Some days, when I am tired, when life is too much, when problems seem unsolvable and words are not enough, I wish I was two years old again. And then I could throw a tantrum and no on would think it odd if, when desperation set in, I began to cry and scream in public.
For the Moment II 20 July 2008
Last year, about this time, I posted this blog. At the end, I questioned whether or not these “for the moment” good feelings could be carried into other seasons. As a year has passed, I’ve learned that it wasn’t just last summer that allowed us to bask in these moments. It was the promise of friendship, excitement and stability. It was knowing where everyone was and everyone was going to be. It was being with the ones we love and care about, doing the most exciting things we could within the surroundings we had.
I’ve gone back to read last year’s post several times, and tried to think about how I can re-instate such wonderful feelings. It’s been hard, with our best friends moving away, money being tight, and Tom working all the time. It’s also been hard as I have a very exciting September ahead. I’m finding that living for the moment has gotten harder, and I wonder where I lost it along the way. Am I not as happy as I was last summer? I’ve been to Cayman, to school, to Illinois to see my grandma and relax. I’ve enjoyed my job more, spent a lot of time at the coffee shop, attended a few more local events. I’m writing and reading for school, and keeping my mind active. And yet, I find myself either pining for last spring or looking forward to this fall more than anything.
Perhaps there will always be things we miss in our lives. But how do we get past that, just for the moment anyway, to be able to open our eyes as to not miss what might be right in front of us?
A Guest in My Own Home 10 July 2008
Today I told my therapist that sometimes I feel lonely at home by myself.
She asked me whether or not I treated myself like a guest in my own home. Do you go out of your way to make you feel welcome? She asked.
I thought about it and decided that I probably didn’t. She nodded. I made a mental note to sit myself down with a cup of tea and let myself indulge in a good movie more often. Or treat myself to some chocolate milk. Or ask myself, wouldn’t you just adore a dip in the pool? It doesn’t matter that no one’s here. I’m good company, aren’t I? Of course I am.
You People Amuse Me. 9 July 2008
To the woman I so graciously assisted at work last night:
I’m so glad I could spare fifteen minutes of my shift to help you look for the perfect book on codependency.
And then, it was so lovely to be accused of hiding the good books on trust issues. Even though your boyfriend held the one you wanted the whole time.
It’s customers like you that really make me feel appreciated and needed. Oh, and make me laugh my ass off for days afterwards.
Thank You.
Making New Friends 8 July 2008
Sunday night, Tom and I went to Lawn Chair Film Festival, which is one of my favorite parts of summer. This week’s movie was a French film, My Best Friend, about François who has no friends, no potential friends, and no ability to make new friends. He is emotionally cut off from everyone, including his daughter. In a Taming of the Shrew plotline, he has to prove he has at least one friend, one best friend, or lose a valuable vase he has won at auction.
The plotline is very predictable, with only a few cute little twists and turns here and there. But the storyline wasn’t what made me think long after the credits had rolled. It was this notion, this idea that we make friends almost seamlessly but when faced with the task of breaking down this mechanism, we are stumped. It isn’t until we are faced with the process of having to make new friends that we sit back and think about it.
How soon after we start making regular plans with someone do we start calling him or her a friend? And what is it that makes us start using this label instead of “co-worker,” “acquaintance,” “neighbor,” etc.? It wasn’t until our best friends moved away that I realized that because they were always around I didn’t bother meeting too many others. Now that they are gone, I am forced to branch out. But, like François, I find myself a little stumped.
I never thought of myself as a shy person, but in this arena I am. I have always had a bit of an anxiety about inviting new people out to do things. I’m sure it has something to do with a fear of rejection. Even as a little kid I hated to hear my friends say that they couldn’t come over. So I tended to wait for them to call me, which made for a lot of lonely days and later, in high school, weekends. It’s disconcerting to think that I’ve carried this fear throughout the years to adulthood, and wonder if sticking my neck out there more will help me get over it. I miss my friends but in a way, I’m sort of glad that I’m being forced to face this.
