Fourth-graders, dude.

Fourth-graders. That’s who I’m going to be interviewing with next week. Or auditioning with, rather. They’re turning me loose on a classroom of fourth-graders for 40 minutes to see what I can do.

Fuck.

birthday schmurthday.

My birthday is this weekend, and I have a sneaking suspicion that nobody’s going to come out for it. I think I probably didn’t give them enough notice, considering the survival mode that I’ve been living in, time-wise. And some people probably aren’t into what I planned. And some of the people who would be are out of town or whatever.

I think I might hate birthdays. Mine, I mean. Other people’s are fine. But mine I think are for the birds. I want to feel special and I usually end up feeling like a nuisance. I wish I didn’t care. Bleh.

gguh.

Brain. Shutting. Down.

Is there anyone out there who’s good with Publisher who wants to come help me finish my poetry books? During business hours, roughly anyway?

Please?

blrrggggh…

Some other people called, too…

They called on Thursday, in between my groups, almost causing me to lose my shit for the rest of the day. Remember the interview I thought I bombed? Yeah, I guess they want me to come in for a SECOND INTERVIEW.

Apparently they’re going to have me plan something to do with one of their groups of kids. They told me the name of the school, but I was so queasy I don’t remember which one. I should get more details sometime soon.

Something occurs to me: they mostly work with elementary and middle school populations. Hmm. This…huh. Yeah. This is going to be illuminating.

Class of 2006…

So they called, and they do indeed want me to be the commencement speaker. It’s on June 2nd. My sister wants to come and watch, which is interesting; she doesn’t often show a lot of outward interest in my life.

This is so weird. What the hell am I going to say? Ooh, I know: please comment with a question that would be a good prompt for a commencement speech. One that I might write.

GET THIS

My dad called me the other day to tell me that they received a letter from my high school notifying me that I’ve been nominated as the COMMENCMENT SPEAKER for this year, as it is their custom to have a grad from our school come and speak on their 10-year anniversary. He’s pretty gung-ho on me doing this; it’s so friggin adorable. I went ahead and filled out the thing–I’m actually pretty touched, as much as commencement was a day that I just wanted to get through on my way to college. Also glad that my hair is pink right now. Oh, fuck yeah! I just thought of that! That’s rad!

There were questions for me to answer and return. They are below. I have the answers…let’s see, on my work computer, and I guess they’re in my e-mail sent items…maybe I’ll add some tidbits if I think they’ll entertain. But here are the questions.

What is your current occupation and what are your specific duties?
What have you learned in the past 10 years that you would like to share with the graduates? (HA!)
How did [my high school] prepare you for your career?

Second hilariously weird thing related to high school: I got a message on Myspace from a girl who used to make fun of me (not one of the really bad ones, though, one of the lesser mean girls, went around disguised as a nice girl), asking if I’d be interested in getting together with some of the other kids from my class for an informal 10-year reunion this summer, like drinks or something. What the hell, I thought. “Yeah, sure. That sounds cool.” I wrote back. She seemed genuinely pleased. Not like exclamation point chipper, but definitely happy to have gotten a hold of somebody.

pious dream

I don’t often remember my dreams enough even to write them down. This one’s from a couple months ago. It was oddly tame and somehow dangerous at the same time. Sorry, friends, no sexy dreams today.

###

a dream of me and a woman who looked like me
praying for a man who was angry
he was black and he was angry
and I remember he had a right to be
and it was a situation where prayer might have been considered
inappropriate
but somehow it was all right
and I was looking at the floor and sitting
and she was standing and doing the talking
quietly
and he stood between us and we held his hands and loved him like a brother
The floor was tile and green like the scales of a dragon
It was a bathroom and dark
I sat on the toilet and listened to her prayer and prayed along
in my head
and felt angry along with this man

anyone tired of hearing about my life yet?

Too bad!

From an e-mail to my friend Ryan in which he asked me, simply, “How’s life in Chicago?” That’s what you get for asking…

###

“Good…okay. I applied for a job at this place called Urban Gateways (www.urbangateways.org), and much to my surprise, actually got an interview. I knew my application fucking ROCKED but I just didn’t think I was cool enough. They haven’t called me back yet, though. I sorta felt like I bombed, even though my whole BODY was like screaming out, ‘CAN’T YOU SEE HOW PERFECT I AM FOR THIS?! WE ARE SOUL MATES!!’ But as Kelsey said, ‘This job is so not ready for a Rachel.’ God bless her. I am looking for other things. Every time I see a plane flying overhead I involuntarily rise onto my tiptoes. I write sometimes, but I often go out salsa dancing when I should be writing…or sleeping. I don’t sleep enough. I feel guilty way too often, especially for a Protestant. I feel like something really great is about to happen…or something really scary, that will later become something really great. I’ve gone to a couple really really cool poetry event things lately. I think I’m gonna do more of that. I meet strangers and instantly captivate them with the way I laugh at all their jokes and my confessional style. Last Thursday, one of those strangers drew a box around me and said, ‘This is a no-bullshit zone.’ I meet strangers wherever I go.”

tengo sueño

Find your own pose!

Moira Kay

this is for you
this is for you, Moira Kay, not yet formed, not yet known,
not yet knit in your mother’s womb

this is for the dream of you that your father had:
your name, Moira Kay, he dreamed your name,
he dreamed little shirts and little shoes
golden-brown hair
(like mine when I was that small)
and nothing more

Moira
Moira Kay
Moira Kay

or whatever your name is

this is for the day
the day that you are made
the day when your path is unblocked and you rush into me like a flood

this is for the first time
you feel your sex heavy like a river dragging on you
dragging on you like a river that wants to carry you someplace
or drown you
not knowing whether to laugh or scream
for your reflection that begins to melt and replace itself
with someone else
the someone that you think they see

this is for the day that you forget what you look like

this is for the day that you remember
this sings to whatever reminds you
it stretches its arms to whatever brings you back

this is for you
slung on one hip as we blaze foreign paths
the three of us anywhere not mattering but together
fearless your blue eyes/brown eyes OPEN open
passed hand-to-hand by black hands and white hands and brown hands
tongues of all tongues shaping to say your name
Moira
Moi-rah
your hand holding fast my hand your other hand holding fast your father’s hand

this is for the hour of your coming
this is for the moment you open me like the first time I was opened
from inside this time
this is for the moment I and the world and all hearts open wide to receive you
this is for my body yawning heart and body unhinging to let you out
should it ever come
this is the herald of your arrival