I have started a rejection collection.
Here’s how it works: I pour my heart in a manila envelope, or attach it to a pixelated plea for publication, and send it off, overstamped, unsolicited. In two to ten weeks, in exchange, I get one more reason for celebration: rejection.
That will never happen, you say. Think positive, you say. They’re sure to love you, you say.
Why you rejectin’ my collection before I get started? I say.
I have to make rejection not break me, my self not hate me. To send out my soul, my mind, my meaning encapsulated, captured by words on these pages, the result must be something to celebrate, used to paint my walls like awards, because now there is blankness, an empty canvas, a hallow hollow too holy for error.
You’ve a gift from god, you say.
Fuck divinity, I say, I want the human experience, the beauty not of blankness could’ve-been-greatness but the tangible paper in my hand saying girl, you tried.
They might tell lies, tell me I’m worthless, my life’s work less than shit paper, too scratchy and wordy for wiping their asses — but those notes are my papers proving my legitimacy, my residency here in the land of the free to fuck up and fail. I want citizen status in these discarded states, and today I trade in my passport for an application to stay.
I hope I get rejected.
The composition of this post if not its subject (though really that too) can be blamed on Kelly Diels, and in particular the playlist at the end of Sunday School for Sentences #4. Because I am a chameleon and a copycat, but I’m ok with that. I considered recording it and uploading to YouTube, but allowed the lack of clothing, light, and soundproof barrier betwixt me and my sleeping child to stop me; you may thank me or curse me as you please.