everydayyeah's blog

Two people workshopped their stories yesterday.  It was a dual story project.  Some girl named Jessica read her story first.  Her story: “Dear Asia, what time are you going at the program?  Right…I wanna get fck’d up LMAO.  Yo, where’s my food at & he probably did forget & did he even call you?  UGH yo I’m about to dip, but yeah.”

Asia read her story next.  Her story: “Dear Jessica, Ur a cornball kid. Nope he didn’t call cause I gave him the wrong number and I wanna get high so badly kid he better be there and I…”

Most days are the same.  Every day has been like the other one that already happened.  There is little variety in the mfa program. Yesterday, I woke up at 4am.  I talked to a poet online who hadn’t gone to bed yet.  He said, ‘i saw a bug at rite aid.’  Then the poet went to sleep and I watched youtube videos until 7am.  Then I took a shower.  When I was done with the shower I watched a youtube video and then got ready to go to campus.  It was raining a little, but I said, ‘fuck you umbrella.’ The bus drove by as I walked down my street so I ran after it.  When I was done running I got on the bus.  On the bus I practiced my Spanish flash cards.  When I got to school I took a Spanish quiz.  After Spanish I went to the library and watched more youtube videos.  At 2pm I went to a fiction reading.  The lady reading said, ‘ass marbles,’ and ‘cunt’.  When she was finished reading someone in the audience asked her, ‘how do you think of words?’  After the reading I thought there would be wine and cheese, but there wasn’t.  I went and ate pizza with a poet named Peter Fez.  We were both curious if the Paris Review was from France.  After we ate pizza we walked home in the rain.  I only wrote one sentence yesterday.  It wasn’t even a real sentence.  I decided to change the title of my novel about 7-11/McDonalds.  It is now called: ‘Some people at McDonalds don’t believe in dinosaurs.’

Steps (1-10) on how to write a book:

1. Be human.

2. Feed yourself.

3. Breathe oxygen.

4. Sleep.

5. Talk to something that will record will record your words.

6. Do something else.

7. Continue talking to something that will record your words.

8. Call your mother on your birthday.

9. Eat something you shouldn’t like a donut or a small calf or an ostrich egg.

10.  Brush your teeth and send a postcard to your mother telling her you brushed your teeth.

I think mfa beards are an interesting phenomena.  I wish I could grow one.  I can't.  Oh well.  Two of the five poets in my year have beards.  One of the five fiction writers has beards.  Four of the ten mfa students in my year are female.

And who exactly is this bearded MFAer?  Well, it's Joshua Beckman.  I later learned Joshua Beckman doesn't have an MFA which is why this photo essay is being published here and not in The New Yorker.

Yesterday, I had fiction workshop.  The professor didn’t show up.  Everyone in the class seemed pissed.  The class meets once a week.  Yesterday was supposed to be our fourth meeting.  We haven’t ‘workshopped’ anyone’s story yet.  Next Monday is Columbus Day.  We do not have class.  I think a lot of people in our class are beginning to think, “MFAs are bullshit.”  I still feel pretty optimistic about MFAs even though my 7-11/Angus Burger novel feels shitty.  I like the idea of writing shitty novels.  I am trying to write eight novels at once.  I will feel satisfied if people say, “This is the worst construct a brain has ever created,” after they finish reading my novel.  It would feel like my novel was an accomplishment if I wrote the worst book of all time.  In some ways I’d rather not have anything I write be workshopped.  It would be funny to never workshop a single piece of my writing while in an MFA.  Improvement doesn’t seem that important.  My dad seems okay.  I feel like I’m on a direct path to consume my father’s life.  One of the poets will probably laugh and think, ‘Dad poem!’ if he reads the previous sentence.  Mostly, I think, ‘Everything doesn’t matter.’   I was walking down the street yesterday and said, “you remember that movie with bill murray?”  Anyway, I really like the Brown MFA.  I like having the time to write eight novels at the same time.  I could care less if they ever got workshopped.  I’m not concerned with the quality of the writing.  Quantity feels more important.  I want people to call me the buffet writer.  Today I woke up at 4am and started writing a new novel.  It is called, ‘small red goat’.  It is about a small red goat.

The eight novels I am working on:

1.  a novel that’s supposed to be about bears.  It’s about how no one should write a book about bears.  2.  a novel about a striped bass.  I began writing this on my cell phone when I was at the Providence Mall yesterday.  It is only 45 words long.
3.  Fuckface vs. Fuckface: This novel is about two people named ‘Fuckface’.  Not sure yet if they fall in love at the end.
4.  7-11 does not sell Angus Burgers: This novel is about 7-11 and McDonalds.
5.  Christmas part 25: An autobiography of Jimmy Buffet or a novel is about celebrating Christmas.  I like Christmas.
6.  Dear Mother, I’m Hitchhiking to California:  This is a ‘Mom Novel!’
7.  Small Red Goat:  This is stolen from a story a poet told me about a small red bean.
8.  I think I saw the USA at the mall:  This is a sequel to Ken Sparling’s Dad Says he saw you at the Mall.

I woke up today and walked to the bus stop.  A street light had been knocked down in front of the pawn shop.  Someone had run it over with their automobile.  I text messaged one of the poets and said, “Were you drunk driving last night?”  The poet replied, “LoL haha why?”  

Last night I was hungry because I hadn’t eaten dinner.  I walked to 7-11 and bought a package of cookies and a big gulp.  As I walked home and ate my cookies I thought, “When I make a blog post about this my mother will probably cry and think she failed.”  Sorry mom, I did not really eat at 7-11 for dinner.  You can stop crying.  Also, I would appreciate it if you stopped reading.

