I am used to rejections.

I’ve received rejections from arts institutions, poetry presses, small galleries, and non-profit organizations, for volunteer positions, unpaid internships and part-time lover.

I’ve even been rejected by the CIRCUS for the position of the balloon darts man behind the stand.

I’ve been rejected on a consistent basis in almost everything I’ve tried to do that seemed interesting to me, and that I would’ve been good at, since I was 21. I am now 38, almost 39.

It used to bother me.

Now, it’s just a part of life and the process of getting in where I fit in. I accept my rejections with pride and pity the places and people that turned me away. I’m such a SEXY SMART NERD… THEIR LOSS (maybe yours, depending on who is reading) lol.

Today, for the first time in my life, I received a semi-rejection.

I made it to the waitlist of an artist fellowship. Of course, I would’ve loved to have been on the list of “We’d love to have you,” instead of a benchwarmer who is welcome if the A Team gets hurt…but so it is!

Part of the process of receiving rejection, at least for me, is stopping to ask myself: “Is this something I really wanted or was it a stepping stone to where I desire to be?” “What was the deeper need of applying to this place?” “What did I want from this acceptance? Something they had to offer or something I can create myself?” “Was this just another way for me to feel recognized (the deepest desire)?”

And then I reflect.

I am moving out of a chapter of life that was born out of my decision to divorce, to turn my alcoholism into sobriety, and to navigate the psychotic path of re-invention of the self and thought. I’ve battled my heaviest demons, taught myself to believe that my joy is possible, and finally accepted that I am a sexy, intelligent, massively creative slut for poetry, art, and the right fuck.

I did the dirty work in the shadows so I could rise from rejections donning my sexiest outfits, pulling up to events that make me wet with desire…instead of feeling bad for myself and hiding away with selfish and egotistical bitterness.

This new chapter had already started before I was rejected from another art community. This chapter started when I had applied and already knew that something big is in the works—with or without a fellowship in my panties.

Something bigger and deeply rooted in my desire to think, question, write, create, and my insanely stubborn belief that I know what I am doing, even when I don’t.

So as I think about this latest rejection, I ask, is that where I wanted to be?

France, yes.
Community of intentional creation and exchange, yes.
Bretagne, perhaps.
Countryside isolation, not really.

I come from the country. I’ve been in self-isolation for more than a decade: 8 years married, 4 years recovering from divorce.

What I am actually looking for is a city.
I want CDMX. I want Paris.
I want to be me out loud in public.

It’s time for me to put on a corset, some stupidly sexy heels, red lipstick…and walk into beautiful spaces, surrounded by books, be where the people are, read my poems, show my art, and interact with those who actually want to know more.

And then maybe take off everything I put on for another slutty poet who gets it.

If you or somebody you know has a flat for rent in Paris or departamento in CDMX, let me know. I’m ready, willing and able.

And if you think you’re a slutty poet for whom I will take off my clothes, read Hotel Gilbert first.