Catching Fire

Grad School!

I’ve learned all too well the benefits of quitting. The siren song of letting something go and walking away, or of putting off taking it the next level, has sounded often in my ear, and one of my few consistencies is that I’ve usually followed it. This has not often been a mistake, actually—in my willingness to experiment and to give things (and people) their fair chance, I’ve had a lot of opportunities to learn what doesn’t work for me.

Or at least that’s what I’ve heard I should tell myself…haha.

Anyways, I’ve become a master of the exit. I can, without a qualm, walk out on a shitty job mid-shift. I can dip out from under a poorly-considered hookup, or a going-nowhere friendship, without leaving a ripple. I can break down and pack up a house in two days. And I can definitely, definitely, definitely drop out of school. I’ve done it five times, and I don’t regret a one.

Knowing how and when to quit is a strength. I’ve been able to do a whole lot, unburdened with things that weren’t right for me. But there’s a danger that one will become too good at something, that the opposite strength—in this case, the ability to stay put—will atrophy, and cause damage to one’s life. I knew when I came back from Europe last year that it was time to stay in Tallahassee, to put down roots and enjoy all the benefits and opportunities that stability brings. I figured I’d be here at least a few years, finishing this Creative Writing degree and then working somewhere to pay my loans. But the truth is, there’s a certain amount of wiggle-room even in that plan.

I’ve decided to go to graduate school here at FSU. Not just go, but go immediately following my graduation next spring, as opposed to taking a year off as I’d originally considered.

This may sound like a pretty mundane decision to some folks, but the truth is, it’s going to change the path of my life pretty dramatically from what it otherwise would have been. It requires not just the commitment to four extra semesters of school—two nonnegotiable years in Tallahassee—but also the commitment to another complete path for me, both during the degree and after.

You see, this degree would bump me up into a completely different sphere than I’m used to living in. I’ve been an undergrad for about 11 years now, and my self-identity’s become (unhealthily) wrapped up with that. With this degree—a Master’s in American and Florida studies, with an extra certificate in Archives Management—I’d not only be placed right in the professional sphere, but into a certain government/activism/access-to-information level that it’s hard for me to imagine I belong in.

But all the things I want to do with my life, from being a novelist to working for the betterment of this state, would be supercharged permanently from it. I’d become, frankly, a much better-connected and more powerful person than I’ve ever seriously pictured trying to become.

Part of me fears selling out. Would my sixteen-year-old self, with the anarchy symbol on her Converse, have died at the thought of me working for the biggest Man of all? Truth is, I really just want to write books, and the more research I can do, the better. Plus the more connections I can make, the more I can help preserve the goodness of this place. But it does make me feel strange to contemplate the increased income and power level I’d be left at.

I’ve never been after either of those things; I’ve considered them to be actively problematic, and been proud of my indifference to them. But hell, money and power—who can’t be tempted? Even I am, obviously, and I haven’t even applied to the grad school yet. I just want to use whatever comes my way to the good-but I certainly desire something to come my way. That desire makes me nervous.

Well, I’ve got a good long time to think it over. That M.A. diploma won’t even be on my wall until 2010. Let’s get through the B.A. first, shall we?

Blue Angel Crash

Completing a tragic week, one of the Navy Blue Angels fell Saturday in Beaufort, South Carolina.

As a Pensacola native, I’ve stood countless times, sweltering in the heat on Pensacola Beach, forgetting my sunburn as the Blues roared overhead. Jet fuel and salt breeze, the spectators’ applause, and the blistering shriek as one of the Hornets raced by, daring fate. In a profession based around confronting extreme risk with beautiful skill, accidents are unmerciful.

Rest in peace, Lieutenant Commander Kevin Davis. You’ll be missed.

Wrapping Up Spring Semester

This will be a quick one, because only my palms on the keyboard are keeping my head from hitting the desk in sheer tiredness. Spring semester is over. Thus ends my first year back at Florida State, and my second-to-last year of college. One more year to go.

Dad and I met at the Union today and ordered my class ring. To really feel the momentousness of this day for me, just consider that ten years ago, in 1997, I was also sitting in an apartment in Tallahassee—before cable internet even existed—contemplating the end of the semester at FSU. Back when girls wore Jennifer Aniston haircuts, back when they played Spice Girls in the Leach athletic center, back when Clinton was a president and not an excuse, I was sitting in the April heat, pondering my English major and my future. Within a few months, I’d be in Orlando, and the mad 20′s rollercoaster would have begun. The end of college was unimaginably far away, over some distant academic event horizon.

How profoundly this decade has changed everything.

In about six weeks, I’ll be wearing a solid gold reminder of how within-reach the end really is.

Tears And Resolve

FSU students at vigil on Landis Green Wednesday the 18th.

Virginia Tech: Too Close to Home

Have you ever wanted to shoot somebody?