Anyway, the cookies tasted pretty good.  The big gulp was okay.  I thought, “I think I want to try being fat for three to six years.”  My parents have lost a lot of weight recently.  I feel it’s my responsibility to balance out the national obesity average.  I like fat America.  I want people from other countries to think Americans are huge.  Maybe I will try and gain a hundred pound so I can get my own reality television show.  I might get a job at 7-11.  Maybe I will open my own store called 7:22.  It will only be open at 7:22am and 7:22pm.  The store will sell pictures of me being fat.  My store will be a table outside of 7-11.  At every other time besides 7:22am and 7:22pm I will be inside 7-11 eating big gulps and drinking ice cream.  I have a feeling my mom is still reading.  I think she will be slightly proud of me because I will have my own business one day, but she is probably still crying.  She will keep crying and buy all the fat pictures of me and think, “I have failed.” 

I’m sorry mom.

Here is a excerpt from, 'i ate dinner at 7-11 last night' aka, ‘OMG I LIVE NEAR A 7-11 and NOW I’M FAT’:

“7-11 has hot dogs and I am afraid of them.  At some point I will eat one, but every time I buy a hot dog I have been unsuccessful when I attempted to eat it.  Mostly, I run out of the store after I pay and throw the hot dogs on the roof.  I think it costs $2 for two hotdogs.  I went to a friend’s birthday party once.  It was at a bowling alley.  There were hot dogs.  I ate three.  One kid dropped his hot dog and got another one and dropped that one too.  I looked at the ice cream and then at my shoes and thought, ‘I should put my shoes in the ice cream freezer and take out a choco taco and eat the choco taco as I walk home barefoot.”

Two nights ago, I went to a poetry reading.  I have gone to a poetry reading every night since I’ve moved to Providence.  Most of them are similar.  There is nothing else to do in Providence.  Most poetry readings include one poet who only reads ‘your mom’ poems.  ‘Your mom’ poems are funny the first time you hear one, but then they kind of get old.  The first time I heard a ‘your mom’ poem I laughed.  The poet said, “My bed sheets were dirty.  Your mom changed them.”  OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOhhhh. LOL.  Burn. 

If you like poetry readings you should move to Providence.  If you don’t have a car or your leg is stuck in a bear trap in Wyoming, you should write a poem called, “I don’t have a car or my leg is stuck in a bear trap in Wyoming,” and eventually someone in Providence will read it and they’ll come and get you.  Most likely they’ll send out a team of poets to read to the bear trap and the bear trap will relinquish its grasp and then you’ll be able to move to Providence.

After the reading I wanted to eat a hamburger.  One of the poets said, “I know a good hamburger place that sells hamburgers for $3.”  I said, “I am interested.”  Time passed.  A significant amount of time passed.  After all that time passed a poet came up to me and said, “The $3 hamburgers don’t exist anymore.  I am going around the corner to buy a grilled cheese.”  I went with them and bought candy coated almonds.

Then it was midnight and I thought, “I should go home and study Spanish.”  I had a big Spanish test the following morning.  I hadn’t studied yet.  I said, “I think I’m going to go home and study Spanish.”  Everyone looked at me like I was stupid.  One person began yelling.  They yelled, “Follow me.”  Everyone followed.  I followed.  When the yelling stopped we were at someone’s car.  Everyone got in the car.  There were not enough seats for everyone.  One of the poets pointed at me and said, “You, in the trunk.”  I got in the trunk.  Before the poet shut the trunk they said, “Write a poem about the trunk.”  It was dark in the trunk.  I could not see.  I tried to write a poem.  I thought, “I will write a poem to a bear trap that will make it relinquish its grasp.”  The poem was not very good.  We went over a bump.  I said, “Ow,” even though the bump did not hurt.  If I was a bear trapper I would put up signs near the trap that said, “Caution, there is a bear trap in the vicinity.”  I’m pretty sure bears can’t read.  When the car stopped I was let out of the trunk.  Everyone wanted to know what it was like in the trunk.  I made attempts at describing the situation.  Then Shel Silverstein did acid.  Then I went home.

Here is my bear trap poem:

“Your mom is a bear trap.  Then she changed my sheets. OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOhhh. LOL.  Burn.”

Junot Diaz emailed me back yesterday.  He said, “I’m in DC.  You saw the wrong me.”  I had originally emailed him after I thought I saw him and his girlfriend in the science library at Brown.  The two of them seemed to be looking for a place to have sex.  I was not expecting Junot Diaz to email me back.  I also was not expecting him to casually admit that more than one Junot Diaz exists.  In many ways it’s uplifting to know there are Junot Diaz sex clones running around.  Winning a National Book Award used to seem impossible.  Winning a National Book Award does not seem that impossible anymore.  I think I could win multiple National Book Awards if I had clones, even if they were sex clones.  I figure my sex clones could write stripper memoirs or some bullshit.  And everyone knows that eventually a stripper memoir is going to win the National Book Award.

Anyway, after getting the email from Junot Diaz I saw one of his sex clones outside of McDonalds making out with his wife or a hooker or something (See the above picture).

I went to a poetry reading last night.  I’m pretty sure none of the poets who read have genetic defects.  I sat in the front row.  The poets who read were twenty-nine to thirty-seven inches away from me.  Before the reading started I thought maybe I would touch the poets’ legs as they read.  I didn’t.  I guess I forgot.  It would have made the reading slightly more interesting if I had remembered to touch their legs while they were reading.  It would have been interesting to see which poets would have been uncomfortable and which would have gone with it.

