A First Recommendation
Let us be frank. There are certain things in life and creation that are useless but somehow necessary, such as, say, the peacock's feathers (not the peahen's, which are an order of magnitude better in their utility)(swatting flies?)(blocking wind?). The peacock's feathers: as in
the bee's knees, the bear's claws, the rat's ass. Why are they there? Why would a bird, smaller than an ostrich, smaller than a turkey--almost smaller, in its body, than a large goose--spend so much of its energy growing a veritable copse of small trees up and out its tush, an irritably quaking grove of peacock feathers, not aspens, reaching up to either the sun or the pulsating, red heart, heliotropes as it were? Scientists say "sexual selection." The bigger a peacock's tail, the more robust its good genetic qualities. Thus evolution, in its wisdom, has ensured that those feathers aren't too great an impediment to frequent and vigorous copulation.
Which leads me to say that my MFA has made me the man. That's right. The M-A-N. I just spelled it out for you. Before, on Friday nights, I stayed home and ate ramen out of the pot I'd cooked it in. This is how I know that it's difficult to sip ramen broth out of a hot, metal pot. Now I have to beat swarming hornies away with a stick--the ladies, the men, a few dogs, unnumbered mosquitoes and flies. To beat flies from your person with a stick is sometimes inefficient and painful. But never you mind. The stick also manages to hit ugly humans who are hanging around, and always, always skillfully misses anyone both female and beautiful.
So if you are down on your luck, if your powers of expression are weak, if you know so much about science, having re-read your AP biology textbook every year since 1987, that your brain feels like it's about to explode, and yet you are unable to compose a simple, explanatory metaphor to let it all out, but most importantly, if you are unloved and alone, graduate school in writing might be for you.
Caw! Caw!
the bee's knees, the bear's claws, the rat's ass. Why are they there? Why would a bird, smaller than an ostrich, smaller than a turkey--almost smaller, in its body, than a large goose--spend so much of its energy growing a veritable copse of small trees up and out its tush, an irritably quaking grove of peacock feathers, not aspens, reaching up to either the sun or the pulsating, red heart, heliotropes as it were? Scientists say "sexual selection." The bigger a peacock's tail, the more robust its good genetic qualities. Thus evolution, in its wisdom, has ensured that those feathers aren't too great an impediment to frequent and vigorous copulation.
Which leads me to say that my MFA has made me the man. That's right. The M-A-N. I just spelled it out for you. Before, on Friday nights, I stayed home and ate ramen out of the pot I'd cooked it in. This is how I know that it's difficult to sip ramen broth out of a hot, metal pot. Now I have to beat swarming hornies away with a stick--the ladies, the men, a few dogs, unnumbered mosquitoes and flies. To beat flies from your person with a stick is sometimes inefficient and painful. But never you mind. The stick also manages to hit ugly humans who are hanging around, and always, always skillfully misses anyone both female and beautiful.
So if you are down on your luck, if your powers of expression are weak, if you know so much about science, having re-read your AP biology textbook every year since 1987, that your brain feels like it's about to explode, and yet you are unable to compose a simple, explanatory metaphor to let it all out, but most importantly, if you are unloved and alone, graduate school in writing might be for you.
Caw! Caw!
posted by Lance | 3:19 AM
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