Look Ma, I created a new self!

I successfully completed my thesis “defense” this past Friday. On the way out of the building, I used the word, “ascertain,” and my friend from the Biology Department who participated in the defense as the “Observer” from another College, said, “See, you’re smarter already.”

“Welcome to the community of scholars,” called out one of the art professors from my department as I drove up to the house where Women’s Studies was conveniently having a party that night. She was enacting a mild parody, and I understood that, but I do feel different, somehow.

My decades-long recurring dream of having a baby (however deformed or non-human it turned out to be, and even if I accidentally lost or destroyed it later) recurred that very night, after the party. This time, it felt as real and true and as non-surrealistic as a dream can be. I was pregnant, and had gone into labor, and realized that my identity would soon change forever. Then someone in the dream reminded me that most women are mothers, and it’s not really anything special in terms of human achievement. But of course it’s special for each mother. And, it follows, for each master’s degree candidate, although they are legion.

Since I don’t have any “real” children, my “baby” has always been something like a thesis, some project or other. Perhaps this is the first time the "baby" was legitimate and had all its proper parts: brain, legs, arms, chapters, endnotes, bibliography. It certainly wasn’t premature. It took me six years. Ten years before that I was merely thinking about returning to school for English literature. In between, I somehow got halfway through an art education master’s but changed my mind. (From that experience I learned not to pay for graduate courses by credit card.)

Yes, I am one of many. I am officially in the circus-like “community of scholars” now, and for some reason, although while I was “pregnant,” I very much wanted to quit, I now want to “have” another one. Someday. Or, maybe I’ll adopt.

A woman's place is inside a bubble?

I have just returned from a nine-day solo vacation, visiting friends and family in New York and Massachusetts. There is a mood I get into while away from frequently-seen faces and practiced routines that is a sort of pleasant isolation, as if I am in a bubble of non-judgmentalism that has a sheen of good will. It may come off as pleasant to others as well, though it is not necessarily my usual style. Since I am not investing daily in the outcome of the situations I enter while on a trip, I can be generous and calm. But it’s not a personal generosity. My mind feels empty, unattached. I imagine it’s Zen-like, but it could be merely repression (my dreams during trips are quite complex and intense). But during the day, though conversation abounds, emotions were either absent or stifled. I could barely detect any within myself, aside from the two flares of irritation that burst briefly when my parents called my name as I was leaving a room, forcing me to pay attention just as I was about to do something else. This happened once with each parent. I hope I made up for this by simply staying in the room next time as long as possible, giving what seemed to me benign (non-resentful) attention. What did it cost me? I could only act like this because I had little else to do. I participated in social events with friends and at-home time with family without experiencing a strong sense of involvement, whatever that means. This cannot happen in my “real” life. I have too much energy to remain detached. I often throw myself into my non-vacation life the way I used to with the pretend games I played as a kid, like “cops and robbers,” or “house.” This suggests that my non-vacation life is, in fact, a collection of games, such as “job,” “marriage,” “creative community participation,” and so forth. If so, I am happy to be “winning” some of them. On vacation, I could place bets, but I wasn’t really allowed to play. You know what I mean?

Too much writing going on

Last week I waved yet another printout of my thesis (at that point about 100 pages) at my boss passing by in the hall, my boss who has nothing to do with the project of me getting my master's degree in a different department at the university we are both trapped in. "This is like a big piece of goddamn meat," I said to him, by way of random complaining and explanation of why I hadn't been enthusiastic about my actual job tasks lately. "I have to DO something with it before it rots. It's been marinating, but now I have to throw some spices on it and grill it before it's too late!"

So, that's what I'm doing. Got the fire going, but I'm still throwing more spices and herbs on that sucker. More than 120 pages now. But soon, soon, the smell of words roasting will fill my nostrils, and the taste will probably confirm my suspicions that not only has it been overcooked, but that steak isn't even good for me.

Natural occurrences

It's hot out there. The grass is dry, and some lawns look scraped and scalped, patches of parched red dirt pushing into view through straw-colored remains. We're keeping the AC around 78 degrees, and it feels cool. I don't go out there much except to get into my car and drive to work, or to walk my requisite hour after the sun goes down. There are places on my walk that seem cool and breezy. That's because the people have just watered their plants and the sidewalk is wet and evaporating, creating a tiny local breeze. It would be interesting to be one of those people. The people who care about the outsides of their houses.

I walked past one of the don't-care houses, and the little boy on his motorcycle-looking bicycle said, "There's a bottle!" I had stepped on part of the same bottle the night before, so I followed his pointing finger, and there was the bottom of the broken beer bottle. Then I noticed he was about to contact a stray piece of it with his bare heel. That wouldn't do, so we both spent some time collecting all the pieces while his mother watched, immobile it seemed, from her chair on the front porch. "People just throw things out of cars!" I yelled, cheerfully. She nodded or something. I walked on.

The cop who lives on the corner has got the poison ivy starting up again by the big tree on the edge of the lot. But the drought has brought the vine so little fuel that it remains tiny; the three-part leaflets haven't even reached the trunk. I am not sure if I'm gung-ho enough to bring along my spray bottle of ivy-killer on my walk. Where did the expression, "gung ho" come from, anyway? It can't be good that I use it. Anything automatic has to be suspect. As well as anything over-considered.

I am trying to finish a tiny poem. It has eight short lines. It was an assignment from the Soul Mistress of my writing group. It's supposed to be about writing poetry, and has to contain an onomatapeia. I've written it, but it doesn't have quite the impact I'd like. I can see becoming obsessed with perfecting it. What other activity to pour oneself into than something as insignificant as the arrangement of a few words? Because, after all, a poem IS a magic spell, and the spell has to be cast correctly.

Then again, how can I "pour myself" at all in this weather?