None of the poets were famous.  I don’t think any of them were Shel Silverstein or that little animal from the Leprechaun movies that recited dirty limericks before it killed people.  I’m pretty sure more people would have showed up if either of those two people had read.

One of the poets said, “Masturbation,” and then a little while later said, “Biscuit steam.”  In between she made a face (see picture below).  Also, she said she failed math when she was in high school.  She wrote a poem about failing math.

After the reading I ate three pieces of cheese and two cookies.  I wish I had eaten more.  I’m not sure why I didn’t.  The bookstore’s owner’s wife was sitting by the cheese.  Maybe I felt self conscious. 

Later, I invited some of the poets in my program to my apartment.  We all went to 7-11.  Some of the poets bought Big Gulps.  Some of them didn’t.  I kind of wish all of them had bought a Big Gulp.  It would make the stereotype of poets much more interesting.

At my place all the poets stood in my bathroom and made fun of my sinks.  One of them referenced the post I would make about them being in my bathroom.  Another poet said something funny and I told them I was definitely going to mention it in this post, but I forgot what they said so I couldn’t mention it. 

Later, all the poets left my bathroom and I walked to 7-11 and bought a Big Gulp.

I potentially saw a famous writer outside of Tim Horton’s yesterday.  I think it might have been John Updike.  Maybe not.  He was playing a guitar.  He did not appreciate me taking his picture.  He looked at me and said, “I’m John Updike.  Pay me.”  I wanted to go up to him and ask what he was doing in Providence, but I didn’t.  He seemed pissed.  He had this look about him that said, “Fuck the man.  I’m John Updike.”  The fact that he was drinking a Dunkin Donuts ice coffee outside a Tim Horton’s confirms the fact that he was in full “John-Updike-Fuck-the-World” mode. 

An hour later I was in a library.  I was trying to write a novel about Angus Burgers.  A potentially famous writer got out of the elevator.  He was dragging a girl with him.  I thought, “Are you Junot Diaz?”  It seemed like Junot Diaz’s girlfriend was in town visiting him and Junot Diaz’s roommate wouldn’t leave them alone in the dorm room so they could have sex.  Eventually, Junot Diaz probably got fed up with his roommate and told his girlfriend, “Let’s go to the library and have sex.”  When they stepped off the elevator they clearly were disappointed I was there.  Junot Diaz walked by me and laughed when he saw I was writing a novel.  He thought, “MFA students are pathetic.”  His girlfriend said, “Junot, don’t you have an MFA?”  He said, “Please, Cornell begged me to take their shit.  I didn’t even step foot on campus.  Pretty sure it’s not a real place.  They sent me some diploma in the mail.”  After Junot and his girlfriend got back on the elevator I emailed him and asked if he would write a blurb for my book.

Dear Junot Diaz, How’s it going?  I think I saw you yesterday at the science library.  You and your girlfriend came up to the twelfth floor where I was studying.  I’m pretty sure you guys were looking for a place to ‘phuck’.  Did you find a spot?  Anyway, I know you kind of guffawed when you saw I was writing a novel called ‘Angus Burgers,’ but I was hoping you’d be willing to write a blurb for the novel when it’s finished.    Do you have any suggestions on how I should start this novel?  I heard you once wrote a novel about fast food.  Maybe you didn't.  I was just throwing that out there hoping maybe you had.  Last night, I went to McDonalds and they sold me an ice cream.  I didn’t dare try the Angus Burger.  It was late.  Maybe they will give me an Angus Burger if I tell them you are blurbing my novel.  I would like to sit down with you at some point and discuss this project.  Maybe once McDonalds sends me an Angus Burger pass we can eat one together and you can give me some guidance.  Anyway, best of luck working out your roommate situation.  It can be tough sharing a room when you have a girlfriend, but at the very least you’ll probably end up having sex in a lot of interesting places.”

I haven’t heard back from him yet.

In class yesterday everyone talked about the art of the poem.  I don’t know anything about poems.  I didn’t know what to say.  One time I raised my hand, but put it down when I realized what I had to say wasn’t relevant to the discussion.  By the end of class I feel I had a better understanding of the art of poetics.  I learned there are five steps to writing a poem.  If you follow these steps you will know how to write a poem.

Step 1:  There are a lot of ways to approach a poem.

Step 2:  Sometimes there are words in a poem like, “Green” and “Trees.”

Step 3:  There is a place in the poem where existence will be real or the poem will sometimes talk about real places.

Step 4:  A poem will sometimes be read by people who don’t know the poet.

Step 5:  During intermission if you have to go the bathroom use the sink on the right.  The sink on the left doesn’t have a lot of water pressure.  The sink on the left will not get all the soap off your hands.

Two people read their poems in class.  One was named Rachel.  The other person was named Aaron.  I’ve changed their names for the sake of confidentiality.  Their poems were much more real than any poem I’ve ever written.  I think they followed the steps of how to write a poem very closely.  I would like to share their poems with you.  I think I can remember them.

Aaron’s poem was something like:

“The ocean is full of octopuses.  96 tentacles.  Jellyfish eating my dead uncle’s face in the coffin laughing because everyone dies but the jelly fish. The tentacles eat garbage and wear boot-shaped fur Ugz boots.  There is graffiti.  It says, ‘I am the best pussy dick has ever fucked.’  S&M on your face.  S&M on your face.  S&M in your ass and then on your face.  LOL.  Something. Dot. Slash. :::*::: LOL#@! ##@ @!**&%#@!)+_+__###@%*^*((@#(@#@#&@(&@(&(&)__*$@)(*)(@#@&^!&*^@*(^$&@*)()&”

As you can see Aaron was really into Steps 3 and 5.  He lightly touched on the others.  The great thing about poetry is that you can play around with the steps and use them as much or as little as you want.

