Sitting on the Curb

Three months ago I rented out my place and began cobbling together an interim lifestyle while awaiting the second-stage rocket explosion of The Leap, an event I imagined would involve leaving my clock-in-clock-out position at the Miracle Factory. In the meantime, things keep happening, like they always do. I found myself in a contest of wills with a large financial institution over some funds, and with that came a reflexive sustained pull back on the reins. I pouted, I researched, I talked to attorneys, I volleyed, and am currently in a wait-it-out phase. It makes the next stage of my leap, one with more ramifications, feel unwise. Or less wise. So I have been waiting, though I have very little idea about the dimensions of this wait. I am sitting on the curb, watching cars and pedestrians in their state of movement, from my state of rest.

I submitted applications to three residency programs last fall. One refunded my application fee and apologized that they’ve decided not to host residents in 2013. One sent me a nice rejection note. The third one won’t notify me until March or April. It’s one of those beyond-my-wildest-dreams opportunities, and has a .5% acceptance rate. That’s point five. So while it is ever so entertaining to consider, it isn’t likely. It would be welcomed, though, in part due to the way it would force me to pull the trigger. Accepted at Stanford as a Stegner Fellow? Yes, please. (Go ahead and picture me there, manifestors.)

For any of you following my vagabonding, you might know I have been to Colorado, Utah, California, Minnesota, and Iowa since I handed my tenant the keys. This past weekend found me on the fringe of a literary gathering in Nebraska City, reconnecting with writing companions and meeting three inspirational playwrights. I have stayed with multiple friends and relatives and made several trips to the farm. But I was expending far too much energy arranging and adjusting to different crash-pads right in Lincoln, where I continue to need housing in order to continue to work at the Miracle Factory until I am able to get off the curb. So the universe provided a room on the second floor of a mansion on Sheridan Boulevard, with a bathroom attached and a lock on the door, and wi-fi. It’s like The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, and I am lucky to be an intermittent guest.

With a little more luck, I am hoping to spend February on the Space Coast, though I’m not sure they can still call it that. I plan to be at the AWP conference in Boston in early March (and meet my great-niece and hang with her parents). Other than that, I am lollygagging on the curb, aware I am supposed to wait, not sure why, and lucky to have visitors stopping by with good conversation.

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