When I first started this blog, years ago in an after party of my own, late one night at my parents' house, setting up my LiveJournal account, I entitled my new world of internet wonder: "The Beginning is the End is the Beginning" (or was it the other way around? I forget.) Anyway, in all dramatic Billy Corgan fashion, I had started on a little endeavor that was without a real direction or purpose. Here, today, with the rain and sleepy gray feeling out town, I have past across an actual finish line.

I finished the work for my degree (insert fanfare here) and officially applied for graduation at my school. Seems the degree part won't be awarded until October 19th or something, but nonetheless, the workload is completed. After finishing those three, final, English literature classes back to back, one month at a time, I set my mind to finishing my thesis work (I had some piddly things that I had put off for months and I wrote each day in some sort of list or notebook; finish this, would ya?) I'm such a dumdum for not doing that stuff sooner but, alas, procrastination gets the better of me every time. It's the way I've always been and I honestly don't see any recourse from it only that it makes me feel guilty. Since guilt isn't something good and feeling condemned by something that you create in your head (or, as in my case, as people have told me to feel condemned about since I was old enough to sit in a school desk - something I tried to wiggle out of as much as possible) I don't see much need for concern. If it's not something that really matters when it gets done, then, sheesh, who cares?

Anyway, so now that all of it has been turned in and I'm awaiting my final grades to be put in, I've already been on some interviews for teaching jobs. Now, I've not worked for over a year now and I'm still awaiting financial aid to send me a scrap of cash (something they can't discuss until all the bills are paid - bills that include a $100 graduation fee. Oh no, I didn't make that up.) If this job I applied for yesterday works out, then I'll be able to start working next month, now that I have my degree. If I can't work then, more than likely after Christmas I'll have something.

However, now that my deadlines of school has finished, I feel out of sorts. Nothing to stress about that is in the means of productivity. Nothing to mark in my little day planner as an important date. Just me and the cat and the sound of the air conditioner running. (That broke during the last hurricane, by the way, and it took three attempts before the maintenance guys finally got the "small" leak repaired. Nice.) But while this stagnant feeling has taken over me, I see that it is an end to my last hurdle. When I started my work in the writing program it was because I was sitting at a desk in a public school, hating my job and stressing about it so badly that my body was eating at itself to create illness. I realized then, that teaching was something that tore me from my real love of writing and I wanted something for myself to work towards. Otherwise, each day was devoted to trying to stay in cohorts with the evil administrators and Lord knows that's just not part of the plan for anyone. So...online and upwards in education I went.

The funny thing is, now that I have the degree to get away from the horrible teaching days, I'm getting lulled back into it. Granted it makes sense that someone with an English degree and a Creative Writing degree would only be able to sit at her own desk and type away at a little machine, or go into a classroom and teach her wide range of knowledge just to keep herself in a home. But as I realized yesterday, being shown the new hopeful classroom (it has windows!) and given books (free books) and materials, and being introduced to people at the school, I got the distinct feeling that I was going to be able to head out for another change in my life. And yes, it freaks me out, but no, I'm not going to shy away from it. For starters, I need the money; that's obvious. For seconds, I need some new deadlines, goals, objectives and, hell, people to talk to in the physical form who are not close relatives. I couldn't stand most of the teachers I worked with and at the interviews I went to these past few months, I saw that negative, ready to strike, overly critical look in some of their eyes. But I also met some very nice ladies, like the one yesterday, who would be lovely to work for. Nice, friendly, chatty, helpful and polite. You can tell when things are right for you or when they are not. Some interviews I went to, I thought, "Oh hell, no, I'm not going through the kind of pain they're looking to dunk me into." But others I felt at ease sitting with them.

I have also realized that teaching is a bit too much of a social task for me. Granted, I don't know if I'll feel like this once I get into the college arena. I may love that. I know I loved college after I left the horrible high school years. I know I loved the university after I went through all the bull in my early years at the community college too. Without the regime of the state standards and the women who preserve it, I may have a much better time at the private school or at the community colleges. I'm not dismissing that possibility at all. However, I don't think I'm going to stay with that career move for long. For one thing, when I was at an interview last month, I was told that more than half of a college's staff is part-time and it's "extremely hard" to get full-time work over being an adjunct. My interviewer's advice, "Go back to teaching high school." Um...okay, no. Not unless I had a certificate and experience and full metal armor, would I go back into that arena. No, I wouldn't even go back even if they couldn't find some way to gossip about my faults; it's not worth it. You waste your whole life and never get to fulfill yourself. Not that helping people is bad and not that I didn't love working with the kids. I'll love working with the "kids", fresh outta high school hipsters who join my classes. But public school in Florida. Nope. Never again.

