Paradox of Choice.

Writing is a series of decisions. What to include. What to leave out. Where to begin. Where to end. What to expand on. What to condense.

I hate decisions. This is why writing is difficult.

Revived.

Iowa City's where I've been since Thursday August 12th. I came here by plane, with two suitcases, a back pack, a purse, and a small carry-on rolly bag. I took a shuttle to my apartment, and on the way learned that while Iowa City and Cedar Rapids had experienced heavy flooding this summer, Des Moines "got it in the pants." I overtipped the driver (I know this because when I gave him ten dollars he said, "wow, geez, gosh, thanks!") and then I got out and he helped me carry my bags to the doorstep. I typed my code into the front door keypad, retrieved my key from my open mailbox, and unlocked the door to the most high-ceilinged light-filled hardwood-floored empty apartment that I've ever been able to call my own. I laid out my sleeping bag and went to Target on a bus. I bought a shower curtain and a pillow and a window fan. I got drunk that night on gin--too drunk--and woke up sweaty and hungover and nauseous and depressed. I continued to sweat and dry heave until a fellow first year nonfiction student drove me to Walmart in search of a window AC unit. They were sold out. We went to Lowe's. They, too, were sold out. He took over and called around until we found a place--K-Mart--that had four left. "Tell them to put it on layaway--we'll be there in 15 minutes!" We drove and it poured. I ran into the store, to the back, retrieved my AC unit and paid $250 for it. We waited for it to stop raining before unloading it from the backseat.

I came to Iowa, as I said, by plane, without a car. The plan was to have mine shipped here for fear that it wouldn't make the drive. "It'll take at least three days!" Said my dad. "What if you break down in between Ohio and Indiana? You'll be in deep shit." So we made a reservation for the car to be picked up, only, it never was. Apparently car transport companies can't guarantee that the car will ever be picked up. So it sat in my dad's driveway for a week until he called the shippers, yelled and canceled the order, then drove it here himself. But the previous Sunday, I decided to rent a car. My friend Jen drove me to the airport to pick it up. I spent the week triangulating between Walmart, Target, and various consignment shops in search of furniture. At Walmart I watched an infant fall from a shopping cart. I peered around the corner to see what happened, and his mother, who was scraping him off the ground, shot me a look that said "Don't tell anyone!" Later in the week I overhead an incoming freshman tell her mother that several girls on her floor spoke Spanish. "Wow, well, you might as well have moved to Spain!"

Last Monday I also began my research assistantship at a place called the International Writing Program. On my first day I was asked to read Arabic poetry and fiction written by high school students and check for errors. Third day it was translating English to French. I am not trained in translation. This week I'm writing a grant proposal. I've never written one. Did I say I knew how to do these things during my interview? I can't remember. Tuesday I went to a steak dinner at my neighbor and friend Amy's apartment, and it was intimate and warm and I felt happy.