It is scary and emboldening at the same time.
A few days ago, my grandmother asked me if I was still applying for Fulbright or if I still wanted to pursue 'this', she called it. I thought about it and said 'Yes'. She asked me if maybe I should apply for journalism, everyone has said it in some manner or another, but she was the first one to come right out with it. They all know as well as I do, that were it journalism on my applications there would be fewer rejection letters and I would even be eligible for a few scholarships. I think I considered it for a total of two minutes before saying, ‘It’s either writing or its nothing’. I don’t know if im being uncompromising or honest. I don’t ‘need’ a Masters degree, I already have one... I ‘want’ one. I want to sit in a classroom again and be pushed to compete creatively. To do what I love to do and do it with others who love it just as much. And that need makes the question subjective, which in turn makes it more than a matter of priorities, it makes it a dream and a voyage. But then again it is a matter of priorities; Do I want to get out more than I want to write?
A few days ago, my grandmother asked me if I was still applying for Fulbright or if I still wanted to pursue 'this', she called it. I thought about it and said 'Yes'. She asked me if maybe I should apply for journalism, everyone has said it in some manner or another, but she was the first one to come right out with it. They all know as well as I do, that were it journalism on my applications there would be fewer rejection letters and I would even be eligible for a few scholarships. I think I considered it for a total of two minutes before saying, ‘It’s either writing or its nothing’. I don’t know if im being uncompromising or honest. I don’t ‘need’ a Masters degree, I already have one... I ‘want’ one. I want to sit in a classroom again and be pushed to compete creatively. To do what I love to do and do it with others who love it just as much. And that need makes the question subjective, which in turn makes it more than a matter of priorities, it makes it a dream and a voyage. But then again it is a matter of priorities; Do I want to get out more than I want to write?
I suppose for the time-being I shall be sticking to the original premise…I want to write, it is the only time I feel real. Like I actually exist, I breathe. Doodling in my notebooks and my books for that matter, conversing with blank pages, myself and dead authors...is the only time I feel like the Maria I hope I am. The best part is that the moment I find myself in an environment where I cannot navigate my bearings all I have to do is reach in my over-stuffed hamper-of-a-bag, get out my pencil, journal or novel and write and read to meet myself.
That is where the 'practicality debate' makes an appearance. I am not practical and I suppose I really must need to be. That is when all the doubts set in, followed by the perpetual need to prove that I am not stupid or dippy. Every time I meet friends going abroad with scholarships it hits me, your voice… ‘Stupid, Useless, Waste’ and in the middle of the night I grab at the headboard of my head-boardless bed to remind myself that I am out, that you are no longer here and that I am no longer her. Then I justify it somehow in my head by saying I’m an artist, that my applications aren’t the same as those for Business subjects and Environmental education. That I am not doomed to be dumb, because I was spiteful, pathetic and confused in High school. It is rather childish I suppose, to be so terrified of being 'dumb'. Not 'ugly' or 'silly' or 'lazy' or 'useless'...only 'dumb' really truly scares me.
I think about giving up on it all and doing what everyone wants me to do yet again…pick a person and get a move on. That’s when I become desperate and the walls start to cave in and I run around applying and re-structuring my application essays. Gambling my entire future on the notion that I can string a few sentences together. What if I can’t? I can write, but what if I can’t write what people want to read?
I remember how you used to relish taming your horses and dogs, how your face swelled with pride when they were chained, beaten and subdued. I know I will not tame the Beast or water him down to scare fewer people off. Because I just happen to think the he is beautiful. I love him untamed and inexplicable. Thats the only way I can love him.
That is where the 'practicality debate' makes an appearance. I am not practical and I suppose I really must need to be. That is when all the doubts set in, followed by the perpetual need to prove that I am not stupid or dippy. Every time I meet friends going abroad with scholarships it hits me, your voice… ‘Stupid, Useless, Waste’ and in the middle of the night I grab at the headboard of my head-boardless bed to remind myself that I am out, that you are no longer here and that I am no longer her. Then I justify it somehow in my head by saying I’m an artist, that my applications aren’t the same as those for Business subjects and Environmental education. That I am not doomed to be dumb, because I was spiteful, pathetic and confused in High school. It is rather childish I suppose, to be so terrified of being 'dumb'. Not 'ugly' or 'silly' or 'lazy' or 'useless'...only 'dumb' really truly scares me.
I think about giving up on it all and doing what everyone wants me to do yet again…pick a person and get a move on. That’s when I become desperate and the walls start to cave in and I run around applying and re-structuring my application essays. Gambling my entire future on the notion that I can string a few sentences together. What if I can’t? I can write, but what if I can’t write what people want to read?
I remember how you used to relish taming your horses and dogs, how your face swelled with pride when they were chained, beaten and subdued. I know I will not tame the Beast or water him down to scare fewer people off. Because I just happen to think the he is beautiful. I love him untamed and inexplicable. Thats the only way I can love him.
I suppose I must organize myself and I am working on it, the problem is my…’gift’ -if that is what they call it- only runs on a liberally applied dosage of consistent chaos theory. It doesn’t work when organized, so maybe I need to work on scattering it to the point where it is only mine.
Maybe they, if they choose to take me, need to take me as I am.
Which means I need the courage to begin being who I am instead of talking about it.
I like to think of people as tuningforks.
ReplyDeleteEach tuningfork has its unique tone. Striken its absolute essence will be expressed in sound.
Like tuningforks we are cursed by our own uniqueness. Trying to sound any other way will only come out as a wisper. Our whole being will be suppressed if we try to hide our core, from others, from ourselfs.
To really sound out you need to find your essence and have the courage to use it. Dig up the pain, really dive in there. The times when your fingers tremble is a great gift, it is you sounding out from your pure essence, and nothing from you can be stronger and more pure, because that is your essence and only your essence. None can do that better than you. Find that essence and have faith in that essence, because none has that special you-ness that you have.
If people do not like your essence, then though luck. But it will be you and it will be the strongest most powerful substance you can produce. What makes a writer is not a skill with words, it is only a prerequisite; it is the essence and the delivery of this essence that makes those troubled folk we call writers. And it is this knocking that you feel in your chest, that will bring him out. Listen, listen carefully; it is your essence knocking.