So my option for moving out of the education realm came across my mind earlier this year; to be a librarian. Now I don't recall exactly how I came up with this idea. I think I was looking around at education websites or career websites or something and I saw jobs for librarians. I started musing about the idea but never really mentioned it to anyone because, well, I'm tired of mentioning it to people who make some negative comment about what I say, just to give "advice", so I kept this and a lot of other things to myself. But anyway, so I started investigating what it takes to become a librarian saw that you only need a Master's Degree in Librarian and Information Science, so I started looking up potential online programs. Some of them were asking for high GRE scores which I never could get after attempting that test three times. (Even though, at the time, I still had that chip on my shoulder that has since dissolved) and some were just way too expensive. So I found a handful of schools that were reasonably priced and that had admission requirements that I could manage. I applied to some, got some professors to write me some letters of recommendation (I'm still waiting on three and the deadline is in two weeks - yay!), a letter stating why I'd be such a good librarian, and the money to pay for the application and transcript request fees. It's that money bit that gets me every time.

And that's all I can say right now about the outline of my life's events. These are the things that I chalk up to "professional" or "work" sense even though I'm really thinking about posting an actual website for my "real" me stuff (you know, use my real name, talk about my personal life, talk about my writing, lift the veil of half anonymity) and I will soon enough. There's more I need to write in a real sense instead of in an escapism sense. Still, escapism is the purpose for writing anyway so this here little bloggy will have to stick too.


Photo credit: florian.b

http://www.deloresdefacto.com/?p=93

I'm writing this month long awaited blog post here at almost 3AM. I care not to really get into any linkage or media savvy discussion because, as my picture indicates, I'm more apt to writing about, well, writing. So let's get to it, shall we?
I am almost done with my M.F.A. program. I'm happy and, at the same time, sort of meh...unfulfilled. I know that I took on this program for my own personal desire to work towards my heart's desire. I wanted to have deadlines and discussion and work done on my writing. When I took this program on last April, I was in the midst of my crappy workplace. So having something to glue me back to my sanity was necessary. And the program was taken on. Yay for me.
However, now I am wondering where I want to go from here. I'm at the much awaited cross roads in my life. (Huh, I wasn't intending on getting to this in my post this evening. But I guess it all is related.) The way I see it; I can write anywhere, by any means about anything. I can carry my legal pad or my spiral bound notebook out to the porch with my tea and write away. I could be anywhere and I could write a story or a journal entry or a poem (my new found, lovely thing to do right now -- even if I am drastically untalented in the art since I am no Dickinson or Whitman or W.C. Williams) and my life's purpose would be complete. I am still fervently convinced that my life has to be lead first and foremost and then my writing can echo it in a way to describe the pathways. It may be silly to say this but, yes, I want to "teach" the future readership of my little section of shelf at Borders one day that this is how things were for me and this is what I learned from it all.
But teaching, even after an interview at the community college, I'm not sure I can or will or want to still do it. (Although nothing tickles me the same way seeing a book about grammar sitting in my lap as someone leans over and discusses "curriculum" with me does. Aahh...) I still am thinking of going a different route in my educational realm since this English bit isn't really panning out. I even had a lady at another, separate interview, query to me, "Not to be disrespectful, but exactly why did you chose an English degree anyway?" I had to admit, "Because I love it." I mean, what other explanation can I give? I love books and I love writing. I never expected to be a millionaire, I always expected to sit at a desk and pour over facets of print media and write things in a little notebook, just as I did since as long as I can remember.
Anyway, so tonight I got some of what I was supposed to do tonight but I still have to work tomorrow. It is now 3:04AM and I was going to make an early morning tomorrow and head to the pool. Apparently not. I still have reading to do before I go to bed and I still have things to write; just for me. I can work anywhere, live anywhere and this is what will always be readily available. But as always I'm still behind in real progress. I will, however, it just takes me a while to get there. I am not so much envious anymore of all that people do because I know I have the potential and the ability in me to do all the things I want to do. Now I sort of just appreciate seeing what kinds of things are possible.

