The excitment/terror begins

I write a poem, partly about G while G sits finishing up his dinner. And I have been drinking wine, while G has not. I think the poem may have potential. But that is not the point. The point is that directly after dinner G takes out his computer and keeps working on his writing statement, while I just want to work on G. And I realize I can't so I work on a story, instead. And it turns out to be one of my best sit-down writing sessions in a while, which means I am accepting of G's late-night hard work, which forces me to seek something to do on my own.

G has spent so much time, so much, researching and prodding at the schools we are applying to. He knows the teachers by their bios. He knows the courses taught at each school. "This one's courses look boring," He'd say, or "this professor has quite the bio." He knows which schools also have a strong French program, which allow time abroad, which allow cross-studies. He knows where they have ample opportunities for grad studets to work on literary publications. And because of his studies, his examinations, he is able to tell each and every school what he may be interested in doing - studying the art of translation, or working on a lit mag, or teaching undergraduates- he can be personal with all these schools. And here I am, relying on a feeling. A feeling and a hope that the schools, in which I know I am iterested, will somehow understand my passion, despite my error. That how much I want it will somehow come through, even if I have not personalized my correspondances. Foolish, yes I am. I may live to regret my foolishess. But the thing I know is what I want most is to write. Perhaps that is why I am a little to careless with the details. I will love that which allowes me to write.


I am perhaps, idealistic. very, probably. And thank God G is researching these things, and sharing the fidings. We work so well together. If I am envious of his thirst for understanding, for seeing wholly and ratonally, for examining the corners, it is because that is not how I myself function.

I type next to him, working on a story. He is hard at work researching these schools.

"You research so much," I say. "I wish I researched more."

He says back, "You write so much. I wish I wrote more."

So many regrets, fears, worries, and clinging ons to hope that everything will be ok. So much time spent wondering if we should have spent more time on this, or done that better. But it's futile to think so hard on what (it boils down to) is our own personal style. Our personal way.

Then (because we must, because it feels, still right despite the questioning) we quietly recoil into our seperate work, intent to pusrue the work we are doing, intent to be sitting next to a person doing another sort of work.