the interview

young thing sitting across the table from you. what are you talking about? you're a young thing too. young enough to not know what you're doing, interviewing a senior from the new school who's applying for an internship in your department.

you giggle something about having just graduated yourself last summer, then squint at her slightly crumpled resume, wishing you had had the balls to major in literary studies with a concentration in creative writing as well. instead, you stuck with safe and respectable english language and literature (like choosing a beige sweater over a plum or chartreuse colored one). whatever, it's all about the strong writing skills, no?

and applying said writing skills to a worthy nonprofit cause. i'm sorry, what's that you said? grant writing? oh yes, of course. in two weeks you'll wonder why you ever entertained the thought of becoming a professional grant writer, holed up in your blue gray cubicle computing sentences like some binary code. you almost betray the fact that you secretly hate your job, but then you notice her face fall apart in slow motion and then immediately switch gears, lying through clenched teeth about how "supportive the team is, really. we're all here for the same reasons, right?" more nervous laughter--this time noticeably louder on your end of the table. you hope your boss can't hear you through the wall. this is a disaster.

all you want to do is put your hands on her shoulders and give her a good shake. say: "WAKE UP, KIDDO. it's spreadsheets from here on out. kiss metaphor and caesura and deconstructionist theory goodbye. boy, what i'd give to be reading some milton right now. even if i still hate milton, except for the pretty parts in paradise lost. what was it again? walking hand in hand...wandering, slow: 'through eden took their solitary way.' you motherfucker motherfuckin' smartass, milton.

ah, and baldwin. god bless baldwin and his giovanni's room. there are two types of madmen he wrote: those who remember and those who forget. i'm of the remembering party; repeat flashbacks of how did he put it? 'the perpetually recurring death of their innocence.' shit, i could LIVE off of that, but i can't. i can't eat, drink or pay rent with those goddamn crazy BEAUTIFUL words. words. WORDS.

i once scribbled post-it notes all over the walls, the wooden floorboards and on my body. i gave birth to THE word. i smoked and drank too much, stayed up till 3.am. weaving word after word into sentences, built bridges out of paragraphs and entire civilizations of close readings on theory, art, literature, film you name it. now, i still smoke and drink alone too much. i put myself to bed by midnight every night (god forbid i turn into a pumpkin) and wake up to ride the city with the angry commuter mob and sit down at my desk where i type meaningless meaningless words for nothing to sell nothing and discover nothing in return, go home and come back just to do it all over again."

you shake her hand and tell her it was a sincere pleasure. it's almost sad how certain you are that you'll be seeing her again in two weeks. and yet, you've already forgotten her face. you try to place the features, but fail. what did she look like? you can't seem to remember anymore.