Masters Blues

So, yesterday I ran into a friend who had just finished defending his thesis for his Masters in English. He was getting ready to celebrate, and of course I tagged along to the pub. He was really excited, I think, and rightfully so. It is a big deal.

That was when I realized: this is a big deal. Is this something to be just done willy-nilly, as I seem to be approaching it? I guess the whole MA process was just overshadowed in my mind by the mind-boggling MFA application process I've created for myself. And now I'm having a bit of a panic. I have one semester in which to do all this stuff. I have to write a thesis. A creative thesis. This is, for me, short stories. Quite a few of them. And I am a slow writer. Ponderously slow.

I think I have a concept for my thesis proposal. But I haven't written it yet.

*(A side note for those of you that have been following this saga: I found out that I did, indeed apply to BSU and was accepted so, whew! That's a load off my mind)

But the ink isn't even dry on my application for candidacy, and I need to find committee members, and, and, and... bit of a panic, really.

I have chosen my committee chair. She is amazing, and the great thing about her is that, when she tells me something, I get it. You know how, with the rare teacher here and there, you can actually understand what they're saying? She operates on my wavelength. I hear her loud and clear. This is good, because she is a fiction teacher, my favorite. She is blunt, yet not hurtful. She gives me what I want for my stories, a reader who is intelligent and careful and critical. She gives me criticism I can use, which is something I am finding difficult to come by. Anyway, she is great, and the fact that she has agreed to chair my committee makes me feel good, and better yet, that maybe I can pull this off.

As an example of this woman's sage qualities: The day after my little panic attack in my office, I told her I was freaking out. She told me that, throughout the process of both her Masters and her PhD, she would wake up in the middle of the night in a sheer panic. So I said, "So this happens to everyone? Everyone is hiding in their offices, hyperventilating with the door closed?"

And she said, "Yep. And it's only going to get worse."

This may seem cruel to you. I laughed my ass off and felt infinitely better. Maybe we are just twisted in the same way. But that is rare and good.

Finally, A Meme for ME!

I usually don’t do the meme thing. I just can’t be clever enough, most times, to think of interesting things to say. And I get distracted. But I like this one, and even though no one tagged me, I'm going to do it anyway. Because that's just the sort of girl I am (and because Bee said I should consider myself tagged, if I wanted to). And it’s a good sort of exercise in simplification, boiling down, what-have-you. Fun. And I like words. So here goes:

One Word. No Explanation.

1. Yourself: stubborn
2. Your partner: support
3. Your hair: salad
4. Your mother: tender
5. Your father: hug
6. Your favorite item: traincase
7. Your dream last night: spies
8. Your favorite drink: limeade
9. Your dream car: beetle
10. The room you are in: dorm
11. Your ex: harmless
12. Your fear: humiliation
13. What you want to be in 10 years: writer
14. Who you hung out with last night: me
15. What you're not: mean
16. Muffins: mmmm…
17: One of your wish list items: ipod
18: Time: inexorable
19. The last thing you did: shower
20. What you are wearing: pjs
21. Your favorite weather: gray
22. Your favorite book: impossible
23. The last thing you ate: enchilada
24. Your life: fortunate
25. Your mood: saucy
26. Your best friend: far
27. What you're thinking about right now: should
28. Your car: rattly
29. What you are doing at the moment: procrastinating
30. Your summer: thought-provoking
31. Your relationship status: growing
32. What is on your TV: movies
33. What is the weather like: bitter
34. When was the last time you laughed: shower

The King: A (Sort of) Movie Review

So last night we watched "The King," starring Gael Garcia Bernal (Amores Perros, Y Tu Mama Tambien), and William Hurt. Although it was surprisingly anticlimactic at the end, I'd definitely say this one is worth watching. Without spoiling any of the many unexpected twists and turns involved here, let me just say: it is tragedy, old school style. Biblical, Greek, Shakespearean tragedy, with the requisite number of bodies and a little incest for good measure. And there is that sense that everything is rolling downhill, and nothing can stop it.

Here's the set-up: Bernal gets out of the Navy and heads to Corpus Christi, Texas, where he introduces himself to his father (William Hurt). Hurt has been saved, and is now a pastor in a sort of rock-and-roll contemporary church. He doesn't want to acknowledge Bernal as his son, and turns him away. And this is where the aforementioned "downhill" begins.

