At the café where J and I have been going for breakfast lately, there is a waiter whose name is Amory. He has glasses and wears a black wool hat and says ‘Cheers,’ whenever he brings us food or coffee. I have to ask him if he’s named after the character in the F. Scott Fitzgerald novel (This Side of Paradise). I hope he is.
It feels like I’m bleeding time. Right now, a sun shower and a honey grain bagel in the coffee shop I have probably spent about a thousand hours at since I’ve been in town. The guy beside me is writing in black pen in a journal. On the page, it says, “On the topic of smoking,” and “On the topic of exercise.” Earlier today, granola and photography and a bus ride and playing the same song about a thousand times. Last night, chocolate and tv in a hotel room, and before that, people with big imaginations and great intention.
Yesterday, I was on a panel at my alma mater about what happens after college for English majors who go to work in higher education. I got there five minutes before things started, sweaty from running around in a Great Song Seizure. My colleagues on the panel said constructive things about resumes and cover letters and transferrable skills. I, on the other hand, used the word “fuck” a lot. I told I’ve sent out resumes with huge mistakes in them, and how they should stop thinking of their lives in linear terms, which is the closest I could come to telling them to resist the pressure to be and/or become who people think they should be, since in a way, that’s just about to begin. What I should have said is, you guys, I have seen some shit. I bet you have too. You probably know that there is no such thing as a straight line.