It really hurts me to say this, but I'm withdrawing completely from San Juan College. Between having to work full time as the sole provider in my household and the demands placed by the vet tech distance learning program, as well as the high cost of driving to clinicals twice a week, not to mention the overwhelmingly painful physical and emotional costs of working at the clinic, I can't do it anymore.
It was all going fine until I started clinicals. Which made me really think - is this dream something I can do? I thought it was. I was wrong. Physically, I don't think I'll ever be able to go into a 9-5 (or 7-7 in this case) job and perform like everyone else. I get so tired that I end up sleeping the next two days away just to recover - by which time I have to be back at the clinic anyway.
One of the things I'll miss dearly is the English department. I think I got more excited over those classes than anything else, despite my love for animals and everything else. The creative writing class inspired me. I don't care that I've spent over the past year writing to pay the bills - sometimes it takes a great, dedicated teacher and a group of students willing to challenge you and speak to you that makes all the difference.
That's why I'm enrolling in Southern New Hampshire University's online BA program for Creative Writing and English Language studies. I know there are plenty of people ready to line up and tell me that you can't make money writing - well, they're damn wrong. I also know a good deal of people who will tell me that a degree in creative writing is like tossing your money in a sinkhole. That's fine and dandy. I know I can write, and I know I can write well. But I also hear so many people - regular Joes and educators alike - stressing the need for a degree. Any degree. In anything. That little piece of paper means so much more, sometimes it seems, than the knowledge itself. Which is wrong. But at least I'll have the security of knowing I've got a piece of paper worth a whole hell of a lot in a field that I'm good at and in a field I know I love. Maybe not as much as I love saving little fuzzy creatures, but one that I love well enough and has been with me almost my entire life.
I'm going to miss the classes and the people in them. I'll miss yapping around on the SJC message boards and hearing Dr. Wright's playful banter in his lectures. I'll really miss my dreams - coming to terms with the fact that what you WANT to do and would LOVE to do aren't always the same things as what you're physically ABLE to do just sucks. I really hate it. Secretly, I think I'll miss the English classes most of all.
But I won't miss the heartwrenching feeling of having to choose between the gas money to get to clinicals and food. I won't miss the painful choice of working or cleaning kennels. I won't miss having to split my focus on two things and feeling discouraged because I can't manage to do complex mathematics in my head. I won't miss the physical fatigue and the exhaustion to the point of wanting to die, on a real and literal level.
I'll miss a lot of it. I really will, but I think, or at least I hope, I'm making the right choice.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Honors 211 Project Idea
So I've had this idea simmering around in my head for a while. It's an idea for a coffee table-style book I hope to pitch to the right publisher, or in the event of no such suitable publishing house, self-publish.
Anyone who knows me well, knows that I did not grow up in the area I currently live in. I've been here give-or-take four years. And I know it just well enough to know that I hate it.
But love it or hate it, I'm here. And because I'm here, I'm influenced by it. And regardless of my opinions, it's a very naturally beautiful area. We've got some of the oldest old growth forests in the nation. The ONLY national forest in Ohio is right in my backyard, less than minutes from my doorstep. Nature is around me.
And so is the decay of man. Everywhere I turn, signs that man has created well-placed IV lines into the earth...not for the purpose of saving the natural beauty, but for the succinct and precise art of killing her.
Everywhere signs that man has tried to triumph over nature. And everywhere signs of failure. I've been writing a series of poems on the subject for...oh, give-or-take four years now.
But what I want to do, my "vision" if you will, is a series of meaningful and poignant photographs from around the region paired with suitably appropriate well-taken photographs.
I think the capstone assignment for English is a perfect test run for this idea. Something that, if I find I'm actually somewhat decent with photography, I think I would take even farther. Right? I mean, once you get going with a good piece of art or literature, you can't just let it languish. It needs care and attention to live. It's not like a mushroom - stick it away in a damp, dark, moldy corner and it will die.
And this is one idea that's been bouncing off the tin-can walls of my addled brain for a while now. This is not to say that school work is any less valid than commercializing my work - god knows I'm sick of writing to pay the bills. Buuuut....if I have the opportunity to present this multimedia project in a critical but supportive environment, why shouldn't I take that opportunity as a dry run or test subject for a larger project of the same scope, probably incorporating those images and words?