My other thing I wanted to mention was that my poor fishy has died. I noticed him looking a little sluggish and I kept trying to feed him and chat to him and encourage him to be okay but I guess two years for a fish is pretty good. He was the one that my friend at school last year gave me when her mother bought one each for our classrooms. The kids loved them but they did try to overfeed them or shake them to "see if they were dead." Very nice. I still remember when we had the hurricane that school year and I had to bring his big plant filled beta bowl in the car with me, to the apartment complex and up the stairs; very carefully. By the time we got back to school, once the hurricane passed, I figured there was no reason to subject him to further torture at the hands of middle school children, so I kept him in a little one gallon tank on the kitchen counter. And there he stayed until his toilet bowl funeral yesterday afternoon. Poor fishy.
So even though I'm working through all sorts of my past habits and lying them aside (ignoring the impulses and killing off all the bad thoughts, etc.) I still justified my impulse to get another fish. It was a nice, hot Sunday afternoon and I hadn't even left the house yesterday since my books kept me on the couch, at the computer, and on the porch for some fresh air -- still not out of the apartment. I reasoned that I needed some sunshine and fresh air, a ride, some music, a visit to my parents (Mom made chili; like I'm going to pass that up. Plus I got my letter from school about my financial aid; I have an email saying that my classes are paid for, yet a letter that says I still have an outstanding bill. Um...okay?) I then took a ride to get $10 worth of gas. Then went to Dollar General for $15 of: Cascade with Bleach, Purex laundry softener (cheap but it works), a stationary set ($2 and purple!), bottles of water and sugar free Bubble Yum (that is no where to be found anywhere except the Dollar Store it seems; that is my driving gum brand of choice because it is the only one that hold the capability of bubble blowing.)
Then I went to Petco. Now what I intended on getting was, say a couple of goldfish or angelfish or something that wouldn't have to be all by itself in my little tank. I know that Bruce dying was sad and it definitely ended a part of my past life for me and made me think about my classroom once again (also made me really think that I need to get on the ball and email my friend again and see how she is doing at school, however that may entail a social situation and I'll have to get to that later too.) I looked and looked at the store in the freshwater fish department. The lady working there assisted a middle aged lady and her daughter, then a mother with five or six (well behaved, mind you) children who were all getting fish for their aquarium. It was cute to hear them discuss with one another what their fish's names would be. However, it was not cute that I was never asked to be helped. I mean I mingled, I looked, I browsed, I even had a couple of aquarium supplies in my hand but nope, even as I looked around for the lady working there to come back, she never did. No one wanted to help the girl in the Halloween t-shirt. (It rules; it's orange with a big, black splashy painted raven on it.) Anyway, so since it was evident that no one was going to help me get a fish, I started realizing how much easier it would be to get a beta fish. I mean I had all the stuff for one and they are very, very easy to take care of. Plus, if I even did go anywhere (I still hold out hope!) putting a little feeder in there would be easy as pie, or even taking the little one gallon tank to have someone else feed him a couple times of day works fine. So I looked at the beta fish, already sad in their little plastic homes and I thought, "I should just rescue one of these guys and let them live in a nice, happy, aquarium in my kitchen." I love hearing the sound of the aquarium and I didn't want to put the silly tank away and not let it keep life in it as it should so, I found a fish! I was looking at a big, pretty medium blue fish but both Scott (my first beta who died quite a while ago) and Bruce were blue. I couldn't help but notice the little red guy who was sitting on the shelf staring straight at me. I kept thinking about the Velveteen Rabbit and how the toys on the shelf were sad when no one wanted to take them home. (They really shouldn't traumatize children with such ideas, especially those with overactive imaginations and a sensitive nature. I always think of things like that and feel bad for all of them. I always understood why Charlie Brown chose that little Christmas tree that needed a home the most. That's why I always choose the ones that are short and fat that no one else would really want. Sigh...) Anyway, so I picked up my new red fish and have named him Borges after the writer that I'm writing about for my class right now. (If my professor ever comes across this blog, I hope he feels quite proud that I chose this name.) I figured that Borges was Spanish speaking, the idea of red and bull-fighting came to mind and seemed like a suitable name; although I did research and discover that this is not a practice, apparently, in his homeland of Argentina. Sigh...oh well. The same is there so it shall stay. How else can I be expected to be a writer if I don't name my pets after literary figures or characters. (I still say the cat is named after Jacob Marley.)
I'm also very, very tired of my current situation. I never talk to anyone and I never want to go and do the same old things I use to do a while back. The club is just dead to me and I have no desire to go anymore. And when I did go out a while back I felt depressed for days afterwards. I've been getting like that lately when I'm out with people and feel like I just don't have any connection to any of it anymore. This has slowly been taking effect on my for a while and now I really see how I'm just over it where I am now. I am so ready for a change in this solitary little life.
And that's about it for this evening. It's now 4AM and I really should go grab my books and head to bed so I can get up at a hopeful decent hour and get back to work. Before I go for now (I'm sure my writing/education/unemployment topics will surface again soon; supposedly I'm getting that extension on unemployment like everyone else in the country!) I will leave you with one revelation that I made while working this evening. Sometimes typos are a good thing.
Love and Live are only one letter apart. You have to remove the "I", as in the selfish side of yourself, perhaps, to allow that center, that empty place in yourself to be filled. "I" can live, but "O" is the center, the core of love.