Rachel’s poem was something like:

“Eat walls.  These walls are hanging out with Jellyfish laughing at everyone’s dead relatives.  Eat walls.  Round walls. Walls are fat.  Walls need to go on a diet and become advertisements for Jenny Craig.  No, Jenny Craig is menopause.  Insert a reference.  Relevance.  Let’s move into a wall.  I want to move into a wall.  You don’t seem interested.  I will make you live in a wall.  Obese walls.  We’ll put you in our stove, let you gamble, extend a line of credit, feed you confidence, take your money, shuffle you to prison, stuff S&M in your ass, feed your ass S&M for dinner, laugh, tell you about the good times, eat your own walls, devour wall’s obesity as your obesity.”

You could argue Rachel skipped step four, but I think because she hit the others so hard you can let step four slide.

I've decided not to take any literature courses.  I don't think anyone cares.  I don’t think there are any requirements for this MFA program.  I am in Basic Spanish.  Nothing really matters.  All the students are 12.  They don’t even know what an MFA is.  At the beginning of the semester there were forty people trying to get in the class. The professor said, "It makes no sense for you to take Spanish.  There is no way you will ever pass. You are too old.”  I told the professor, “Mi casa es tu casa.”  The professor said, “All the other students will be scared because you are fifteen years older than them.  One student asked the professor, ‘Do those grad students have to be in our class?  It feels like my dad is taking Spanish.’  I felt bad for this student.  I don’t think I would want to take Spanish with my dad.

One of the poets is taking Spanish with me.  We work together when we have to work in groups.  He said, “I hope I can fully consume this Spanish book.  Then I will take the knowledge down to Columbia.”  Last night, I chatted with this poet on the internet.  He said, “The professor called me today.  She said many dirty Spanish words I didn’t know and then hung up.”  I said, “Maybe she sees you as a mature and responsible option for her three kids.”  He said, “I think she was drunk.”  I said, “Maybe you and her can move to Columbia.  You could leave her kids in a ditch.”  The poet didn’t like this idea.  He said, “The professor would not be enjoyable in Columbia.”

We had our first test a few days ago.  It feels weird to take tests.  I was a little concerned.  Spanish is pretty insane.  Some of the other students may have shit themselves.  I think I was still shitting myself when I was twelve.  I think in my last little league game ever there was an incident.  I was twelve.  Someone’s father threw a beer can at me.  I might have got hit in the head.  I passed out.  I woke up a hospital bed.  When I went back to school all the kids laughed at me and held their noses.

One of the students in my Spanish class said, "I went to your website and read your stuff.  I didn’t understand it.  You said, ‘You’re purposely trying to fail Spanish.’”   I did not know what to say to them.  I kind of thought, "What the fuck are you doing on my website?"  I wanted to tell them to stop coming to my site.  I kind of wanted to take a picture of their face and put it on my site under the caption, “Get off my website.  You’re too young.”

The professor emailed me my grade for the first test.  I got a 16.5 out of 20.  I got 82.5% of the test correct.  I am a little disappointed I didn’t fail.  It would be funnier if I failed.

I met someone named Minky yesterday. She is fucked up.  The library called me and said, “Minky is here.”  I said I didn’t know anyone named Minky.  The library said, “Minky told us to tell you that that she’s waiting to be fucked by a bovine machine.”  I told the library I did not know what a bovine machine was.  They said, “We heard you own a bovine machine and that you ordered Minky using our internets.”  I said, “If I ordered someone on the internet I would make sure she had a better name than Minky.”  The library said, “If you don’t come and pick up Minky she said she will, ‘eye fuck you with the deer head that crawls out her cunt.’

I went and picked up Minky at the library.  I cried the whole way home.  Minky was an awful presence.  She forced me to read her tattoos and watch her violate herself.  I called a poet in the MFA program to find out what I should do.  They said, “There’s not much you can do.  She is what she is.”

I continued reading.  Every day I would come home and find Minky with a new fetish.  Yesterday I came home and she was fingering a whale.

I called some more poets, “Am I missing something?  What is the point of Minky?”  They all said, “Keep reading.  It’s visceral.  Everything about Minky is right on the page.  You’re not missing anything.”

I’ve continued reading.  I’ve stuck Minky in the corner.  She seems less shocking.  Yesterday she said something about a goat.  I thought it was pretty interesting.

One of the MFA professors had a talk with me.  He said, “I’m concerned.  The transcripts tell me you are struggling with prepositions.”  I told him I didn’t know what a preposition was.  He said, “Writing good prepositions is like owning a sink.”  I said there are times when I knowingly dump things down the sink I’m not supposed to.  He said, “You clearly are falling behind your classmates.  Do you even have a plan yet?”  I said something about novels and attending lectures on the idea of national healthcare.  The professor said, “I feel you could incorporate sinks into this plan.”  I told the professor I had the urge to touch his face.  He ignored me and continued to talk about sinks.

When I got home I turned my sink on and off for an hour and then tried to write a novel about the experience.  It went okay.  I wrote 3,000 words where a character turned his sink on and off.  I might bring the piece to the next workshop.  Here is an excerpt:

“The sink seemed to have two options.  He spent an hour trying to find a third.  The sink didn’t agree.  It said, ‘wee wee wee wee wee wee.’  Sometimes it said, ‘oot oot oot oot ott.’”

