in medias res

Touched down in the land of the delta blues...

Well, I’ve decided that come hell, high water, or colossal rejection, I’m applying to Ph.D. programs. I have not posted because every free moment has been spent in senseless self-analysis and drafting of what I can say about myself that makes me not sound like another book-lover who wants a high-falutin’ prefix. My recent solo journeys across the continental United States provided me with ample time to compose brilliant personal statements. Alas, that brilliance dissipated once the gleam of Quiznos and diet coke dried from my lips and I set my feet on solid ground.

It’s not just what to say, but where to apply. It’s a gigantic mind game – like when the boss asks you what you’d like to make. (I’ve never really had this experience, but I have a fellow cricket who has told me stories.) You don’t want to undersell yourself and end up with Ramen noodles and generic Kool-aid again. But you also feel foolish asking for anything too high – like they’ll read it and laugh. “Look at how much she thinks of herself!! HAHAHAHA!” Instead of a boss, I’m imagining my dear professors writing my letters of recommendation and laughing. I’m playing it safe by choosing a bouquet of schools. And when people ask, I say, “oh, all over…Hey, what’s that over there?!” and duck and run. Pick your Bluth family chicken-dance for me (ka-koo-kah-koo-kah-koo-kah); I know them all well.

The bigger question becomes what do I want. I’ve entertained many other options. I could be a carpenter in my dad’s business – I’d be in raggedy jeans and a worn long-sleeved T, my hair in a ponytail, a fine coat of white dust on my hair and eyelashes, and I'd lean my cheek against the warm, fresh wood. Beautiful calluses.

OR perhaps I could go full-time as an editor. I’d chew the ends of pens and develop a keen eye for errors and not feel foolish about hours spent arguing a verb tense or a word choice. I’d develop cute office attire and print Dilbert cartoons to put on my cubicle wall. When we’re slow, I could write and send my stories off to journals and savor the expectation of a response as my key turns in the apartment mailbox at 5:12 every evening.

OR my most recent acquisition of potential grew from the streets of Memphis, Tennessee this past weekend, despite my dearth of musical talent. I spent a beautiful five days with the Boy. (Can I slip that in there quietly and pretend he has been mentioned all along? After almost a year as a nebulous something, we have made our status official. I’ll gush more later.) Friday night, we went to a Tift Merritt concert. Tift is my poetic substitute for Linda Ronstadt’s therapy. She’s beautiful. But as we pulled up to the performing arts center, we realized we were the only ones not getting a senior citizens or under 12 discount. I didn’t care. She strutted her blond, five-foot nothing body with its deep and perfect voice all over the stage, determined to get to the lethargic crowd with its polite claps. She did. And when the only four other people under forty-five went down to cheer at the edge of the stage, I decided to swallow my fear and join them. I wanted the band to know that they were enthusiastically appreciated. They were so grateful that they decided to pull all five of us onto the stage. I graduated from claps-and-a-sidestep to a maraca before Tift handed me the tambourine. I tried to pretend that I wasn’t bright red and enjoy the energy of the moment. I tambourined like a champ. I had found my calling.

The next day, we went to Sun Studio to catch some of the residual greatness of its previous performers. The combination of the small space and the artifacts and the sound system blaring the scratchy records made me glow. I love scratchy records. I bought two guitar pics and a sticker for my case and decided (once again) that I would learn to play the guitar. The Johnny Cash movie that evening sealed the deal. I would compensate for my lack of talent by doubling my efforts. Forget graduate school – I want to be a girl with a guitar, wailing my heart out with a message for the world. I want them to feel a little less lonely because I’m singing the words they’ve almost said. I want to give tambourines to timid young girls and set them free.

And while all of these options are tempting (although impractical), their presence on this list makes the Ph.D. thing a bit more glamorous. It’s still a choice I make. It can be just as thrilling and adventurous because of the ways I must push myself to make it. And who’s to say that it can’t involve the occasional Memphis blues and tambourining.

posted by tara @ 11:53 PM