Now, to add "learn photography" to my never ending list of "things to do when i get copious amounts of free time." Riiiiiiight.
Anyone who knows me well, knows that I did not grow up in the area I currently live in. I've been here give-or-take four years. And I know it just well enough to know that I hate it.
But love it or hate it, I'm here. And because I'm here, I'm influenced by it. And regardless of my opinions, it's a very naturally beautiful area. We've got some of the oldest old growth forests in the nation. The ONLY national forest in Ohio is right in my backyard, less than minutes from my doorstep. Nature is around me.
And so is the decay of man. Everywhere I turn, signs that man has created well-placed IV lines into the earth...not for the purpose of saving the natural beauty, but for the succinct and precise art of killing her.
Everywhere signs that man has tried to triumph over nature. And everywhere signs of failure. I've been writing a series of poems on the subject for...oh, give-or-take four years now.
But what I want to do, my "vision" if you will, is a series of meaningful and poignant photographs from around the region paired with suitably appropriate well-taken photographs.
I think the capstone assignment for English is a perfect test run for this idea. Something that, if I find I'm actually somewhat decent with photography, I think I would take even farther. Right? I mean, once you get going with a good piece of art or literature, you can't just let it languish. It needs care and attention to live. It's not like a mushroom - stick it away in a damp, dark, moldy corner and it will die.
And this is one idea that's been bouncing off the tin-can walls of my addled brain for a while now. This is not to say that school work is any less valid than commercializing my work - god knows I'm sick of writing to pay the bills. Buuuut....if I have the opportunity to present this multimedia project in a critical but supportive environment, why shouldn't I take that opportunity as a dry run or test subject for a larger project of the same scope, probably incorporating those images and words?
Now, to add "learn photography" to my never ending list of "things to do when i get copious amounts of free time." Riiiiiiight.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Ramble On....
Just a mild-mannered (ha!) collection of fragments and snippets that have been winding around my brain for a few days now. Keeping them on hand for possible later inclusion into other works of art/garbage.
I don't wanna be the one whining along with the mindless lyrics - I want to be the one who grabs life by the balls and writes her own lyrics; full of meaning, sound and words that express feelings millions of angsty teenagers can't quite seem to commit to paper. Hell - do teenagers even know what paper is anymore? I hear it all the time: "I'm so sad...I don't remember what it's like to feel." The problem is, you never really learned to begin with. Hop off of your computer, your cell phone, your IJunk and your whateverthefuck and grab a pen and just start writing. You'd be amazed how much you feel when you just put the ink on the page and get it over with...
-----
He walked in with a death sentence hanging over his head. You'd never know it by looking at him, but he was a tough, vibrant dog - full of life and energy in his day. Today was not his day and he was here to die.
-----------------
I'm always on the lookout for that Humane Society Worker Jackpot(tm). That golden ticket to actually changing the world. I'll keep my eyes peeled as I'm working my way along the winding country roads and rural routes in drowsy little hamlets all over the county, just looking for that box of unwanted, discarded puppies or kittens. The sad thing is, years of doing the same bloody, painful, mind-numbing work have taught me one thing: People aren't kind enough to give their unwanted kittens and puppies even the courtesy of a cardboard box. No, people are much more cruel than that. They trade away their eco-friendly three-times recycled cardboard for a plastic bag. A plastic bag. Something that costs less than 10 cents to manufacture and no thought at all to throwing out. These people who are so keen on saving mother nature and curing the planet of all her ills don't even see fit to give these animals a fighting chance. Instead, they write that unwanted litter off as just one more loss, tossing them out the windows of their green little hybrids, zooming along these lonely country roads at 100 miles per hour. And you wonder why I've lost faith in the human race.
-------
It isn't the blood, the guts or the gore that bother me. It's that unmistakable, undeniable smell of death. It clings to your hair and skin, hiding fast behind a veil of slick, green disinfectant. The smell of total obliteration that even the stiffest drink and strongest shower can't wash away. It burrows in tight beneath your fingernails, digging in its claws, the pungent aroma of rot that seemingly begins even before death and lingers on long after. And it sticks with you, searing images on the front of your eyeballs that can't be undone. Some days I wonder if I didn't pick the wrong fucking profession.
