. . . as one breaks wind.
Oy. I got rejection letter today. Yes, that means that I'm alive as a writer. Yes, it's depressing. Yes, even after all these years, though not as depressing as it used to be (see first "yes" above, but still. . . we end up in a circle of joy and anguish, much like life itself).
But here's the thing: When I went to my handy submissions database, I found a craaazy, wacky detail about this submission, and it's this (and with none too few colons): I sent this journal (the name of which, Clackamas, I won't reveal) these poems. . . (and I'm not overly fond of ellipses, either) (or parenthetical comments that both delay the big moment--and perhaps diluting the big moment thereby--and clutter the flow of the thoughts coming out of my head, through my hands, down to the keyboard, and out over the nets of inter to you). . .
Fuck. I did lose my--no, wait: I sent those poems out one whole year ago. I gave up on said-same journal in the summer. A year. January of ought six, it says in my memory-saturated database. Ought six. And what I keep thinking is this:
I need to get a database that talks like it's in the 21st century.
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