way too self-aware, or maybe that's a form of defensiveness, to trick myself into authenticity

Does anyone have any tips on how to avoid having a nervous breakdown?

They say that when you're uber-stressed, you're only functioning at 75% of your brain capacity. I think that could well be true. I certainly feel like at least 25% of my life is missing at the moment (my favorite 25%, the part including fun books and movies and time with friends and happy days where I don't hate consciousness).

I have been reading a book called The situation and the story about writing non-fiction (specifically memoirs) which states that one must ruthlessly examine oneself in all one's complications and implicit-ness with events in order to write good non-fiction. It also states that you cannot describe a sitation and have it be good writing; you must engage with the situation at hand and make something out of it, work hard to come up with some kind of wisdom from it, or insight into oneself, that you can then offer to the reader. Otherwise you might simply be whining and boring your audience to death.

So in this blog post I'm practicing: How do I engage with the stress at hand and make something out of my interaction with it? According to Vivian Gornick (author of the book mentioned above), this cannot be done facilely or quickly. One must mine oneself for truth and invent a speaking voice which is above all a truth-speaking voice.

First I'll probably have to implicate myself in my situation of stress: on Sunday I read a fun book instead of simply working my brains out. This simultaneously made me happy and miserable, because I escaped for a few hours and then came back to a world where two less hours remained between me and the deadlines of doom.

Implicating oneself isn't hard, in my opinion. Of course, maybe the implications I ought to be discussing are more along the lines of Do I want to complete these projects at all, let alone on time? Because maybe I don't. At least I'm comfortable with and cognizant of all the difficulties of my current projects and assignments. When they're gone, more will replace them. When I'm done with this semester, there will be another semester.

And when I'm done with that semester, there's a real grown-up life that I'm certainly nowhere near ready to handle, involving finding a real job, owning a car, finding a place to live, and things like insurance.

So is my driven, perfectionistic work ethic being sabotaged by myself?

And theoretically through examining yourself thus you reach wisdom. Of some kind. Mostly the examples Vivian Gornick gave were extremely depressing sorts of "wisdom." And I sort of refuse the adolescent ease of writing about unrelieved despair or bitterness. I refuse the adolescent impulse to write something that will simply be worth looking at because of its shock value.

So maybe that means I have to end this blog post writing about something lovely. Like the package Grandma Beulah sent me last week full of delicious foods (we've eaten all the butterscotch brownies already!) or the Diana Wynne Jones book I partially read last week.

Or maybe, to complicate things further, I should write about how much I love the printing process and my studio, how at home and centered I feel when I am there working, even though I am afraid this project will not be worth 8 or 9 months of my life, even though I am afraid it will not be done on time, even though I am afraid nobody will like it.

I should talk about the words painted on the floor under one of my newly-white walls: "THIS IS THE MEASURE."

"to letter," yes, a verb

I realized that I haven't posted since Febrary 5. Eighteen days ago.

In those 18 days, many things have happened. Thank goodness I can't remember most of them, because otherwise I might be completely overwhelmed and unable to move forward with tomorrow.

Senior show, my writing seminar capstone paper, my poetry project, my research paper, everything is pretty much ungodly. I've taken to lying on the floor and wailing "EVEN JESUS WOULDN'T DO THIS MUCH HOMEWORK!"

Whether or not Jesus really would submit to this much homework, I don't know. Probably he'd be alright at staying motivated.

Luckily, I am surrounded by people that are hilarious. So things are mostly alright.

oh, mackenzie. so angsty about the semester. also titled "a definite independence."

One of my art professors, Ted Prescott, talked in our senior show class yesterday about "breaking away." Basically, he said he was interested in seeing work that we cared about. Even if that meant work that wasn't approved of by the faculty. Eventually, every artist needs to break away to make what they care about. He even went so far as to say that breaking away is a healthy thing, a necessary step in the life of an artist.

It made me happy, because that's been my whole year so far. I've spent it feeling combative when people try to direct my work in directions I don't care about, I've answered back with definite negatives, and I've spent this year figuring out exactly what I do care about and setting my priorities accordingly.

