Who Is Zis Man?

I just had the strangest interaction. i got this email on my notre dame account from eduardo corral--hi eduardo, como estás?--that said, i've been reading your live journal entries and i totally feel what you're going through. at first i was like, who? who is this guy? turns out, he's a talented latino poet. . . i did some research, found a rad poem of his about frida kahlo on a web del sol chapbook. he has this one image of the curtains moving like honey in a jar, and i was like, yo, this guy's got it going on. he's a really good writer. so far, so good. but there is where it gets weird: yesterday, i got my rejection letter from colgate, and the painfully generic reject letter said: Our fellowship in creative writing for 2007-2008 has just been awarded to the poet. . . you guessed it. . . eduardo fucking corral. okay, they didn't swear, but i'm gonna. what are the odds? the person who randomly emails me is the same dude who ends up winning the colgate fellowship, and i get BOTH letters on the same fucking day. mathematically, let me just say, that's uncanny.

And then the hits just keep coming. i decide to do a little counter e-stalking if you will, and learn more about this Eduardo Corral: turns out, he has degrees from iowa and arizona state, he's been published in some decent journals, and he's a talented, emerging latino poet. then, once i find HIS blog, i find out, not only did he win the colgate fellowship, but he also recently received a goddamn YADDO RESIDENCY. basically, this guy is doing almost everything i wanted to do this year, except, maybe, write reviews about judy garland. amazing stuff.


I walked to the post office today to send my ninth letter submission to juan, the non fiction editor who's slowly becoming a friend of mine since we met at awp. i revised my lyrical essay and now i hope he likes it enough to take a bite.

As i was about to walk back, it started raining and i kinda loved it. i mean, i just stood there under the awning of the post office, waiting for the rain to stop, held captive by that perfect moment, forced, willingly, to stand there and just count the streaks in the sky. it was like waking up in the desert, forced to count the shades of blue until the sun eats away at the constellations: the mistake was more beautiful than the intention, that's what was so great about it.