One of the most redeeming features of the movie is Gael's performance. He walks a line throughout the movie and does so well. I was never really sure if he understood all the implications of his actions or not. He was either Machiavellian in his revenge, or not-that-bright and struggling to be a part of this family, no matter what the cost. William Hurt also turns in a pretty stellar performance as the pastor. Really, everyone does a pretty great job.

And the cinematography is interesting and at times beautiful - especially one scene in particular with wide-angle close-ups of Pell James' (Hurt's daughter) face.

Anyway, that's what I'm watching. I think this movie sort of slipped under the radar, and although it's not perfect, it's well worth the watch.

Recuperation

My family left yesterday morning to head back to Wisconsin. I spent the day napping and falling in and out of movie watching. Today I am attempting to return to the normal (relatively) pattern of my life. Witness the blog post, which will be followed by homework, cleaning, and probably some leftover pie.

Still not feeling terribly clever, though. I will have to attempt a later post, one in which I actually say something. In the meantime, just wanted to let you all know I'm alive, and survived near death due to overconsumption...

My Bitchin' Portfolio

I just finished my portfolio for my creative non-fiction class. Well, not really finished - I still have the folder to acquire and stylize, but the content is done, and prettified.

Usually when I have to put together a portfolio for a class, I am dull in the extreme. I print out all my work in Times New Roman 12 with one inch margins, staple things together, and put them in any folder I can scrounge up in my house, and am done with it in short order.


This time, for what reason I'm not sure, I've gone a little further. Maybe it's because I'm drowning in MFA applications, and the last thing I want to do is look at something in Times New Roman, or make it look like a business plan.

I didn't go crazy with it, because I know that if I was a teacher, I would appreciate a certain amount of creativity, but only if combined with readability. In my view, a portfolio should not be a challenge to the professor that has a towering stack of them on his desk. That's just asking for it (and not very thoughtful, besides). But I am planning a trip to Ben Franklin today, to their astoundingly huge paper selection, to garner inspiration for a cool-type envelope, file, what-have-you.

My favorite thing about the portfolio? The font. I likes it. I've scanned the first page, my artist statement, so that you can all share in the joys of Bodoni MT Bold with me. How is it I never saw this font before?

Toad Lake Manor

I couldn't find any pictures, and this was more fun...

Homebody's Going Home

Thank God, you're saying. For once it's not panic blahblahblah, school blahblahblah. No, not today. Because today I get to go home. To Big Toad Lake (and how could you not be happy to be going home to such a place - it's like living in The Wind In The Willows).

I am a homebody. If I'm not in Bemidji I am home, and that means I hardly leave our property. I wear pjs all day long. I walk down our gravel road with the dog and look at the reeds and the skeletal trees in the marshes that line the road. I walk down the driveway to get the mail. I do dishes. I do laundry (my favorite chore, because it is the coziest one - I love burying my arms in fresh warm laundry). I bake bread and other bad-for-us goodies that j chastises me for making and then devours. I putter around and try to write. I read bad fiction and good fiction. I snuggle up with the pooch in our favorite armchair and read, read, read (this is harder than it sounds - she is a 70 pound chocolate lab who thinks she is a lap dog). I don't answer the telephone (much to the consternation of my mother, who, although she has known me for 32 years, still cannot accept that I hate the phone, have always hated the phone, and will not talk on the phone).

As per a request from Kassandra, I will soon be posting pictures of Toad Lake Manor (as I refer to our home). I just drew her a pretty nice aerial view, which, if I can get it scanned, will be appearing shortly.

Just one more reason to stay tuned!

Okay, We're Back To School

If you need to blame someone, blame Jessie. She told me it was okay to keep talking about this stuff.

In a spectacular show of masochism, I have decided to get my MA before I leave Bemidji State. It has almost just fallen into my lap, and I don't see how I can not do it. So after applications I have that to look forward to, ensuring that, as a newly christened drama queen, I will have plenty of drama to freak out about.

But here's the thing I just realized today. I'm not at all sure that I ever applied for graduate school here. When I started here, I was just taking one class, with no intention of continuing, and so got "special status." Then I got the assistantship, and just started right in (still with no intention of completing a degree).

