Right now: "Follow the Light" by Travis

Last night I slept on two rolled-up towels. One placed underneath the lumbar region of my back, the other behind my neck. I imagined my body leveling itself out throughout the night and letting gravity and time realign the discs back in place.

I ran into old coworkers at the coffee shop today. My old supervisor said, "Oh you'll get it." The job, she means. But this is the same woman who I argued with about pay. I refused to do something before I was fairly compensated and she said, "Are you afraid to do the work? is that why?" Well Reverend Billy Graham doesn't keep grudges and neither will I where this woman is concerned.

Here are my goals today:
1. Learn about mutual funds until 3 or 4pm at which point I will
2. Be picked up by a friend and head to the mall where I will
3. Buy a belt that conveys modern style, youth and confidence.
4. Send a crafty email to the editor of Go World Travel Magazine, probing her willingness to accept more of my chapters.
5. Spend two hours playing Final Fantasy X
6. Now that I received Jeff Herman's book of agents, I can send out my proposal with desperate frequency.

Today is going to be a good day.

Now: "Speed of Sound" by Coldplay

This blogging thing is awkward. Do I or don't I want you to read it. Are you the wife I talk to after a hard day's work? Are you the perv jacking off outside of my window? Are you the priest on the other side of the confessional? I don't know where our relationship stands and I cannot write unless I know who I'm writing for.

Anyway, because I'm confused, I'll have to write about things that the perv, the wife and the priest can all hear.

1. I woke this morning surprised that I had actually fallen asleep.
2. I got a nice email from the editor of an online magazine.
3. I had lunch with an old friend who gave me helpful tips for next week's job interview.
4. I've decided that it's all falling nicely into place.

Bye.

Song in my head as I wake up: "Es Por Ti" by Juanes

What time I slept last night: Past 4:30

Why so late: Unsure. It felt like I was up because I HAD to be up. I watched the news, there was no disaster. I checked my email compulsively and there was nothing.

Things I did to get to sleep: Read The World According to Garp; watch Donnie Darko; do responsible consumer research on the Toyota Corolla (settling on the most basic model, CE; the S has overpriced cosmetic upgrades); close and open and close window; take off, put on, take off, put on t-shirt;

Today's goals: Say "Happy Father's Day" to father; buy the LA Times, read Los Angeles Times Magazine and Travel section for pitch ideas

This morning's song: "Sonnets/Unrealities XI" by Bjork

...and the accompanying memory: sneaking out of a friend's apartment in Paris, for a late-night smoke, drinking orange juice, watching drunks watching me watching them.

This morning's body ache: right side of neck, lower back

This morning's regimen: eat oatmeal, take a bit of water, do vigorous yoga/pushup session, shower even more vigorously;

This morning's goals: email thanks to Travelmag editor; send pitch to Salon;

This morning's attitude towards unemployment: unencumbered

This morning's soundtrack: "Look Up" by Stars

There are incarnations of James Dean in every high school, and in mine, it was this guy who openly smoked Marlboro Reds and wore long-sleeve flannel shirts and shit-kickers. He was a musician, a writer, a ladie's man, a guy's guy, the reluctant teacher's pet. He was accepted both in the upper echelons of academia and in the drugged-out shadows of auto-shop. And I thought, what it would be like him, to be so confident, to be so respected, to be able to get away with things.

I ended up working with him in the school newspaper. I was intimidated by him and mightily sought his approval. But I quickly realized something was wrong. He didn't move like me, or other kids, that is, with little self-possession, with only the beginnings of our adult strides. He moved in a series of well rehearsed poses that were never meant to be seen in the close quarters of a journalism class with a midnight deadline. He didn't speak, he announced. He didn't think, he mused. But he was a lousy person to work with. He was late. He flirted with deadlines the way he would try to manipulate 10th grade girls.

But first impressions count.

He showed up in my dream last night. We were on the streets of Jogjakarta in Indonesia. He asked me what I was up to.

"Nothing, really," I said.

"You know, when we were in high school, I thought you were going to make something of yourself."

And there I was, again, age 15, looking up to him, seeking his nod and pat on the back.

But maybe things do change. I smiled at him. I said, "Well, just wait a couple months. You'll see."

This is the funny thing about dreams. They reveal the things you believe way deep down, the stuff that sometimes can't rise through the more conscious layers of your self. This morning I checked my email and got good news.

I wake up at a reasonable hour, after all the early bird gets the worm. I check my email, and nobody has replied. I get back in bed and stare at the ceiling and repeat certain Buddhist mantras that stress perseverence and patience. "It's just a matter of time until you find a job." "Do your best and things will fall in place" is on permanent repeat inside my head. I notice the cobweb on the ceiling is expanding nicely.

Unemployment to me is, like most things in my life, about controlling bipolar reactions. It's about finding that middle path between "Oh, this job is perfect!"(when I find that gem among the hundreds of 'exciting opportunity for go-getters') and "I don't stand a chance" (when I finally email my resume and salary history).

My schizophrenic curiosity has rendered my resume a sticky paper for far-flung experiences. I can type 90 words per minute. I’ve interned at an advertising company called Wong Doody. I’ve taken special orders for sandwiches at a diner. And I’ve taught a roomful of Chinese immigrants the past perfect continuous tense. This buffet of skills confuses employers. They are wary of accepting someone who could very well join the circus next time it comes around. (I can juggle. I can whistle both by blowing out and in, with perfect pitch, and in four octaves. And people also tend to laugh at me easily.)

Even though I'd like to blame this on humans slowly becoming insects (specialization has killed the renaissance ideal) I simply know better.

Today, I will be applying for an advertising position in Newport Beach.