-----------------------
We're not given the courtesy of flashing red lights to indicate that we are doing something important, that we are on our way to save lives. Instead, we're consigned to late-night runs on major highways, driving down forgotten routes hoping to God or anyone who is listening that we'll make it to the clinic on time. And hoping we're not noticed - not noticed by the stars, the gods, the heavens above and most of all, unnoticed by the state highway patrol who don't see the cause as just or noble. To them, we're not doing anything important. We're not saving lives. Around here, in little old middle america, we're just another schmuck doing 30 over the speed limit at 4 AM. We're watching the clock as they write the ticket, hoping they'll just save the roadside lecture and wrist slap for another time: To them, it's just another dog. But we know different: to us, it's an old friend come home at the worst of times in the worst of shapes. An old friend begging for help. And we're the only ones who listen.
-----------------------------
Sometimes I feel like giving up, giving in. And then I realize: I've got nothing left to give. I've given it all away. I give it all up every day for others who have even less than I do and I spread myself so thin that it's a wonder I don't rip into two more often. How can you give up, give in, when you've got nothing left to give? You can't. So you do the only logical thing: Keep going.
I don't wanna be the one whining along with the mindless lyrics - I want to be the one who grabs life by the balls and writes her own lyrics; full of meaning, sound and words that express feelings millions of angsty teenagers can't quite seem to commit to paper. Hell - do teenagers even know what paper is anymore? I hear it all the time: "I'm so sad...I don't remember what it's like to feel." The problem is, you never really learned to begin with. Hop off of your computer, your cell phone, your IJunk and your whateverthefuck and grab a pen and just start writing. You'd be amazed how much you feel when you just put the ink on the page and get it over with...
-----
He walked in with a death sentence hanging over his head. You'd never know it by looking at him, but he was a tough, vibrant dog - full of life and energy in his day. Today was not his day and he was here to die.
-----------------
I'm always on the lookout for that Humane Society Worker Jackpot(tm). That golden ticket to actually changing the world. I'll keep my eyes peeled as I'm working my way along the winding country roads and rural routes in drowsy little hamlets all over the county, just looking for that box of unwanted, discarded puppies or kittens. The sad thing is, years of doing the same bloody, painful, mind-numbing work have taught me one thing: People aren't kind enough to give their unwanted kittens and puppies even the courtesy of a cardboard box. No, people are much more cruel than that. They trade away their eco-friendly three-times recycled cardboard for a plastic bag. A plastic bag. Something that costs less than 10 cents to manufacture and no thought at all to throwing out. These people who are so keen on saving mother nature and curing the planet of all her ills don't even see fit to give these animals a fighting chance. Instead, they write that unwanted litter off as just one more loss, tossing them out the windows of their green little hybrids, zooming along these lonely country roads at 100 miles per hour. And you wonder why I've lost faith in the human race.
-------
It isn't the blood, the guts or the gore that bother me. It's that unmistakable, undeniable smell of death. It clings to your hair and skin, hiding fast behind a veil of slick, green disinfectant. The smell of total obliteration that even the stiffest drink and strongest shower can't wash away. It burrows in tight beneath your fingernails, digging in its claws, the pungent aroma of rot that seemingly begins even before death and lingers on long after. And it sticks with you, searing images on the front of your eyeballs that can't be undone. Some days I wonder if I didn't pick the wrong fucking profession.
-----------------------
We're not given the courtesy of flashing red lights to indicate that we are doing something important, that we are on our way to save lives. Instead, we're consigned to late-night runs on major highways, driving down forgotten routes hoping to God or anyone who is listening that we'll make it to the clinic on time. And hoping we're not noticed - not noticed by the stars, the gods, the heavens above and most of all, unnoticed by the state highway patrol who don't see the cause as just or noble. To them, we're not doing anything important. We're not saving lives. Around here, in little old middle america, we're just another schmuck doing 30 over the speed limit at 4 AM. We're watching the clock as they write the ticket, hoping they'll just save the roadside lecture and wrist slap for another time: To them, it's just another dog. But we know different: to us, it's an old friend come home at the worst of times in the worst of shapes. An old friend begging for help. And we're the only ones who listen.
-----------------------------
Sometimes I feel like giving up, giving in. And then I realize: I've got nothing left to give. I've given it all away. I give it all up every day for others who have even less than I do and I spread myself so thin that it's a wonder I don't rip into two more often. How can you give up, give in, when you've got nothing left to give? You can't. So you do the only logical thing: Keep going.
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