Life has been full and oddly overwhelming lately. I'm not busy in the normal sense of the word, but I'm keeping myself busy and keeping my mind full (ha! mindful. I'm such a dork) with teaching ideas, poetry ideas, who-the-hell-am-I-and-what-the-hell-am-I-doing ideas. I don't have internet or cable at home, so I've been reading fiction in the quite hours when I'd normally zone out in front of a flickering screen. I read A Million Little Pieces* in one day. Then The House of Sand and Fog, and now I'm half-way through Pigs in Heaven. This is easily the most non-critical prose I've read since I took a class on creative non-fiction during my MFA.
(*Regardless of the Oprah debacle, it's questionable how much of Frey's "memoir" is memoir, especially in light of the tidbit I heard somewhere that Frey pitched it as a novel, but memoir was so hip at the time that his publisher convinced him otherwise... anyway, this is unsubstantiated rumor, but I'm still thinking the book is a novel.)
I'm excited and terrified to teach Intro to Poetry Writing this semester, and have been spending a tremendous amount of time compiling the course packet which essentially is a mini-anthology of the poems that helped me figure out how to be a poet. Of course, I'm still figuring that out, so the thing never feels done and I'm convinced that once I drop it off for copies, I'm going to realize that I left out the most important poems. I guess that's why there are xerox machines, right? I couldn't bring myself to use a textbook or stock anthology because this is the first time I get to teach what I love, and I wanted as much control over it as possible. Now I'm thinking: what the heck do I know about poetry? and just hoping that my excitement for it will cover up the gaps in what I don't know. I'm hoping to post a more substantial something on transitioning from comp instructor to teacher-of-what-I-love sometime soon, but not today.
As for my solipsism: I'm busy putting Humpty-Dumpty back together again after what I can only describe as the most difficult year of my life. Who would have thought that moving to a new city could completely decimate a person's self-ness? Okay, maybe decimate is the wrong word. Maybe scramble. Maybe perforate. Maybe shred.
Tomorrow is the anniversary of the day I got in the car filled with all my stuff and drove six hours to this big, crowded, scary place and started trying to make it fit. Today, I can say it sort-of, almost does. But the me who sorta-kinda fits here today isn't the me who showed up 364 days ago and that's what I'm trying to understand. I did some massively stupid, self-destructive things while ostensibly trying to survive, and I'd like to be able to explain, someday, to myself and the people those actions affected, why I acted the way I did. Right now, I can't even come close, except to say I was sad and lonely. But that doesn't feel like an answer.
More importantly--or at least of more immediate importance--are the questions I have about my work and my place at UIC. I'm still having trouble finding a poetic community here, probably because there are not a lot of poets in the program to begin with, and the ones I know are primarily working on dissertations and not taking workshops with me. I'm also struggling to see my exam committee, and the dissertation committee that follows it, coming together. I'm not sure what my lists are going to be and I'm not sure who I'd like to work with. Unfortunately, I do know who I don't want to work with and I don't like that feeling. I'm hoping that I can slap a quick coat of paint over the mistakes I made last year academically and be more productive and positive this year.
Aaaah....I could go on and on about this, but I have many more things to take care of in my tiny little window of internet time today.
Poem: Plastic Shred
1 day ago
4 comments:
The weird thing (from someone who moves almost every year) is all that fracturing from moving can be somehow boostering to your overall selfness, eventually - like, I'm not this place, I take myself wherever I go.
My Dad was a professor who moved us (with four kids) from town to town every couple of years until I was in high school. I seem to be repeating his pattern, sans the four kids. But the good part is - every place you live, you learn more about yourself, about the world. This is what I like, this is what I don't. Like - after living in Richmond, I could say - well, I like friendly people, but I'm creeped out by towns that aggressively love recreating Civil War battles.
I hope you find good mentors at your school, and remember to look for friends among fiction writers - they can be suprisingly inspiring friends! Good luck sweetie!
WV: pastra. I believe this means we should both me making pasta, with an extra r?
I hope that's the case, Jeannine! Thanks so much. : )
Mmm...pasta. Good idea!
Oooh, I want to read your poetry packet. :)
PS: have another blog now that might be of interest to you:
http://literaryvoyeurism.blogspot.com/
Hey Molly! I found your new blog a few days ago, just haven't had a chance to update my links. Looks like you've got some good stuff there. And I'll post a sample list of what's included in my course packet so you can get a little taste the next time I update this old blog. :)
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