Monthly Archives: July 2012

Tornado dreams and my first chapbook rejection.

I spent a little time in New York with my parents and sister, a pretty normal outing for us, and MAN I forgot how much food is in New York! Every single storefront was a restaurant. So many different kinds of food, so many choices. I’ve gotten used to living in a place where, if you want to have Thai food, there are only two choices and only one that I like, only one sushi place worth eating at, only one pizza place worth eating at, etc…you get the idea. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have choices. Imagine if there were THREE Thai restaurants! Crazy. Of course, we ended up eating at a diner. Whomp whomp.


Just, as an added thing, I don’t mean to imply that the recent shootings in Tuscaloosa and Aurora came from the same motives as terrorist bombings in Israel. All I mean is that the sudden influx of violence reminded me of that period in my life.

After all my homesickness, I am back in the Garden State. Missing cat and boyfriend and garden and friends, sad about the Tuscaloosa and Aurora shootings, glad to be sitting at the kitchen table where I grew up. Predictably, I arrived home to an empty house, but still. Home. A safe place in a country where everywhere else is starting to feel unsafe. I went to a Jewish day school during the Second Intifada, heard every day about who killed who, how many buses blew up in Jerusalem, how many people, how many children, blame in every direction, and these past couple of days feel almost like the same kind of flurry.

Tomorrow is my mother’s 60th birthday party. She didn’t put her name on either of the cakes, because she can’t eat them. Typical.

Damn. Yesterday, 2 rejections from journals I really like, and today, I wake up to this.

It’s Whale in the Woods, by Blueberry Morningsnow (I just mistyped that as ‘Morningstar.’ Guess I’m hungry). Really? Really? Whales, and woods. Only the 2 things I’ve been writing about for two years. And look who selected it. I’m feeling grumpy, and Emma sends me this:

Whatever. I bet, uh, she’s not writing about houses. Or oysters.