Today as I started reading over what I needed to do to graduate, it struck me. Hey, did I ever even apply? I don't remember doing the transcript/ recommendation/ application form dance. Hmmm. I guess I can't exactly apply for graduation when I never even applied for admission.

This is a quandry, and it may not be all my fault. How did this slip by everyone? I'm a graduate assistant, for chrissakes. It is a question I will pose to my advisor on the morrow, that's for sure.

And I can't help but laugh. This is the most humor I've gotten in a while. I love irony

Talk about Something Different, Dammit!

This is what I keep telling myself. Every time I go to the nifty "create post" area, I try to think of something else to write about. Not writing. Not school. Not headaches, or whining, or panic. And my mind goes blank. How pathetic is that? There just doesn't seem to be anything else right now.

I could write about another walk with my dog in the unseasonably warm weather this week. I could write about hauling scrap lumber down our yard to the firepit, and spending the afternoon presiding over a blazing bonfire all by myself. I could write about any of the movies I watched this weekend (and there were a lot).

But maybe I should just face facts. My life is boring right now. One-dimensional. Hopefully soon I will have something else to blog about. But right now its not looking good.

PS - this does not count as whining. Them's just the facts.

Miles Davis Saved My Life (Again)

I've been having a bit of a rough time lately, as you may be able to tell from the ups and downs of my posts. There's just an awful lot tumbling through my head right now: MFA applications, current classes, my assistantship, whether to get my MA, oh yeah, and my writing. I seem to be in a productive period right now, for which I am always thankful, but why when I am in the middle of so much other crap? Probably because my brain is on overdrive.

Anyway.

So, I've been stressed. I've seen the signs that point to panic mode, but I wasn't really paying attention. I should be learning by now. On Thursday I hit major panic, and had a small anxiety attack. I say small because I was able to control it, to push it down and get home to safety. I didn't hyperventilate, although it was a near thing. I am glad for this because when it happened, I was in Bemidji, just about to head home for the weekend, and I knew that if I couldn't control it, I wouldn't be able to drive home. My drive home is isolated, dark and winding, rife with deer munching by the side of the road. I generally do not mess around on the way home, drive carefully and slowly, and with a wary eye. I knew that if I could not put away the anxiety, or at least postphone it, I wouldn't be able to get home, which was what I wanted more than anything.

I can thank two artists for making this possible. The first is Van Gogh. I stood staring at the print of this painting that I have in my office. It never fails to comfort me. It's as close to being home as I can get sometimes.

But the bulk of my thanks goes to Miles Davis, hands down. This isn't the first time he has pulled me out of something, but it was definitely the most dramatic. Off and on, all day that day, I had been listening to 'Round About Midnight, possibly my favorite Miles Davis album. When I went into my office and shut the door, feeling the impending panic, I put 'Round About Midnight on again. But just the first track, 'Round Midnight, over and over. It soothes me like no other piece of music I've found. It's like a hand rubbing my neck, brushing my cheek, running down my hair. This feeling is so palpable that if I close my eyes I can almost feel fingertips on my cheek. It is, I am convinced, the only reason I was able to slow my breathing, and stop those awful herkyjerky sobs that hurt my chest (I am not a pretty crier, especially at times like these, when there are no tears involved, just dry sobbing noises and hiccups and little pitiful whines and sniffles).

Thank you, Miles Davis. I love you.

Coffee with Jessie

I miss coffee with Jessie. Every week, the renewed pledge to "actually get some work done this time." Setting up our laptops facing each other, giant mugs of coffee set carefully to the sides. Then spending four hours ignoring the flashing cursor as we talk about what's out the window, what's in our minds, what's on the radio, what's on our minds, what we are wearing, what's on our minds...

you get the picture. I drive by Dunn Bros. on my way into town every Tuesday morning, and right then, every week, I miss Jessie.

Tuesday Headache

I'm such a whiner. Feel free to stop reading now. Consider yourself warned.

Here it comes again. The Tuesday headache. It will now begin developing into a sickly feeling in my head and stomach that will have me waking up before dawn tomorrow. I will try to ignore it, to bury my head further into the pillow, to turn it over to the cool side, over and over, until there is no cool side.