Photo credit: deloresdefacto

http://www.deloresdefacto.com/?p=89

I wrote this in my notebook as I was on my porch, smoking these old Camel lights that have been in one of my kitchen drawers for, oh a year now. I am like those stupid Become and EX commercials that talks about re-learning how to do certain things without cigarettes. For me, unfortunately, it's writing. I've tried to write an entry for a while about the internal stuff that's going on with me. There are some past actions and reaction, aside from writing without smoking, that I'm trying to unlearn.

Some months ago, I was lying in bed, wondering if I was going to be the girl who was always alone. Every past action indicated to that assumption. But I realized, that night, that it was me that was causing the empty bed and the lack of a friend-based relationship. I was alone because I had trained myself to believe that I was "supposed" to be alone. (What does that Interpol song say? "I'm sick of spending these lonely night, training myself not to care"?)
Now Lord knows that after having one guy say and do the worst, manipulative and dishonest things to me at a young age, when I thought that was all I could get, even thought I knew it was wrong, I was still hurt and discouraged. The idea of what "love" was to a man because a separate definition to what I defined the word to mean. Love meant calling me up, after tons of unanswered messages, telling me of his past conquests and hatred for my crying, even though "you know I still love you." So once I figured out that everything I believed in his words were empty, I went on to try the same routine with two other guys directly after my divorce. Each one turned around one day to say, "I don't understand what the big deal is" when they did something just as cruel. Hence, I became cemented in jealousy, anxiety, depression, guilt and disillusion.

And since those years long ago, I've sought after crushes who had the same kind of attitude towards me. They reeled me in, tossed me out, reeled me in, then berated me for having an emotional reactions to their inactions of care. Never once did I think I was choosing the wrong guys. Never once did it occur to me that I was setting myself up for failure on purpose because I didn't think I deserved anything else.

By being a single woman in my modern world, I have had plenty of firsthand experience on the long, arduous process of relationship discussions. We have books and movies and television shows and music and friends who all talk about men. We have to be "smart" girls. We can't put up with any man's crap. We have to (as Dr. Phil says) "teach people how to treat us." Men will do anything it takes to screw a woman over and we have to be on guard at all times. Basically, I have been fashioned into a bitch.
And since I have always been the one to be hurt, I never thought anything was my fault past not being beautiful, not being thin enough, not being like other girl who had husbands. I wasn't bitchy enough I supposed and Lord knows I got plenty of resentment in myself when I was called "bitter."
In the past month or so, something changed in me drastically. It was as if I finally saw myself on the inside and I found out that my past had been an excuse to carry a chip on my shoulder. I assumed all men were liars, cheaters, manipulators, skirt chasers and all-around jerks who delighted in nothing more than to push every button I had to make me crazy with anxiety and insecurity.
I started seeing that all this time, I was expecting people to say, "Oh, she's had it bad before, so she has a right to be distrusting." I had it said to me by women for years. I was set apart because I had this crappy past that I kept on call to use as a tool to week out any possible errors in a man's character that would potentially make him "just like the others."

But now I realize it's been me this whole time that's choosing to be bent out of shape over things that should be boxed up and buried. I am the one who accuses and assumes that every man is never going to be genuine or trustworthy or kind. So I set up fights and wait for an opportunity to pounce and say, "Ah ha! I knew it!" I lash out and keep myself "protected" instead of tearing down my wall that I took years to put up. I use to think, "I'll try with this (wrong) guy, but if it doesn't work (when I knew it wouldn't because he wasn't right for me), I'm putting another brick up and sealing myself off for good!" I wasn't going to be anyone's fool.

Nope, I've been my own fool all along. I saw mean and hurtful, unjust things. I get angry and jealous and worked up over nothing that is the actual truth -- I make up reasons to not try and let anyone in.

So unlearning all of this is what I've been trying to do recently. I realized that all of the things I have gone through is my reason for writing. I always figured that I'd be able to tell my future audience the things I learned along the way. What I wanted to write about is how I figured out, at age 32, that shutting the door in any man's face before they even try to know is anything but smart. I learned that it isn't that someone is going to have to save me from being hurt; I have to save myself from being someone to does the hurting. I've learned not to repeat my patterns, but to grow out of them and evolve.
I apologize for any rocks I may have kicked up as I tried to set myself on my path.

Photo credit: remotd

http://www.deloresdefacto.com/?p=88