Half Mast
I am at the end of my first year of graduate school. Given that I am pursuing a Master's degree, I assume it only makes sense to consider myself at half mast.
Recently, I taught my last creative writing class (for the time being). I decided that after weeks of introducing writing Poetry, Fiction, and Nonfiction it would only make sense to do some exercises of revision. One of my students asked me “How do you know when you are done?” It is a great question and an infuriating one at that. Is anything ever finished? A plate of food gets licked clean, movie credits roll, the sun rises and sets, but it does rise again. What is the difference (if there is one) of lights coming on or going off at the end of a night?
Pondering the question of knowing when it is time to let go I realized maybe this has never been in my skill set. I forgive easily and seem unable to forget anything, except all that is important to my day to day life. I met with a Professor of mine days before my semester ended. Something came up in our conversation about my aversion to calling myself a writer. I am fine saying I write (present simple tense–as presently and in the most simple terms it is something I do), but I am not a writer (a noun that operates as a title and/or signifier). My gaze fell at my feet and my cheeks grew hot even admitting this thing, I do not even like to be in the vicinity of it. My Professor asked me, “What does a writer look like to you?” I have a few versions of writers that exist in my head. One is the pipe smoking, leather armchair intellectual who has cotton stuffed in his ears. He and his elbow padded blazer are bordering extinction. He remains a relic of dusty cloth bound filled bookshelves. Then there are the other writers that feel real that make me feel inconclusive. They have their names on books with the right kind of covers that live on bookstore shelves that are for sale for real money. Or they lead a life worth writing and reading about. They are real writers because they are published, bound, and have blurbs and bylines. My Professor stopped me to make a point that while being published is a measurable marker, that just means they are a different type of writer as to say a writer like myself (an unpublished one). I made a point that I do believe anyone who is literate is a writer. Because by definition if you write you are a writer, quid pro quo.
In a year from now if everything goes according to plan, I will possess a diploma that tells me I have a Masters of Fine Arts– whatever that means. I know that what I am writing now is only the beginning and probably the worst work I will produce, which makes every new gray hair I find all the more valuable.
I never understood the concept of those who can’t do teach, because I find myself enjoying teaching creative writing and I have written some things during this time I am quite fond of. I feel closer to writing because I am looking at it from another direction. Sitting at the head of a table in front of 5-6 senior citizen students attempting something for the first time has been an invaluable lesson for myself. They have written about their life, their perfect days. One student wrote about a sailing trip he went on around Australia. He was 28. He is now 73. He wrote about the moment in the morning when he peeked his head out to look at the water. The water was glassy, and statuesque. The sun was out. The sky cloudless. He and his friends swam to harvest oysters. He said he remembers exactly what it felt like, what it looked like. Other students too wrote about their life. I felt so silly being barely 25 telling them how to write when they have a life’s worth of material that remains infinitely entertaining and rich than anything I could tell them about writing.
I guess thinking that in a year from now my life can take on a new shape and could be happening in a new place is exciting. Maybe I will be blonde, rich, and famous by then? Maybe not, but who’s really to say. Life is long and writing in that way can be too because there will always be another story to tell. I turn 25 on Friday and this is the first age that feels real. A concept (feeling real) that I have been flirting with. So many things feel unreal and maybe it is because my life at this moment feels like those toy cars you pull back to build tension before letting go. The cars launch and veer and usually come to a crashing halt. But sometimes if you want you can pick the car up again, pull back, release, crash, and do it until you get over it. Visions of my future that seem to feel real keep me company. It is a house with windows that spill sunshine all over. It is the Pacific Ocean being within arms distance. A tree with a tire swing and a birdhouse. Linen and rosemary and tarragon and mint and basil and fruitful citrus trees. Wooden bowls and tablecloths. Overflowing dogeared bookcases and the right song always playing. These visions are material; maybe a pipe dream quilt. They do not signify anything other than things I want that would make me feel a certain way. Perhaps I would feel complete and fulfilled, but maybe restlessness will be a true constant in my life. I wrote sometime ago:
Here is all this what’s gonna happen,
and a whole bunch of forgetting what already happened.
I don’t know whether to say you are welcome or thanks a lot.
I wish there was a word that meant both.
I feel the pull back and the inevitable. It is that purgatory space dividing present and future. Maybe come May 16th when I am 25 officially this limbo feeling will fall or melt away because all is well that ends well.
I saw Yo La Tengo on May 12th and they played their song “Big Day Coming” three times. The lyrics:
Let's be undecided, let's take our time
And sooner or later, we will know our mind
We'll be on the outside, we won't care
Cause we're together, that's somewhere
And there's a big day coming, about a mile away
There's a big day coming, I can hardly wait
I feel like I am wondering about if and when an earthquake will arrive. The big one. A big day. Until then, I am sitting at half mast, not quite, but almost.
