Things are just things. That we love. Grow attached to. Feel a bit possessive of. Can’t imagine our lives without. Become saturated with memories, smells, significance.
Every time I have to move I am forced to confront precisely how many possessions I have, which makes me realize both how blessed I am and how I should weed out more of these superfluous things that fill up the space of my dresser, closet, shelves, room—of my life.
You wouldn’t believe how having to pack everything up and drag it across the country will encourage you to prioritize and figure out what you really care about. My trips from home to school have made me a wizened pro by now. But still…graduating in just a few weeks makes me cringe when I look around my room. Under my bed. In my drawers.
Things just have a way of accumulating, oozing out of spaces, often when you least expect it. It’s like trying to clean out your purse and envisioning throwing away wrappers and receipts and being left with your wallet, phone, lip gloss, sunglasses, and keys. Instead, ticket stubs, Kleenex, pamphlets, granola bars, hair ties, business cards, gum, forgotten notes, and pens just spill out, pile up, and refuse to disappear. I can’t throw them away because I might use them. I don’t want to carry them around because I might not use them. Should I save them? Throw ‘em in a drawer?
I contemplated packing up a suitcase this weekend, full of forgotten items and winter clothes and other inessentials. It’s just one more step en route to that inevitable end date. Oh, how I’d love to shove end dates in a drawer and forget them.
I know packing will be emotional. Nothing is just an item anymore, just a sign of my consumerism, just an accessory. Instead, I pick something up and feel its meanings, its history, the emotions tied up with it. My rain boots that I bought in England and trudged through Venice in. The picture frame my sister made and sent me. The book I bought last year, to use for my thesis. Packing becomes a dizzying array of prioritizing, organizing, and remembering—always remembering.
When I bought it, where I wore it, who I was with when I had it, what I intend to do with it, how I’ve changed since I received it.
One of my art projects this year was to paint a container of some kind—it could be anything, a room, one’s skull, hands cupping water, a train car. What about a suitcase though? Doesn’t it make an excellent self-portrait? A compartment of things that mattered enough to me to move across the country. The things I couldn’t leave behind. The accumulation of my life.
Just a few more weeks and this round of suitcases will be packed. But not quite yet.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Notes from Another Era
I love mail. Receiving a hand-written note is the equivalent of like a hundred facebook notifications and one email and four tweets. I was reading this article today and considering what it would mean to have a world without mail.
Then I stumbled across this article and questioned what it would mean to have a world without real conversation anymore.
I contemplated, while I walked across town yesterday, what it would be like to lose my headphones for a few weeks. To be forced to listen to conversation at the office, on the bus, at the library, to the sounds of the city on walks and runs, to the annoying snores and chatter and crying on airplanes—in short, to be disallowed from silencing out all that which I do not wish to listen to.
I crave a place of my own in a busy city setting; I miss driving in a car and having my bubble. In the urban environment, that private space is replicated by closing oneself off from others, from unwanted attention, from distractions. But what is the cost?
How many of us have texted in an elevator or car or some awkward social situation, to look busy, less alone, more connected? How many of us have seen young middle schoolers that post nearly constantly online about their appearances? There is, there simply must be, something disturbing about where our society is heading. I love technology and can’t imagine my life without it; it has enabled me to live across the country or world from my family and friends and feel connected to them.
But sometimes I feel like a woman from another age, another time. I want long letters. And to have these hours-long-deep-college conversations forever. I want to be good at phone calls and not lose sight of real human connection in the midst of easier contact. I want to be able to hold onto the beautiful, wise practices of the past even with all the progress we have made. And I want my kids someday to be able to talk to anyone, anytime, about anything like their grandmother.
I saw this Hallmark commercial recently that had people saying things like “Tell me you love me,” “Tell me 40 is just a number,” “Tell me I’m the most beautiful woman you have ever met,” “Tell me I’ve been the best mother to you.” I thought about the way that even greeting cards produce messages that people can just sign their names to. I want personal notes and for people I love to think through what they want to say to me, to deliberately construct personal and meaningful messages, and to know that they have taken the time to reach out to me, communicated by their handwriting.
I’m sure we’ll still have the post office for years and years to come. But it is fading, the need for it is fading. That can’t be denied and I certainly do not think it should be overlooked as inconsequential. It will affect all of us, even more than we realize.
Then I stumbled across this article and questioned what it would mean to have a world without real conversation anymore.
I contemplated, while I walked across town yesterday, what it would be like to lose my headphones for a few weeks. To be forced to listen to conversation at the office, on the bus, at the library, to the sounds of the city on walks and runs, to the annoying snores and chatter and crying on airplanes—in short, to be disallowed from silencing out all that which I do not wish to listen to.
I crave a place of my own in a busy city setting; I miss driving in a car and having my bubble. In the urban environment, that private space is replicated by closing oneself off from others, from unwanted attention, from distractions. But what is the cost?
How many of us have texted in an elevator or car or some awkward social situation, to look busy, less alone, more connected? How many of us have seen young middle schoolers that post nearly constantly online about their appearances? There is, there simply must be, something disturbing about where our society is heading. I love technology and can’t imagine my life without it; it has enabled me to live across the country or world from my family and friends and feel connected to them.
