All's well that is?

And, life goes on. Not sure if there is any point in my taking clarinet lessons (which I am doing). I’m not “obsessive” about practicing, which I’d hoped I would be. I am, however, influenced by the sound I produce, I seek a better sound, but it’s not my only thought these days.

There is no ANSWER, only the process of asking or wondering. I have flashes of places I’d like to be, like Marseilles, or Arizona. Or in Toronto at some sort of advanced workshop on meta-cultural criticism. Or maybe in New Zealand, visiting an artist friend.

A friend was sharing pictures this morning at the coffeeshop of his experience at Burning Man (in Nevada) last year...or was it the year before? Seems an interesting interlude, but not “reality.” Still, I’d like to go sometime. I think I could enjoy an amusing non-reality right now. I’ve been so serious for so long.

Reading “The Wisdom of Insecurity,” by Alan Watts.

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.