Should I try and finish this ‘novel’?  I lied.  I haven’t really written 3,000.  I’ve only written 37 words.  The above excerpt is all there is.  I am excited about this novel.

On Sunday I woke up and fucked around on the internet for an hour or two.  Then I walked to 7-11.  I bought three 7-11 donuts and a Big Gulp.  I ate them all before I got back to my apartment.  Shit felt backwards.  I sat on my bed for extended periods of time.  The television was on.  I watched Tommy Boy and laughed.  At some point I began screaming at my hands.  I told them to write a sentence.  They got scared, wrote a sentence, felt scared again, and deleted the sentence. This repeated itself two or three-hundred times.  I thought about calling one of the professors in my program and asking them if they’d be willing to share some of their brain fluid with me, but figured they have their own issues.  I’m thinking about going to 7-11 and getting a job.  Even if I don’t get hired I might try and hang out in 7-11 hours a day.  Next year when I am teaching intro to creative writing all my classes are going to meet at 7-11.

A week ago I ran into an Old Navy store and began pulling jeans off the shelf.  Some of the employees started screaming.  They were mad because they were closing in five minutes.  I screamed too.  Then I apologized and left.  They tried to stop me.  I hid in a coat rack.  They didn’t know where I was.  When they weren’t looking I ran out of the store.  Later, when I got to class a professor said, “I heard about the jeans.”  I said, “Sorry.”  The professor said, “You fucked up.”  I said, “Yeah, I fucked up.”  Class started a few minutes later.  I said, “I think I’m going to write a novel about working in jeans store.”   People weren’t impressed.

MFA programs are weird.  Some days you don’t have class. I think I had class on Thursday.  I was there.  Three people brought in stories about aliens.  I read them all and then said, "I like aliens."  No one in the class said anything.  I asked, "What did you think of the aliens?"  No one said anything.  A few seconds passed and finally someone said, "None of the stories were about aliens."  The rest of the discussion went about the same.  When class was over I decided I needed to make a conscious effort to pay more attention when I read.  Just because every person in my program was alien in a dream I had last week doesn't necessarily mean their story is going to be about aliens.

Later that night Brian Evenson had a book reading.  When I showed up Brian Evenson was in the middle of the bookstore eating bits of the atmosphere with his pleasant smile.  There wasn’t anyone in the bookstore.  I asked if I was early.  It was a few minutes before seven.  He said, “The book talk started at six.”  I thought, “Shit, now’s probably not a good time to ask him for $15,000.”

I went to a book talk.  Brian Evenson was there.  I said hello.  We chatted for a little bit.  He introduced me to his girl. He was like, “This is my girl Joanna Howard.”  I thought about asking him for $15,000 so I could invest in Walgreens, but it didn’t feel appropriate.  Another poet from the MFA program was there.  He said, “Hey, I have the same cell phone as one of the authors reading.”  There were chairs.  I sat in one.  Someone behind me was telling a joke.  I only caught the punch line.  They said, “Mathew Derby fucked a turtle.  Everyone laughed.

Three authors read.  Blake Butler read first.  I couldn’t really follow his story.  One of the words in his story was ‘areola.’  I don’t like that word.  Three months ago someone said, ‘areola’ and I said, “What’s that?” and they started laughing.  I don’t like the word ‘areola’ because it laughs at me.  Robert Lopez read next.  He literally stood at the podium and masturbated to his own book (see above picture).  After ten minutes he said, "I could do this all day," and then sat down.  I forgot who the last reader was.  Whoever it was read a story about Providence.  He kept saying, ‘RISD’ and ‘Brown’ and then smirking.

On the bus a man clipped his fingernails.  I watched him for a while. 

I found out some valuable MFA knowledge today.  It’s very simple.  I should take all my MFA stipend money and buy Walgreens stock.  Walgreens is better than CVS.  At around one o’clock I took the bus to Walgreens and bought a ten-dollar-four-cup coffee.  I was very pleased with this purchase.  I drank a cup of coffee.  It is now one in the morning.  I am still awake.  Walgreens feels so good to me right now.  I am being completely serious when I say CVS is a piece of shit compared to Walgreens.  If every MFA student in the world bought Walgreens stock I would be rich.  Walgreens would make me president.  Logic says I will never be president of Walgreens, but logic also says, “CVS has down syndrome.”  Instead of pointing out all of CVS’s examples of mental retardation I offer three concrete facts why Walgreens is number one.

1.  The shelves at Walgreens are taller which means there are more products and more variety at Walgreens.  I went to three different CVS stores to get a pitcher to make iced tea and they didn’t have anything but red plastic Solo cups.

2.  I bought tape and envelopes at Walgreens today.  I’m pretty sure I’ve never bought tape and envelopes at CVS.  Two days ago I thought about buying some tape at CVS and looked at the options, but the price tag said, “Six dollars.”  At Walgreens I found two-dollar tape.  You can support a family with two dollar bills at Walgreens.  CVS will make you poor and fat.  Whenever I go into CVS there is nothing to eat but candy bars.  I bought eggs at Walgreens. 

3.  Walgreens has Skippy’s Natural Peanut Butter which I was going to buy, but I didn’t because I set it on the shelf when I took down one of the coffee makers and forgot to pick it back up.  Walgreens destroys CVS when it comes to peanut butter.  CVS has maybe half an option for peanut butter.  I think all I saw at CVS was the jar that is both jelly and peanut butter.  Who wants to eat that?  Walgreens has six options including Skippy’s Natural Peanut Butter.  I think every MFA student in America should eat Skippy’s Natural Peanut Butter from Walgreens if they’re going to eat any peanut butter at all.