But sometimes I feel like a woman from another age, another time. I want long letters. And to have these hours-long-deep-college conversations forever. I want to be good at phone calls and not lose sight of real human connection in the midst of easier contact. I want to be able to hold onto the beautiful, wise practices of the past even with all the progress we have made. And I want my kids someday to be able to talk to anyone, anytime, about anything like their grandmother.
I saw this Hallmark commercial recently that had people saying things like “Tell me you love me,” “Tell me 40 is just a number,” “Tell me I’m the most beautiful woman you have ever met,” “Tell me I’ve been the best mother to you.” I thought about the way that even greeting cards produce messages that people can just sign their names to. I want personal notes and for people I love to think through what they want to say to me, to deliberately construct personal and meaningful messages, and to know that they have taken the time to reach out to me, communicated by their handwriting.
I’m sure we’ll still have the post office for years and years to come. But it is fading, the need for it is fading. That can’t be denied and I certainly do not think it should be overlooked as inconsequential. It will affect all of us, even more than we realize.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
My Thesis the Beastis
I imagined what it would feel like to finish my thesis. Surely it would be liberating; I wrote “FREEDOM” on my calendar, emblazoned across my due date and the days following. But instead, I felt…numb. It was surreal. I didn’t notice, caught up in a torrent of things I had put off until that mysterious time—post-thesis. Originally I had imagined myself thinking, “Oh, I need to write this section tonight…” before realizing I had already finished my thesis. But I didn’t slip into thinking about physiognomy in Charlotte Bronte’s novels (my thesis topic) unexpectedly. It was an off-switch—turned in, forgotten, a distant dream that I only vaguely recalled.
But it’s been a huge part of my year. A series of deadlines. A challenge to write more and better and deeper than I ever had before. I had envisioned, as an underclassman, what it meant to research independently, to delve into a topic and claim ownership over a specialized field. Of course, I had anticipated an adventurous hunt through dusty files at the Library of Congress and stumbling across never-before-seen important documents and a succession of ah-ha! moments.
Mostly it was perseverance. It was like entering into a committed relationship with my research topic, through highs and lows. I stuck with it even when frustrated and was surprised by its nuanced character and tried to learn more, ever more, about it. We had fall-outs, angsty separations, glorious reunions fueled by inspiration. I would discover new depths in Bronte’s novels, new ways to approach a rich passage, a sudden connection between sources, a fresh tactic that occurred to me while I brushed my teeth. As the year progressed, and the pages mounted, I occasionally lost sight of my original passion for my thesis, but it would usually resurface, drawing me back to my love of English literature, of writing, of engaging with critics.
It felt like I carved something out, created something worthwhile. My thesis was the culmination of a year’s work and furthermore, of my gradually maturing voice. I had this revelatory moment when I read the paper I wrote sophomore year that had sparked my whole thesis. Originally I considered my long paper about Villette to be the best paper I had ever written and anticipated being able to carry pages of that writing into my thesis with minimal editing. I was shocked when I pulled out that paper to read it over again. My writing from even just a year and a half ago seemed unfinished, young, rudimentary. I felt an immediate sense of panic—I had to start from scratch rather than with half of my chapter already written—but also a sense of accomplishment. Reading my own writing and knowing that I have come so far and matured as a critical writer emphasized my success in fulfilling one of my goals—having my thesis be the culmination of my whole undergraduate career.
Before I knew it the chapters were done. Then the Introduction I had dreaded. After a late night, the Conclusion—the Conclusion!—was written too. Around 80 pages of my writing—my writing. I thumbed through the pages, each one a small hallmark, a tiny accomplishment. I recalled the initial horror I felt at confronting my blank Word document, with its flashing, demanding cursor, which seemed to say, “Do you really think you can do this? FLASH. Write an entire thesis? FLASH. Write something if you can. FLASH. I don’t think you can. FLASH. I’m still waiting. FLASH.” Slowly but surely, page by page, chapter by chapter, novel by novel, I constructed, built my thesis, from the flashing cursor down and down, pages full of writing, from empty hands upwards into a pile of pages.
The Table of Contents cemented my realization that it was really coming together: I had written enough that people would need a map to navigate through my writing. A cover page. My acknowledgements. Each official, standard introductory page confirmed, “You’re done. You did it.” I printed off the copies, in shock, exhausted, in denial. Four clean, thick, beautiful copies. I hurried home to drop my things off before heading to Kinkos to have my copies bound. As I carefully descended the stairs, my foot caught on a piece of wood, and nearly four hundred pages flew from my hands and scattered, horrifyingly, around my feet. I stood there muttering curses before someone approached and helped me collect all my pages.