Thankfully, unlike François, I’m generally liked. And also unlike him, I have no problem striking up conversations with strangers. I just have to make the first move afterwards, and call if they give me their number. Or, if they don’t, ask for it. And I should probably be practicing this skill now, while I’m still surrounded by familiarity, rather than trying to hone it cold turkey once I get to Boston. So hopefully, throughout the next couple weeks, I will be uncharacteristically boisterous with calling people to do things. So if I call you and you really can’t go out with me, please break it to me nicely.
Pop Tarts and TV 6 July 2008
Pop Tarts are like TV sitcoms. They have absolutely no nutritional value. They fill you up, sure, but you’re not left with anything of substance when you’re done. But while you’re eating them, you’re happy. Which is, I think, the primary purpose of both Pop Tarts and sitcoms. And I think as long as you realize this you should be free from ridicule for indulging in either. So excuse me while I watch “Friends” and finish my snack.
“So…what exactly were you doing in Boston?” 28 June 2008
It’s equally as difficult to capture the soul of a low-residency MFA program in a short explanation as it is to draw a concrete picture of the concept “dream.” But I’ll try.
The short of it is that for the past nine days, I’ve been sitting in class. Some of these “classes” are very traditional in the sense that an instructor with a prepared lecture speaks on a topic illustrated by assigned readings. In these seminars, we have learned about the body (i.e. scene and sentence) and the soul (i.e. character and conflict) of our writing. Other “classes” are actually workshops – small groups of students who have read each other’s writing and have commented on what works in the piece and what doesn’t. At night, we have been attending entertaining and poignant readings by both published authors and students.
The long of it is that this experience has been completely different than anything I’ve ever done. My classmates and professors have ranged in age from their early twenties to their seventies, work their day jobs in everything from art to oncology, and hail from all over the the world. This diversity lends itself to learning about writing and writers in more ways than I ever imagined. I’ve been in and out of creative writing courses and workshops since high school, but in their nature they have been one tentative toe in the water. This past week I was immersed – all the way to the bottom, in the deep end of the pool.
Writing is breathing while we’re here. Even in the cafeteria after seminar, even in the bar at night, even in our dorm rooms at unreasonable hours after the bar – we are writers and we are talking about our craft. And we are similar to each other in this aspect, which is something that a lot of us don’t get in the “real world.” We are building up our writing stores for the six months we are cast off on our own.
For “low-residency” means autodidactic. We are given a map and some peripheral direction but beyond that are on our own. The lessons we have learned here we must take back to our own writing desks, to our couches, to our offices, to hold us over until January. It’s scary to be cast off back into the real world, but I don’t think that I can retreat back into the writing vacuum I inhabited a week ago. I’ve learned too much.
So put simply, I’ve been taking classes and gathering reading and writing assignments that I will complete, in four different submission packets, throughout the semester. But really I have been submersed in writing, learning how to breathe in this sometimes alien environment, and how to occasionally come up for air in order to be able to go back down for longer periods. I know I will eventually be ready to graduate, once I’ve experienced this grueling week three more times, but for now, two years seems far too short for this life-altering experience.
Update 27 June 2008
A couple people have a been a teeny bit confused about my plans for this fall, so I shall clarify. One of the requirements for the Lesley MFA creative writing program is that we participate in an Interdisciplinary Studies project every semester. This can be an independent study or a subject that pertains to your writing, it can be learning a new art form (music, dance, art) and writing about how that strengthens our writing, it can be a series of journals, or it can be something more concrete, like an internship. Since I really want to break into the publishing and editing world, which is a very tight little circle, I decided I wanted to start out my Master’s career by applying to internships in these fields.