Also, after arriving home I remembered another valuable fact about Walgreens, my father used to own stock in the company.  I’m not sure if he still does.  I would call him, but it’s late.  Instead, I’ll write him a letter.

Dear Dad,

I believe you once owned Walgreens stock.  Do you still own it?  If you do, give it to me.  You will probably die before me.  I also appreciate Walgreens more than you.  I bet you’ve shopped at CVS in the last twenty minutes.  Why are you up in the middle of the night shopping at CVS?  Get to sleep.  My convenience store experiences over the last seven years have been less than spectacular.  I probably haven’t been to Walgreens in seven years.  I’m pretty sure you sold all the Walgreens stock.  That’s kind of fucked up, but I can’t really judge.  You’ve been a good dad in every other area.  Raising kids is probably tough.  If I had a kid he’d be dead already from some kind of bird disease.  I just remembered I don’t own any stock in Walgreens.  I want to punch some walls.  I really wish I had ten-thousand shares of Walgreens stock sitting in an e-trade account right now.  Is there a paypal option where people can give you shares of Walgreens stock?  I would like this.  Walgreens should start its own paypal service.  I might start making weekly Walgreens blog posts.  Maybe I’ll buy ten-thousand shares and then start the blog posts.  Maybe Walgreens will give me a share of stock for every blog post I make.  Dad, if you know any hipsters tell them to tell their friends to shop at Walgreens.  And no, my cousin Joann is not a hipster.  Anyway, my hope is that Brown will give me all my stipend money tomorrow so I can put the money into Walgreens stock.  I think I’m going to go talk Brian Evenson and ask him if there’s any way I can get $15,000.  What do you think?

Love,

Mark

On the bus ride home from Walgreens a pregnant girl sat down across from me.  She sat down next to a guy on the phone.  The guy on the phone looked twice at her and then said, 'Yo April, it's been a second.  Look at you.  All large and shit.'

 Last night, I was worried my brain was going to rot.  On the way to a lecture, I accidentally stepped on a bird.  I was wearing sandals.  I felt a little tickle.  The concrete was not made of feathers.  I wasn’t the first to step on the bird.  I shrugged and thought, “My writing will probably improve if they have to amputate my leg.”  I’m pretty sure John Fante had diabetes and after they cut off his leg he replaced it with a fictional one.

The lecture was by a man named Noah who spoke about computers writing novels.  After the lecture there was cheese for sale.  No one paid for it.  I grabbed handfuls and didn’t even bother peeling off the wax skin.  Someone next to me said, “In a few years universities will chain small robots to word processors and wait until the robot accidentally writes a novel.”  I ate more cheese.  The man continued to talk.  I asked the man for a ride home.  He shrugged and said, “Universities are looking forward to the day when MFA students are computers.”

When I got home I found a dead bird on my steps.  There are three stray cats that live outside my apartment.  I named them all Kevin.  One of the Kevins is orange and doesn't really like me.  I think spotted Kevin left me the bird.  It’s always saying “hello” and, “pet me,” and, “shit doesn’t get anymore real than this.”

The fiction workshop met for the first time a few days ago.  I was a little disappointed.  In my head I had expected a round classroom with a round table.  The classroom was not round and maybe three inches smaller than I expected.  The table was a rectangle.  Part of me thought, “This rectangle table is a piece of shit.”  It felt like some of the second year fiction writers were pointing at me and thinking, “Look at that fuckface, he really thought the classrooms were round.”

John Edgar Wideman seems like the motherfucker.  He is the instructor of the fiction workshop.  When I first saw him I got a boner.  Not that I’m attracted to balding, older men, but he’s got a general presence that says, “Man up, get hard, fuck something.”  Actually, his presence suggested none of these things.  Mostly John Edgar Wideman’s presence suggested all the fiction writers do what you have to do to do what you want to do.  I don’t think anyone thought, “Man up, get hard, fuck something,” when John Edgar Wideman’s presence said, “This is a workshop, you do some things, hopefully they help you and make you better, but sometimes you don’t get better.  Writing is hard.  Even if you write a book maybe it will get reviewed four times if you’re lucky.  Maybe it’s different on the internet.  I don’t know.”

There are a number of reasons why John Edgar Wideman is the motherfucker and a looming presence, but the reason most people remember is that he doesn’t use the internet.  He said, “Someone taught me to use google once.  Then my computer was stolen and I didn’t bother after that.”  He has his wife print out his emails and read them to him.  He says, “She doesn’t mind because I make money and it’s just how it’s arranged.”  John Edgar Wideman’s presence is just being John Edgar Wideman’s presence. 

In my head I did not expect the instructor of the workshop to be the motherfucker.  I expected an instructor who would not be that far removed from a very depressed and drugged Andrew McCarthy.  John Edgar Wideman is probably the antithesis of a depressed and drugged Andrew McCarthy.  I’m pretty sure Andrew McCarthy has a myspace account.  Andrew McCarthy probably wishes he didn’t know how to use google.  Andrew McCarthy should probably make a movie where he and Molly Ringwald are married and she prints out his emails and reads them to him and the movie can be called A John Edgar Wideman Presence.  Early stages of development currently underway, see trailer below for more details:

*

Last night Amish and I watched the video music awards on MTV.  Amish is a poet in the mfa program.  He kept calling the lady in the neck brace, “Radio Gaga.” 