I slammed the door as I entered my apartment, cursing my clumsiness and reflecting on the idea that this was my "child," this thesis of mine. I had nurtured the project for months, given birth by paying for the painfully expensive copies, and suffered from a sense of separation anxiety—would my newborn suffer, released from the safety of my laptop into the world, open to criticism? And then on the way home from the maternity ward, I had dropped my newborn on the ground, battering it, dirtying it. Perfect. I sorted through the pages, reconstructing my chapters, smoothing the creased corners, scraping away a little dirt. My thesis was so imperfect, glaringly so after the fall, but it was done. Done. Finished. Completed. Accomplished. I had accomplished something. Perhaps not significant but real.
I know a great deal about an obscure and ridiculously specific topic that will not casually come in conversation—people don’t really discuss physiognomy randomly—and will probably fade slowly from my life. It’s discouraging to think that less than a handful of people will ever read my thesis. But I also know that this is the quintessential thesis process. Slaving away, dedicating oneself to a task, and then looking—not for external validation, because there is little to be had or found—for internal peace and self-found pride.
I survived my thesis. Somehow. And now I’m simply busy confronting all those comments I made over the last few months: “Well, after I finish my thesis…”
But it’s been a huge part of my year. A series of deadlines. A challenge to write more and better and deeper than I ever had before. I had envisioned, as an underclassman, what it meant to research independently, to delve into a topic and claim ownership over a specialized field. Of course, I had anticipated an adventurous hunt through dusty files at the Library of Congress and stumbling across never-before-seen important documents and a succession of ah-ha! moments.
Mostly it was perseverance. It was like entering into a committed relationship with my research topic, through highs and lows. I stuck with it even when frustrated and was surprised by its nuanced character and tried to learn more, ever more, about it. We had fall-outs, angsty separations, glorious reunions fueled by inspiration. I would discover new depths in Bronte’s novels, new ways to approach a rich passage, a sudden connection between sources, a fresh tactic that occurred to me while I brushed my teeth. As the year progressed, and the pages mounted, I occasionally lost sight of my original passion for my thesis, but it would usually resurface, drawing me back to my love of English literature, of writing, of engaging with critics.
It felt like I carved something out, created something worthwhile. My thesis was the culmination of a year’s work and furthermore, of my gradually maturing voice. I had this revelatory moment when I read the paper I wrote sophomore year that had sparked my whole thesis. Originally I considered my long paper about Villette to be the best paper I had ever written and anticipated being able to carry pages of that writing into my thesis with minimal editing. I was shocked when I pulled out that paper to read it over again. My writing from even just a year and a half ago seemed unfinished, young, rudimentary. I felt an immediate sense of panic—I had to start from scratch rather than with half of my chapter already written—but also a sense of accomplishment. Reading my own writing and knowing that I have come so far and matured as a critical writer emphasized my success in fulfilling one of my goals—having my thesis be the culmination of my whole undergraduate career.
Before I knew it the chapters were done. Then the Introduction I had dreaded. After a late night, the Conclusion—the Conclusion!—was written too. Around 80 pages of my writing—my writing. I thumbed through the pages, each one a small hallmark, a tiny accomplishment. I recalled the initial horror I felt at confronting my blank Word document, with its flashing, demanding cursor, which seemed to say, “Do you really think you can do this? FLASH. Write an entire thesis? FLASH. Write something if you can. FLASH. I don’t think you can. FLASH. I’m still waiting. FLASH.” Slowly but surely, page by page, chapter by chapter, novel by novel, I constructed, built my thesis, from the flashing cursor down and down, pages full of writing, from empty hands upwards into a pile of pages.
The Table of Contents cemented my realization that it was really coming together: I had written enough that people would need a map to navigate through my writing. A cover page. My acknowledgements. Each official, standard introductory page confirmed, “You’re done. You did it.” I printed off the copies, in shock, exhausted, in denial. Four clean, thick, beautiful copies. I hurried home to drop my things off before heading to Kinkos to have my copies bound. As I carefully descended the stairs, my foot caught on a piece of wood, and nearly four hundred pages flew from my hands and scattered, horrifyingly, around my feet. I stood there muttering curses before someone approached and helped me collect all my pages.
I slammed the door as I entered my apartment, cursing my clumsiness and reflecting on the idea that this was my "child," this thesis of mine. I had nurtured the project for months, given birth by paying for the painfully expensive copies, and suffered from a sense of separation anxiety—would my newborn suffer, released from the safety of my laptop into the world, open to criticism? And then on the way home from the maternity ward, I had dropped my newborn on the ground, battering it, dirtying it. Perfect. I sorted through the pages, reconstructing my chapters, smoothing the creased corners, scraping away a little dirt. My thesis was so imperfect, glaringly so after the fall, but it was done. Done. Finished. Completed. Accomplished. I had accomplished something. Perhaps not significant but real.
I know a great deal about an obscure and ridiculously specific topic that will not casually come in conversation—people don’t really discuss physiognomy randomly—and will probably fade slowly from my life. It’s discouraging to think that less than a handful of people will ever read my thesis. But I also know that this is the quintessential thesis process. Slaving away, dedicating oneself to a task, and then looking—not for external validation, because there is little to be had or found—for internal peace and self-found pride.
I survived my thesis. Somehow. And now I’m simply busy confronting all those comments I made over the last few months: “Well, after I finish my thesis…”
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