfocused state for awhile, completely unable to concentrate, and my schoolwork has suffered. It's so much work just to keep my head above water, that catching up seems dauntingly difficult. At least, it is if I want to do all my homework like a good girl.

Which I do. Even if I'm not.

And finally, Diet Coke-money-answering machine-anthrax-sleep-Phoebe-sweater-car door-video. And also, Heath Ledger-Sims-memory-128K-burgundy-Joey. And importantly, Skellington-shower-Bakula-newscaster-laughing. Boof-Boof.

Boof-Boof, the name of a gigantic stuffed elephant I got from Bruce in high school, has somehow become code for "and that's the end of the story" among my group of friends. I have no idea how this happened, but it's really fun to say.

So, once again, and I really mean it this time: Boof-Boof.

"Do I have a sign taped to my forehead that says: 'Calling all spiders! Especially if you're big and black and have abnormally long legs! Make my life a living hell with your reign of terror! This is a really good time for me!'"