Amish is from Iowa.  He’s the first person I met in the MFA program.  We met on the internet.  We emailed each other and said things like, “I’m not sure Providence is a real place.”  For a while I wasn’t sure if Amish was a real person.  It turns out he is.  It turns out he’s a nice guy.  He recently increased my internet presence.  He also gave me a ride home after the party at Brian Evenson’s house.  Still, despite Amish’s nice qualities I kind of wish neither of us existed.  I like the idea of us being two computers.   I’m pretty sure computers don’t have legs.  One day MFA programs will be nothing but five computers stacked on top of each other in a closet.

I would not be surprised if MTV is nothing more than a warehouse of computers in ten years.  Hopefully, one of these computers will have weird symbols shaved in its monitor and date a bald computer and then steal the microphone from a little girl.  A computer like this would make laser sounds if it could walk.  A lot of other computers would probably boo this computer when it talked.  The P Diddy computer would probably look pissed and think, “I never have fun anymore.  Someone please manually reboot me.” 

Brian Evenson invited everyone in the MFA program to his house.  He is the head of the Literary Arts Department.  He’s written some books.  When I was walking to his house I thought it would be funny if when I met him I said, “Are you Percival Everett?”  Percival Everett is a black man.  I’m pretty sure Brian Evenson isn’t a black man.  I could be wrong. 

A week ago I bought one of Brian Evenson’s books.  The day I bought it I was walking back from the book store and fell in a manhole.  It was a small manhole.  Only half my leg fell in the small manhole.  When I got to Brian Evenson’s house I didn’t tell him I fell in a manhole the day I bought his book.  I didn’t want to ruin the party. 

Brian Evenson seems to have happy eyes.  I think he was putting hummus on his plate when I arrived.  I interrupted him.  I didn’t realize I was interrupting him until after I interrupted him.  I said, “Thanks for inviting me.  I was going to make a cake, but I didn’t.  I probably should have.  I thought I was going to write a novel this morning so I didn’t make a cake, but then I didn’t end up writing anything.  Instead I made thirty posts on twitter about things I was going to do once I got to your house.  Someone retweeted one of my posts where I said, ‘I’m going to Brian Evenson’s house, probably going to run upstairs and ruin some of his business suits.’  So anyway, thanks for inviting me.  Sorry about the cake.”  Brian Evenson told me not to worry about it and finished putting hummus on his plate.

Brian Evenson’s house is pretty nice.  I wonder who has a nicer house, him or Percival Everett.

I put some chicken and hummus on a plate.  Someone else was putting stuffed mushrooms on their plate.  I asked them, “Are you the novelist who can recite their third novel from memory?”  They shook their head.

The woman pouring wine and handing out drinks asked what kind of sparkling water I wanted.  I asked her, “Is it true that Brian Evenson wears a suit whenever he writes a novel and when he’s finished he throws the suit out?”  She said she didn’t know who Brian Evenson was.  I asked her if her sister was on the bus earlier reading Twilight.  She said she didn’t have a sister.

 I was talking to someone and then I ran out of things to say.  I said, “Excuse me,” and went and got more food.

One of the people in the MFA program looks like my aunt Sue.  She doesn't really have the same facial features or the same body, but they kind of have the same haircut.  A lot of times I forget this person's name.  It would be convenient to call her ‘Aunt Sue’.  I'm not sure why I'm having difficulty remembering her name, but the learning curve feels steep.

In one class we are learning how to teach ourselves various procedures of teaching others how to write a novel.  Supposedly once you teach yourself how to teach others the procedures of writing a novel the actual writing of a novel becomes very simple.  One of the poets made a good point.  They said, "I wrote a novel in second grade."  One of the fiction writers said, “I wrote my first novel around the same time.”  Another person said, “My dad wrote a novel on my bed sheets and then I wrote one on his business suit.”  I nodded and pretended I ruined all my dad’s best clothes too.   

Someone knocked on the door.  They said, “Is this ‘Cultural Manifestations of Endangered Species’?”  Everyone shook their head.  He apologized and shut the door.

After class a bunch of people in the program were at an intersection and no one wanted to cross the street.  One of them started smoking a cigarette and another asked for a cigarette.  I pretended my arms didn't work and were going to fall off.  I said, "Please put a cigarette in my mouth so I can eat it and my arms will grow back."  No one gave up their cigarettes.  Mostly they figured it would be better if I didn’t have arms so I wouldn’t be able to write a novel and there would be less competition for the one-hundred thousand dollar publishing contract we’re all after.  Also, they figured I was probably joking.  A little while later my arms began working again.

Everyone in the MFA program sat in a circle and closed their eyes and someone said, “This is how I wrote my first novel.”  Someone else said, “I think I’m going to recite my third novel from memory.  I hope no one minds.”  No one objected.  We all closed our eyes and began writing novels while someone recited their third novel from memory.  No one opened their eyes until they were finished.  I cheated quite a bit.  I opened my eyes and copied what the person to my left was writing.  Some of the poets wrote three collections of poems.  I felt a little jealous and couldn’t help but think, “This is bullshit.”  The professor watched and marked down demerits for anyone with their eyes open.  He said, "At least one-hundred and fifty pages.  None of that novella bullshit."

After class one of the poets said, "There is a place where they’ll give you a bowl of rice and some dirt and they put chicken in the bowl.  I think it’s cheap.  Maybe five dollars maybe fifteen.  Not sure.  I am very interested in this opportunity, but it will be lonely to go alone."  I went with him and asked the man at the register for a chicken bowl.  The man at the register took out a calculator and pushed some buttons and then said, "No more chicken."  I asked for the bowl of baby calves.