Tuesday is not a hard day for me, in the grand scheme of things. It signals the beginning of my very short week, the beginning of my weekly stay in Bemidji, the beginning of the shuffle of bags and books and computers and clothes, from house to car to dorm to car to house (and to office and back in between).

But it always ends with this headache, this tightening of bands around my head, my shoulders, the taut cables running up my neck behind my ears. Tuesday isn't really the hard day. Wednesday is the hard one.

I have no classes on Wednesday. It is my homework day, my wandering day, my thinking pondering day. That part I like. But it always starts early, and with a battle. These headaches make my eyes hard and shiny, small and slitted against the light. My jaw is forever clenched on Wednesday. I am not myself. I am brittle.

There are some things that help: shopping at the thrift store, lunch with friends, a walk along the rocky little path on Lake Bemidji's shore. These are the therapies I use (along with copious amounts of Exedrin Migraine and my heated herb bag). Sometimes they work. But sometimes I just get tired of preparing for battle.

GRE Debrief: Some Thoughts in the Aftermath

So. The GRE is done. I got my tentative scores when I finished, consulted a few professors, and found out I probably won't have to take it again, unless I really messed something up in the essays (those scores are sent later). Thank my heavenly stars, is all I have to say.

It wasn't as horrific as I had made it out to be the night before, when it had loomed over my pillow like a skyscraper. Once I sat down at the computer terminal and began to calm down, it occured to me: oh, yeah. So this is really just another test after all. Same old shit. Well, slightly different for reasons I will describe briefly below. But basically, same old thing.

There are three parts to the GRE: the essay section, the quantitative (math) section, and the verbal section. This is the order they are taken in. It worked well for me because of my strengths and weaknesses. The essay section is 75 minutes long, and is comprised of two essays: persuasive (45 min.) and argument (30 min.). The time was adequate for both, although I had to act pretty fast for the argument essay, and didn't have much time to proofread. But basically they are looking for the good old five paragraph essay.

I thought taking this part first was going to be terrible - writing the essays cold, without a warm-up, so to speak. But the essays actually functioned as a rather good warm up in themselves. By the time I was done with them, I was comfortable with the environment, the icky orange headphones I was wearing to cut sound (similar to what baggage handlers wear at the airport- so trendy!), the computer, and all that jazz. I even managed to work Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle into one of the essays (something I've been reading up on a little lately) - so I felt very clever by the time it was done. And this was a good thing, a confidence booster. I needed it, because the math section was next, and that was the part I was really worried about.

You know it's bad when the first question appears on the screen and the only thing that runs across your mind, like a screensaver, is - shit, shit, shit... etc. I stumbled through the best I could though, and evidently did much better than it seemed I was doing. This made sense in light of a little tip I read in my Kaplan's book. Here's the theory:

The GRE is an adaptive test. This means that each question you receive is chosen in light of the way you've answered previous questions. So, if you get a question right, the next question you get will be harder. If you get it wrong, the next question will be the same, or easier. The hard questions are worth more points. You get the picture. Well, I was reading the pep talk "night before" section of my book, and they presented an interesting idea:

If you get a question that is hard, it must be because you're doing well. So, I figured, if you look at a question and your mouth dries up and you get the urge to vomit, it probably means you're doing really, really well!

Okay, so it's a serious rationalization with the slightest kernel of truth to it (if you angle everything the right way). But during the quantitative section I clung to this little bit of twisted logic. Every time I got a question where the first thing through my head was WTF?! I would soothe myself by thinking about how well I must be doing to get such a mind-boggling question.

I know, I know. But it did keep me calm. And desperate times, as they say...

The verbal section was difficult, but at least it wasn't in a foreign language like the math section. I muddled through fairly well, although it was sincerely depressing how many words appeared that I had no flippin' clue as to their meaning. Definitely should have spend more time studying word roots.

The perfectionist part of me wants to take it again anyway, even though I don't think it is necessary. I know I can do better, having been through it once now, and it's sort of an intrinsic part of my nature to want to seriously kick ass on standardized tests. I don't know why, what I'm trying to prove, or to whom. But, at a $130 bucks a pop, I think I'll try to restrain myself, and simply take pleasure in crossing the GRE off my list of MFA Things To Do.

Yay!