Phrases that describe the lifting of a weight from one's chest are cliche, yes, but considering the fact that I've had random chest pains that I finally pinned on my constant anxiety, I feel the cliche is apt. Thursday I received an acceptance letter from a fine institution in Boston, and since then the pains have been gone, gone, gone.
Of course, I wasn't sure if I was going to get the envelope open in the first place. Or, for that matter, if I was going to wake up on the floor some time later, only to be asked what day it is and if I know my own name. Trooper that I am, I managed, and inside was a wonderful folder filled with maps and pamphlets and a glorious congratulatory letter.
Have you ever seen old footage of women who go bonkers when they're told to "come on down" on The Price is Right? The jumping, the screaming, the demented facial contortions; I understand this now. After deafening the poor Mistress, I was on a high like no other. The sky looked sharper. Food tasted better. The world was full of possibility.
It made for a wonderful weekend that I enjoyed with the lightest heart I've had in years.
Now that I'm back, however, I'm faced with this reality: the particular program I'm accepted to, while highly praised, does not generally fund its students well. There are many MFA programs out there that offer funding in the form of tuition remission in addition to the traditional teaching assistant and graduate assistant positions. And, though it might be naive, I'm of the view that so long as I'm not paying tuition, I'll figure out a way to swing cost of living. How could I pass the opportunity up?
However, I have to now consider the option of taking out student loans and going into potentially substantial debt for a degree that won't help me pay that debt off upon exit. I don't know if this is something I'm prepared to do. It's not that I don't think the experience would be worthwhile. If I didn't think so, I wouldn't have spent over $600 to apply to schools in the first place.
It's just that, when I'm honest with myself, part of me would be okay with turning down a debt heavy educational opportunity in favor of starting over somewhere new. Finding a place I'd like to live, looking for a job there that won't drive me to drink, and dedicating my creative life to my craft on my own time. Yes, a tall order, but one I'm conceptually comfortable with for the first time in my life. See, I proved to myself by scrapping through the application process that I can write on my own time, that I'm capable. The praise I've received from my professors and the fact that I was accepted makes me feel that I'm at least a bit talented, and that I'm not wasting mine and everyone else's time. My craft would develop more slowly, and I'd lose out on invaluable perspectives, but how much am I willing to lay down for an MFA? The price of a small car? The price of a (very) small house?
That's not to say that more acceptances aren't on their way. Hopefully complete with rare juicy offers in an otherwise lean year all around. And, if that's the case, of course the sweat of my brow could afford to lie in wait for a couple years while I enrich my artistic side.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Five Days, Part 2
I'm suffering withdrawals. This past weekend was so great, so fun and carefree, that when we returned from our trip opening the door to my house felt like kicking the bottom out of a giant stack of cardboard boxes, each one hitting me with force enough to sting, but not to bruise.
How could I expect life to live up to the standards of our mini vacation? First, I had my new toy to play with, which dropped digital bread crumbs as we drove to New York to visit the Mistress's friend Filmic Lemieux. She's a hoot through and through, and we ended up wandering around Brooklyn in search of eats after the place we set out for was closed. We settled on indian, which was quite tasty, and had a great time before splitting the check and parting ways.
Though trying to find a place to piss in Jersey City that wasn't locked, closed, or occupied by those passed out from drug use sucked, the next leg of the trip wasn't so bad. That is to say, I honestly don't remember much of it: we drove down to Slim Jim and Bartlet's place, arriving after 3am. Bartlet was staying up with some Street Fighter, the kind that it's been a decade since I last played. I held my own to his challenges through my superior button mashery. I never had a Nintendo or a Super Nintendo, so my fighting game technique has essentially remained unchanged over the years: panic, and panic quickly.
Saturday was absolutely beautiful. Our first real spring day. Upon stepping foot outside I ran to the car where I've kept two mitts and a baseball for the past few years for just such an occasion. Between catch, the tire swing, and a tennis ball thrown up on the roof, we spent a few hours reliving childhood. That night Bartlet broiled up some steak, chicken, peppers, and cucumbers, and they were all fantastic. After dinner we settled in for beer, espresso, and the Battlestar Galactica board game. For reasons I can't succinctly go into, it was a fun game to play but a depressing game to win.
Sunday Slim Jim set up a shooting range for his fancy new pellet gun. It even had a real rifle scope on it, which I'd never used before. I thought I was doing pretty well in showing off what I have for marksmanship until the Mistress went all Annie Oakly on us and started dropping cans like it weren't a thing. She was the only one of the four of us who managed to hit anything while standing. I myself couldn't hit anything unless I was prone. If things get too much worse I know which one of us is getting sent out with the BB gun to net us some squirrel.
It was hard to leave, but we had jobs, cats, and untwatched Battlestar Galactica to get back to.
How could I expect life to live up to the standards of our mini vacation? First, I had my new toy to play with, which dropped digital bread crumbs as we drove to New York to visit the Mistress's friend Filmic Lemieux. She's a hoot through and through, and we ended up wandering around Brooklyn in search of eats after the place we set out for was closed. We settled on indian, which was quite tasty, and had a great time before splitting the check and parting ways.
Though trying to find a place to piss in Jersey City that wasn't locked, closed, or occupied by those passed out from drug use sucked, the next leg of the trip wasn't so bad. That is to say, I honestly don't remember much of it: we drove down to Slim Jim and Bartlet's place, arriving after 3am. Bartlet was staying up with some Street Fighter, the kind that it's been a decade since I last played. I held my own to his challenges through my superior button mashery. I never had a Nintendo or a Super Nintendo, so my fighting game technique has essentially remained unchanged over the years: panic, and panic quickly.
Saturday was absolutely beautiful. Our first real spring day. Upon stepping foot outside I ran to the car where I've kept two mitts and a baseball for the past few years for just such an occasion. Between catch, the tire swing, and a tennis ball thrown up on the roof, we spent a few hours reliving childhood. That night Bartlet broiled up some steak, chicken, peppers, and cucumbers, and they were all fantastic. After dinner we settled in for beer, espresso, and the Battlestar Galactica board game. For reasons I can't succinctly go into, it was a fun game to play but a depressing game to win.
Sunday Slim Jim set up a shooting range for his fancy new pellet gun. It even had a real rifle scope on it, which I'd never used before. I thought I was doing pretty well in showing off what I have for marksmanship until the Mistress went all Annie Oakly on us and started dropping cans like it weren't a thing. She was the only one of the four of us who managed to hit anything while standing. I myself couldn't hit anything unless I was prone. If things get too much worse I know which one of us is getting sent out with the BB gun to net us some squirrel.
It was hard to leave, but we had jobs, cats, and untwatched Battlestar Galactica to get back to.
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