Picture taken at the bus stop

In first grade someone brought a basketball to school.  There was a basketball court on the playground.  No one really understood the rules of basketball.  One kid kept trying to kick the basketball.  A few kids didn't even bother dribbling.  They'd get the ball and run down the court and throw it at the hoop.  Soon no one was dribbling.  Looking back this lack of structure is frustrating.  Our development as fundamentally sound basketball players was corrupted by these first grade recess pickup games.  To be honest, the teachers on duty should have stepped in.  No one even bothered to keep score.  I’m not sure anyone made a basket except for Corey.  Corey was a fourth grader who sometimes would show up on the playground when the first graders had recess.  All the first graders thought Corey was cool.  They’d say, “Corey you’re so cool.”  Corey took the basketball and began making shots.  He even knew how to dribble.  After recess we all went back to our classrooms pretended we were Corey.  I asked to get a drink of water.  On the way to the water fountain I dribbled an imaginary basketball like Corey.  When I got back to the classroom a few fights had broken out.  One kid said, “No, I’m Corey,” and bit another kid.

Yesterday there was a big meeting with all the first year MFA writers.  A man named Gale emailed everyone beforehand and said, “My name is Peter, but you can call me Gale.”  I was nervous to meet everyone in the program.  There were a lot of rumors floating around.  Someone told me one of the other fiction writers spent the summer sitting in a dirt parking lot gently pressing his face on the keys of a typewriter.  My understanding going into the meeting was we were all supposed to have prepared a novel manuscript for the group.  I think my dad said, “Gale probably wants everyone to bring in copies of their novel manuscripts and hand them out.”  The one writer who spent the summer in the dirt parking lot was supposedly excused from bringing in any of his novels.  I’ve heard rumors he wrote four or five, but threw them all in a lake at the end of summer.  Brown is in the process of dredging this lake.  The school has very high hopes for this writer.  They gave him an extra fellowship because he walked to Providence from the dirt parking lot after he kicked four novel manuscripts into the lake.  Going into the meeting I was a little worried I would lose my funding because I don’t have a novel yet.  One of the poets said, “I’ve probably written four-thousand poem collections.”  Another poet said, “I was a nuclear physicist.  I’ve never written a poem.”  I brought in copies of a menu from the Vietnamese sandwich shop down the street from my apartment.  I thought maybe people would laugh when I handed this out as my novel.  This whole MFA thing has been pretty embarrassing.  The other people in the program are always asking me how many novels I have.  They say, “I wrote two new novels last night.”  The meeting turned out to be okay.  No one brought in copies of their manuscripts.  Everyone just sat in a circle and looked at each other until Gale said, “Hello motherfuckers.  I’m Peter.”  I think that kind of broke the ice and everyone got emotional and we all shared why we wanted to be writers.  Most of us said, “I’ve wanted to be a writer since second grade when I learned about Martin Luther King.”  A few people had notes prepared.  I did not have anything prepared.  I just stood up and said, "I want to be a writer because my dad wears jeans," and then sat down.  Everyone laughed.  Then Gale said, “Group hug?”  Later, one of the poets said, “Damn, I want to play basketball with Gale.”

(The above picture is popcorn on the ground.  Gale had brought popcorn for the meeting, but dropped the bowl outside.  There was no popcorn at the meeting.)

Someone in the mfa program friended me on facebook.  Does anyone remember the part in Funny People where someone says, “Fuck Facebook in the face.”  I usually say this to myself when I log into facebook.  I feel pretty good about being friended by this person.  He has a blog.  On his blog he has a link to an episode of The View where Lil Wayne performs.  I clicked on the link, but only watched the first five minutes.  In the opening segment Whoopi Goldberg said, “People with many friends will live longer.”  This felt like a profound moment in my life.  Similar to the time in second grade when the teacher asked me to read and I laughed.  Later, I had to go to a special room to practice reading.  I’m not sure how this special room was arranged.  I think my mom arranged it, maybe.  One time I had to go to this special room when my class was watching E.T.  I was very disappointed.  There was a lady in the special room named ‘Davis’.  She was crazy.  She said she hung real lighted candles on her Christmas tree.  Maybe she was depressed.  She was nice.  I ended up learning to read.  I was not very smart in second grade.  I couldn’t add either.  I did not go to a special room to learn to add.

a note about the picture: this was taken outside a KFC down the street from where I live.  when i took the picture i thought the man was sleeping outside the kfc.  i've since looked at the picture in detail and i'm no longer sure if the man is sleeping or if he's fallen down and needs help getting up.  i'm somewhat of a bad person.

Yesterday was Sunday.  I’ve been in the MFA program for three days.  I’ve yet to write a novel.  I am a little disappointed with myself.  I thought I would have finished one by now.  I’m guessing I am behind the other students.  In my head I imagine they’re polishing off their first one-hundred and fifty pages.  Some of them might already be sending out drafts to agents.  I’m thinking of going to McDonalds later and writing a novel there.  To be honest I thought once the program started novels would kind of just start writing themselves.  This does not seem to be the case.  Anyone thinking about applying to an MFA program should take this into account.   

Instead of writing a novel yesterday I spent most of the afternoon watching an old Bruins game on television.  I wasn’t that interested in the game, but the clicker wouldn’t change channels and I didn’t want to get up to change the channels manually.  I feel asleep.  When I woke up the Bruins had won 6-2.  Someone threw their shoe at the opponent’s goalie.  Maybe when I finish my novel I will throw my shoe at someone.