Nobody can find your artistic path for you. It just isn't possible. For that matter, nobody can teach you how to be organized or how to be successful at what you do. Every person has to find their own way around to whatever goal they really want. I feel like that's why graduation is so hard for so many people. Finally they're spinning their wheels, trying to get to their goal (or to even find their goal) but the path isn't set out for them and nobody can really give them advice or help them to get there. It's up to you.

Even with individual projects this is true. Nobody can tell you how to get to the end of a particular poem. You just have to work through the poem until you know what you want and what it needs. And then you have to work through several methods of getting to the goal you've determined. Then determine the one you like best or that best achieves your goals.

That's one of the things I learned over J-term break when I researched Elizabeth Bishop. I went to Vassar College to see her manuscripts and poem drafts and some of her artwork. In her poem drafts, I discovered a mind struggling with breaking away, not just from conventions or prior training or the expectations of professors, but a mind struggling to break away from the previous drafts of a poem until it met her interior criteria for approval.

The least number of drafts I ever saw from Elizabeth Bishop was five, and in most cases the number was closer to 15. With every new draft of the poem she was breaking away from what she thought she had to write to find something that was more truly hers, that was more truly what she wanted or needed or meant to write.

I also learned that she was obsessive and painted with watercolors and has terrible handwriting.

But in any case, this week my manifesto consists of this: avoid histories. None of this "When I started the poem I intended. . . " or "When I was five I liked to write. . ." or "This professor gave me this feedback and so this is how to piece got to be this way." No. One must break away. One must say, "This is the object. This is what it means." And then whatever audience happens to be near can critique as they like. But I reserve the right to politely ignore what they're saying and do what I feel the pieces need.

Maybe that is erroneous thinking. But nobody can show me my own path, so it's at least my own mistake. That makes it a step further along the right path -- my path -- than anything else could possibly be.

i hate senior year. basically.

I officially have six weeks until my senior show.

WOW.

I've felt so combative ever since finding that out that I insulted every single person in my senior show group and went on to insult other friends of friends for "being good at everything."

Not to their faces or anything. But I definitely yelled for hours. How am I supposed to complete my senior show and my 30 page paper for writing seminar and my senior honors project all in the same semester? That is the question at hand. It's not a very happy question. Hopefully it's one that has an answer.

Anyway, since then, I've just been punchy beyond belief. I forgot where the toilet-flusher-lever-thing on my toilet was, for instance.

Basically all this goes to say that I am thoroughly unhappy with starting spring semester and I can't handle my life. And if I had to go back and do the double major all over again, I would have argued and fought until I got to take the senior writing seminar in my junior year.

And on my desk are two fun books I got for J-term break and didn't finish. . . they're looking woefully at me, and I know I won't see the inside of a fun book for the next three months.

and then there were two semesters left. . . .

I've sat and thought and thought about what I should say about my trip to Vassar College. I did, in the end, learn a lot about Elizabeth Bishop. But I had to first learn to decipher her horrific handwriting. No joke. It's worse than mine, even. It's worse than my brothers'. It's worse than anyone I know, except maybe my anthropology teacher's. His might have been on par with EB's.

The weekend really was fantastic. I got used to the general splendor and made fun of everyone who looked posh in my head, so that was alright. Poughkeepsie is kind of a sketch town, though, at least the part of it that we found our way around. The waterfront is lovely, though. The weather was awful. We checked out the surrounding countryside, which seems to include a lot of wineries/vineyards (I learned that they are not exactly the same thing) and ethnic food (mmmm. . . indian and japanese food!).

Ooh! And on the way up to Vassar, we stopped in Scranton. Yes, Scranton, Pennsylvania, home of the Office. We found Poor Richard's Pub, actually, which resides in a bowling alley in a mildly sketch part of Scranton. Those of you who are wild Office enthusiasts will remember that they're always going over to Poor Richard's for drinks or mentioning it and once it actually appears in the show. Unfortunately, it was closed. But we still got a picture of the sign.

Yes, we're nerds. But the funnest kind of nerds, in my opinion.

Of course, I might be biased.

And now? The first day of classes. It feels like the first day of the rest of my execution. Except that my execution will last for another semester after this one yet. Sigh. Hopefully this semester will be calmer, though. . . . hopefully.

OK, loves! Have a good day! Learn lots! Make good choices!