Image: Bruce Guenter I’m afraid I’ve been stepping out on fiction. I’ve been out with Poetry twice, two lovely workshops. Non-fiction, also twice, sorry. Screenwriting broke my heart and dumped me to the curb (once). Now Playwriting. Halfway through my fourth term, when I need to propose a dissertation and stick by her through thick and thin, sickness and health, and pray she doesn’t laugh in my face. I’m surreptitiously measuring ring fingers. Poetry’s fingers are fast and oily and constantly moving. Non-fiction’s ring finger is stout and strong and loyal. Drama’s digits are gripping. Screenwriting is off the list. Fiction’s fingers are so familiar I feel they are my own. Last term, I took a screenwriting course with a professor with an impressive list of IMDB credits. A hell of a comic, full of life and inspiration, he would stand on the table at least once a week and yell ridiculous prompts. The classroom felt like a TV writer’s room for a real Netflix series. We pitched ideas and shot them down. There were …

We shall overcome by embracing our other, by radically empathizing with what we believe to be our opposite.

I take my class to a writing workshop with Jimmy Santiago Baca in The Student Union Ballroom. Last Friday, campus closed early due to a visit from a right-wing racist and provocateur who will say anything for money….

I find I do exactly the opposite of what I write.

Crisp, cold, light, first snow dandruff the mountains, autumn’s last leaves swirl and the swoosh swoosh swoosh of traipsing leaf piles brings back childhood. White swans migrate into the duck pond. Will they survive the coming winter? Do ducks ever feel cold? They dive deep and paddle. Where do the turtles go in this cold? Mystery. All leaves down by nightfall. Albuquerque’s beauty occasionally strikes a stunning uppercut. This month has been a bitch. Hitler elected. Leonard died. Fidel. Mose Allison. Capecoense—a whole futebol team gone in a blink. The Grim Reaper has been clearing house all year. Bowie. Prince. Muhammad Ali. For me, November in northern climes has always been the cruelest month. I can’t finish anything. I feel everything is worthless. Doubt is rife. Anxiety high. Binge-drinking like there’s no tomorrow, every time I log on to anything all I see is shit shit shit. I’m afraid and don’t know what to do. The bad men are winning, do they always? I’ve been in the US for 14 months on this MFA. Beliefs …

  Ryan my waiter is “happy having me.” I’ve just downed an 11 dollar burger with bacon and blue cheese. Food is fuel and fast and should be, why else eat? Redskins vs. Saints. Lions vs. Panther. Cubs vs. Indians. There are 300 TVs. Half blare Trump. Players are kneeling for the anthem, but their screen time has obviously been cut by owners and media outlets. The FBI have sided against Hillary. Drones vs. Yemeni hospitals. Who wins America? Sundays. I used to enjoy the flipping the pages of a newspaper. Today, “the Oregon Militia” have been claimed innocent, white guys with guns protecting an amendment. Meanwhile natives are being rounded up and beaten for trespassing on their own land. Their beef is water and the 13 million people below them that don’t mind or care that the extract economy is running oil pipes under their water source. They side with consuming more. Their temple is a mall and Chinese plastic is better than anything else. Trump Trump Trump will bring back coal mining, manufacturing, …

From the List-server into my inbox: Greetings all, We are nearing the midpoint already … 2nd Half begins 10/17, right after the end of Fall Break on the 13th and 14th! Approaching Autumn in Albuquerque and the end of a third semester in a six semester degree, tick tock goes the outer clock and wow much has changed. Basically, I’m out of workshop-landia, I can take more if I want, and there are dissertation hours and optional independent studies, but I’m focused on getting my literature (James Joyce and D.H. Lawrence) and professional development credits (Grant and Proposal Writing and Job Seeking) out of the way so the third year can be write write, and done so right. Do I know what my dissertation will be? Of course, he slaps his knee guffawingly, of course, I know, who doesn’t? I have a thousand ideas and can only marry one. Isn’t life just a simple process of narrowing choices? So what have I learned by coming back? I’ve taken over as Fiction Editor at The Blue Mesa Review …

INCOMING…. Every morning, I try to remember my dreams. Chicken-scratch them down. Henpecks on the grains of eternity. Ink bound in journals to carry. Everyday, I see people I want to be, but am not. Every night, I lay my head to count blessings. I’m reading and writing and teaching and more importantly, learning.  Stepping onto campus to face the second year is nothing like the first. This time last year, read it,  I was an anxious bundle of unfocused energy, still am, perhaps more so, but I now know what to expect and in some ways the pressure is more intense, one third done. Nudge. Nudge. It took one email to find another apartment. I know the names of all the streets and department members and buildings. Easier to get into the room on time, I know where to eat and when and what to order. My office desk and bookshelves welcomed my return, old mates, sisters-in-arms. I know the bike trails. Shucks, I’m second year, I know everything and can mentor the incoming …

“We cannot afford to be tired, or frustrated or cynical.”

First Year at University of New Mexico: A Round-Up, A Reflection…