So…after a few weeks of emailing back and forth and finally an interview this past Tuesday, I clinched an internship at the Harvard Review literary magazine. I will be doing general office-y kind of things in addition to reading fiction submissions, which I know will be fun and enlightening. Plus, to quote my mother, “This will look good on my resume,” even though it’s unpaid. In this way I hope to get to know others in the publishing world and squeeze my way in. Of course, as you know, this means I have to move out there for a couple of months. I’m pretty confident I will be renting a room from a delightful lady in Newton, MA during this time, and will probably be working the holiday rush at a B+N as well. Who knows what else might come along as well!
There’s my “Christmas Letter” update. Except I didn’t write it in third person. That’s so cheesy.
Fresh Roasted Insanity 25 June 2008
I have something horrible to tell everyone. You may want to brace yourselves. If you’re standing, please sit. Sitting, please lay. If you’re already lying down, hold on to something. Are you holding on to something? No, I don’t care if it’s your stuffed rabbit, and no I won’t tell anyone.
I suffer from an incurable brain disease. It’s very rare. It only occurs when I am faced with an inordinate amount of choices, pressed to make a decision quickly, and forced to present my decision in a formulaic, precise manner. I call it Starbucks Blackout.
The first time I encountered this strange ailment I was on break at work and had only a few moments to choke down a pre-packaged cardboard sandwich and cold drink. I quickly ordered what I thought was a venti skinny iced chai. What flowed through my friendly green straw, however, was something entirely different. Instead of a comforting, spicy flavor I tasted over-caffeinated, vanilla coffee.
I turned back to the counter and asked the girl what I’d ordered.
“A latte,” she said, gesturing to my cup, as if simply looking at it was proof enough that this, indeed, was what I had ordered.
“I told you I wanted a latte?” I asked.
“Well…yeah.” I could tell I had shaken her own faith with my confusion. “Isn’t that what I gave you?”
“Yes,” I said slowly, squinting, cocking my head as if studying her face closer would bring me nearer to sorting out this mess. “But I wanted a chai.”
“I can make you a chai,” she said, reaching for a cup, “That’s really no problem.”
“No,” I shook my head. “You don’t have to. I just…I really ordered a latte?”
“S’what you said.”
I turned away from her then, my self-trust shattered. If I could order a latte when I really intended to order a chai, what else was my feeble mind capable of? Would I next walk out of a salon with my head shaved when I had just wanted a trim? Be bogged down with plastic bags at the market when I clearly preferred paper?
The next few days revealed that thankfully, my dementia was confined to overpriced, extremely addictive refreshments. And I have learned to cope by instructing all the baristas at my local Starbucks to look me square in the eye, purse their lips sternly, and ask, “Are you absolutely sure you want a mocha/latte/venti skinny chai extra hot extra pump no foam?” And I will nod and I will say, relieved that I had dodged another flare-up, “Yes I’m sure.” Or I will fidget, look around to make sure no one was watching, and shake my head in shame.
It’s a very disheartening disease. Painful. But I am soldiering on. As far as I know, there is no cure, though I’m sure some undergrad from MIT hopped up on caffeine who spends far too much time listening to the whoosh of steaming milk is doing some case studies. One can only hope.
If you are with me during one of these harrowing attacks, don’t panic. Pat me on the back, offer to buy me the drink I actually wanted, and wait to laugh at me until I’m out of earshot. Oh, and please send cards, condolences and checks to 1069 Woodbine Road, Saginaw, MI 48609.
Little Stubby Wings Just Poking Through My Skin 21 June 2008
Thus far this MFA residency, the name of the game has been bravery.
Thursday, I found my way from Logan International Airport to school all by my lonesome, on public transportation, learning why “luggage” is called “luggage.”
Friday, I walked my shoes off, finished 100 pages of the book I’m reading, and found a potential place to rent.
This morning, I voluntarily read my own work out loud in front of the author of my favorite novel.
This afternoon, I meant to say I wanted to read Lolita for my semester project and instead the words “Moby Dick” came out of my mouth.
This evening, I am going dancing (to funk and groove music, I believe, whatever that is) with a girl I met yesterday and her friends, on whom I’ve never laid eyes on.
Tomorrow, I may fly.
