Dream job.

Last night, I interviewed for my dream job. Not my figurative dream job, which would probably involve lounging on a sunny, secluded beach. Rather, this was my literal "dream job" -- meaning the one I was offered in the hours between sleeping and waking.

I couldn't tell you much about the job itself. As far as I'm aware, there was no job title, description or even a salary. (I wasn't worried about getting paid, which is how I know this was a dream.) However, I can tell you that I'm the newest employee at the Jazz School for the Blind & Deaf in Providence, RI.

The interview started off simply enough. I arrived promptly at 9 a.m. and was greeted by a concierge on the sidewalk outside a stately building. A nautilus-shaped sign proclaimed Jazz School for the Blind & Deaf, and the institution's motto was emblazoned underneath: Just Because. As I gave my name to the concierge, school directors and tenured faculty flowed out of the doors to greet me and mill anxiously about the streets until my interview began. (It ran from 12 to 1 p.m., and then again from 5 to 6 p.m.)

The time passed quickly, as I was almost instantaneously ushered into what appeared to be a pottery workshop adjacent to a kitchen stocked with barrels of various wines and spirits. Faculty surrounded me in an informal brain-picking: Do I live in Providence? (No. But I'd be willing to relocate.) Do I mind that they don't actually proctor any classes, opting instead to complete random artistic endeavors throughout the day? (No, that seems perfectly in keeping with my own work ethic.) And so on.

As the primary interview session concluded, the day rapidly progressed and the second began. I was informed that I was a lovely girl, but the faculty was concerned that I wouldn't be able to mentally/emotionally/physically handle inner-city Providence. As a result, I was forced to climb the side of a building while wearing a short, feathery skirt and then pay for a round at the local tavern. (I call it a "tavern" because it seemed to be located in an alternate, Medieval universe.)

Having completed those tasks set before me, I was deemed worthy of a new hire and was handed a large stack of papers. I thought these would be the perfunctory forms for background checks and tax purposes, but no. They were papers to be graded. The blind and deaf children weren't going to teach themselves jazz, and the faculty had some pots to glaze.



I should note, I took the precaution of Googling the phrase "Jazz School for the Blind & Deaf" and there is no such thing. ...Which is a pity because I imagine the music created by such a venture would be, at the very least, unlike anything else.

A product of insomnia. A beginning.

Whose bright idea was it to make personal blogging the next big thing?

Everyone can be a writer, is a writer, while I -- an actual, honest-to-goodness, paycheck-earning writer -- feel invalidated in my craft because I really hate writing about myself. And by "really hate," I mean "vehemently detest." (Note to self: Learn new adjectives. Or, at the very least, use the adjectives you already know. You're beginning to bang out words online like a cookie cutter on a sheet of dough.)

And so in early June, after graduating triumphantly and completing a thesis begrudgingly, I claimed this corner of the Internet for myself to declare unto the masses: Behold! I am a writer. Thou shalt embrace me, throw money at me, and name thy firstborn in my honor.

...But the time never seemed right and the thoughts never seemed appropriate to begin cluttering the interwebs with insightful verbosity. And as the weeks passed and I let writing prompts slink into the recesses of my scatterbrain, it was no longer just an anxiousness about setting words in digital stone that barred me from doing anything so decisive as hitting a few keys and pressing "publish." It was the passage of time itself, the slow settling of apathy and the resignation of "If I haven't begun already, what difference will it make to wait another day or week -- or perhaps to never begin at all?"

After all, it's difficult to convince myself that anyone else will care when I make a new inscription because, who am I kidding, I barely care myself.

But today, in this moment, at 4 a.m., when I should be sleeping but am instead listening to a loop of the Fab Four's harmonizing ooh-la-las and hey-na-nas, the time is write (right?). So here you go. This is my first offering. (And, let's be pessimistic, folks -- this could be my only offering for all you and I know.)

And so, before I trade my pounding head and bleary eyes for a spell of sleep, I make my opening bow on the well-worn and painfully self-indulgent stage that is personal blogging.

Hair: A haiku

Late morning, I wake,
my hair looped and messy like
second grade cursive.

Now, sleep.