Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Cee Vee

last night, i spent more than two hours trying to figure out what is important about me and what, frankly, is not worth mentioning.

and i dont want to even mention the formatting. because i've really never had much grace, never had too much aptitude for presentation - always been inside a kinda dirty jeans wearing, inside my head being, coffee stains on my shirt having, spewing ideas in sort of a Beef Stew format. give me too many choices, and my chest starts to wheeze, and my skull starts to hurt.

did i should mention that I am applying to PhD programs?

so last night, with half an ear listening to The Bachelor: Rome, I was trying to make all sorts of decisions about my worthiness for the CV (curriculum vitae, for all you Latin Lovas) that i have to turn in with my application. and this Glorious Gay ponderment kept whizzing around my typing fingers:

"...525,600 minutes! 525,000 journeys to plan. 525,600 minutes - how can you measure the life of a woman or man?"
(thank you, Jonathan Larson).

Right. How do I know what will be important, what will Grab! The! Reviewers! much less what format to put it in: does my Teaching Experience look more snappy in this blue descending-time-order tie, or is it more impressive if listed stoically in this Humanists' chunked-together-by-Institution-name sweater vest? moreover, do i call it 'Teaching Experience,' 'Adjunct Positions,' or 'Come Watch Me Stand Up In From Of Both Eager And Cranky Learners?'

I am terribly excited, really. I just hate to formality. and, as much as it hurts ever to admit, I hate the impending rejection (see previous post), and the sneaking suspicion that everyone else at the Academic Soiree secretly knows what organizational/intellectual/conversational Fork to use, and i'm just the first one in my family to go to University and, well, eating Beef Stew with my hands.

and i hate the uncanny aloneness that creeps up on me whenever try to achieve this thing that makes me orgasmicly thrilled to the gills, that Thinking Life. Until the Feminist Film Night that changed everything, I worked my academically very much in isolation, and that was something i was used to: the odd nerdy duck in my family, i would hole up in my room, writing poetry by candlelight. no, really. by candlelight. i mean, isn't that how Shakespeare did it? Isn't that how you do it? all dramatic and straining your Poet-Eyes, and painful and muses and stuff?

my Mom read a lot of Danielle Steele, when she wasn't obsessively cleaning the apartment, then the house. And my Dad read a lot of Tom Clancy, when he wasn't obsessively Fire Fighting to save money for said house. always work first, and words, always, but a distant second. so Thinker-Poets must write in secret, and in aloneness, and, certainly in the dark, because to do otherwise would be to waste good work energy.

but i don't want to separate work and play so much. and i want to exist, ultimately and ecstatically, in conversation.


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