Has the thought, in frustration or fury, ever crossed your mind? Be honest. I know you didn’t mean it. You were just pissed that day, when that motherfucker cut you off, and you slammed on the brakes just in time to see his “W” bumpersticker.

You were just overloaded that night in the club, waiting for your flaky girlfriend who was late as usual, when that random chick dumped her drink down your leg and looked at you like she couldn’t believe you’d got in her way.

You were just kidding, sort of, when you joked with your friend about dancing on your evil boss’s grave. And god knows, when it comes to Al Qaeda, Saddam, Cheney, Rove, and the asshole who keyed your car, well, are they really contributing anything we’d miss?

Everyone thinks it, off and on. But most of us would never do it. Why?

Maybe your life’s been a little darker. Maybe you’ve walked through some tunnels you couldn’t see the end of, stopped believing there’d be an end to, couldn’t get anyone to help you with, or even take you seriously. Maybe you’ve been abused, disbelieved, raped, betrayed. Maybe you’ve been bullied unmercifully for all your life. Should anyone ever have to learn the meaning, the deepest extent, of crushing humiliation—of sickening dread—of paranoid terror—of soul-deadening isolation?

No, of course not. But some do. Some are learning that right now, as you read this.

And this is considered acceptable loss by the majority of this society, so that the majority can pass unthinkingly, unseeingly, past those that are in true pain.

Every day you walk, jacking your jaw into that cell phone, past someone who’s contemplating suicide. I guarantee it. Maybe you’ve walked past me.

A large percentage of my life has been spent struggling against the darkness. Abuse, illness, bullying, sexual assault, and what can euphemistically be called “bad spiritual advice”, have all been a part of my life. And I know I’m not alone. Problem was, I went through most of it alone, and I deal every single day with the twists it’s rendered in my perspective. How much can you relate?

I’ve had suicidal—and murderous—thoughts before. There’s something inside me that keeps either from being an option for me. A heart? Sanity? A conscience? I’m lucky to have it. Because how much resources does our society allocate nowadays, to ensuring everyone has it? Not nearly enough, obviously.

I’ve watched, and felt with my heart, our society become more isolated, more disconnected, more tight and oppressive. I’ve seen the people in the world around me, who in my childhood would have been cautiously tolerant, become terrified of anyone they didn’t know, unfriendly and closed off, coated in some sort of psychological Teflon. People grow nervous when asked for help. Lawsuits, liability, looking stupid, getting fucked over and dragged under themselves—people turn away. I’ve seen it, because it’s happened to me.

I’m a happy person nowadays, mainly because I stopped giving a fuck about what society expected me to make of my life, and started following my heart. Too bad we don’t teach children to do that, right from the cradle. Maybe they’d stop shooting each other.

Too bad we’ve all been reduced to trying to keep our own heads above water, telling ourselves we’re shocked when somebody drowns.

I’ll never kill anybody, except in self-defense, blah blah blah. You’re still safe, from me at least. Fortunately for all of us, most people have enough willpower to not let the experience of life crush the desire for life–and respect for it–out of them. Do you? While you’re attending the vigils this week, saying heartfelt prayers of condolence (and gratitude that it wasn’t you), why not search your heart, too? You might be surprised at how much we’re all part of this problem.

The First Year

As April slides by, I find myself approaching two important milestones: one year back in the United States from Europe, and the completion of my first school year back at Florida State. It’s hard to say which has had the most influence on my life; when I was in France in the fall of 2005, the FSU/Tallahassee/writing-for-a-living plan all kind of exploded into my head at the same time. I chose it as a comprehensive whole, and its benefits have all been tangled together, feeding each other. I can look up from my anthology of warped, decadent fin-de-siecle British literature, and stare at the massive live oaks, following with my eyes the kinks and twists of the swaying gray Spanish moss. Laying by the pool in a bikini critiquing short stories beats the hell out of trying to carry a six foot painting in 20mph wind and sleet. You know, some things are just better than others. If I had any ethical dilemmas before moving back to Florida, they’re gone now.

Of course, it helps to have ethics that are based on happiness.

There have been weak moments in this new way of life, of course, but overall I feel a certainty that I made the right decision. And that’s all I really wanted—certainty that I was headed in the right direction. After years of struggle and uncertainty, I only wanted to feel sure of myself again, and halfway contented. And I’ve got so much more. Change is possible—not just little changes, or superficial ones like location or career, but big ones, deep ones, changes that upend your view of the world and transform you into the person you’ve always wanted to become, but had almost given up on reaching. Shit, if I can keep hope, then hope can be kept.

So what have we learned, kids? To do what you actually want to do—not necessarily just in the moment, but the deep-seated leanings of your soul. They’re there for a reason, and they want to be heard. Desire isn’t a toy, but it’s also not a distraction; if you’re going to give in, give in all the way.