Last Monday I received an unpleasant surprise, a one-page form letter from NYU film school, the type a grad school applicant doesn't want to see (school applicants know that size matters when it comes to such things). It was late in the evening, and I had nearly forgotten to pick up my mail that day. I eyed the letter, sitting on the top of my mail pile in my mailbox, but left it alone, as if it were booby trapped. No way to defuse this situation, though--I knew what the letter said. It slugged me in the gut.
For a few days, I moped.
I withdrew into a dark place and did not feel like writing, least of all here.
I had no appetite, subsisting on a diet of mostly liquids.
All that work, and nothing but a lousy form letter in reply. A call for feedback went unreturned. After a few days, I emerged from mourning into a bitter rage (throwing beach balls around my apartment).
Men don't handle success or loss as well as women. I'm not sure why that is. The weekend brought visitors and roused me from my trivial personal drama. Christina, on her way to China, stopped in for a few days, and then Jason. Christina was living according to an Asian bodyclock and shifted me into another time zone. Then I woke bright and early Sunday to accompany Jason on a whirlwind sightseeing tour of parts of NYC I hadn't visited before. Sunday night, after Jason left, I came home and fell asleep on my sofa almost immediately.
I awoke Monday morning (in the previous day's outfit) to the sounds of cabs honking their impatience. Easter is about resurrection, and after my deep sleep, I felt like I'd been reborn. Nothing has changed, really. I'm still chasing after the same thing, and someday we all end up six feet under. Everything in between is just a way to pass time.