I am sitting on my floor among dozens of boxes and garbage bags, awaiting my father’s arrival so I can begin hours of lifting things that weigh more than me down three flights of stairs. I’m trying really hard to resist any internal sentimentality about the actual leaving because at this point its useless. I had a very fulfilling week of closure… Successfully defended thesis, had a lovely dinner with my advisor, a few grand nights out with friends. I feel as ready as I could be to bid adieu this existence, despite the fact that I still am uncertain whether leaving it makes sense.
But avoiding sentimentality here is probably also a good idea, mostly to spare embarrassment, so I’m just going to post some of my favourite photos from the past two years, and let them both tell the story and thank the people I shared the experience with (thanks Dallas & Jess for some of these pics). I’ll return to regularly themed blogging as TIFF nears, and should consider changing the blog’s name to “The Glamorous Hobo,” which is essentially what I’m going for in my likely ill-conceived plan for the next few months.
Tomorrow I have to get up and trek my away to West Montreal to defend my thesis. I don’t know which is more important to me at this point: this degree or not having to do that tomorrow. Maybe I shouldn’t have decided to take up every season of Project Runway in the past month. I just keep picturing that set up, with me sitting on the stage with my 140 pages of bullshit and the academic translation of Nina Garcia telling me how she wonders how I got into this program in the first place. I just keep reading this one line in the thesis examination manual over and over again:
Four decisions are open to the examining committee, voting to be based on a simple majority. The thesis can be accepted as submitted, accepted with minor modifications, accepted with major modifications, or rejected.
Meanwhile, I could actually be preparing myself. Today was supposed to be my prep day, but instead, I decided to use a bunch of drunken photos of me and some friends by the giant cross on Mont Royal Saturday night and make a fake commercial for a Christian rock group:
Making THAT is how I decided to cap off six years of post-secondary education. And writing this. I just feel like either its happening or its not tomorrow, and no re-reading of something I’ve written myself is going to change that. Honestly, I know deep down it will be fine. But getting up in front of a bunch of extremely educated people and defending something you spent so much time writing that you grew to resent and eventually hate it sounds really unpleasant. I also have a tendency to revert to puberty voice in these situations, and experience nausea, unfinished sentences, and mispronounced words.
And I also fear the feeling when its over and have to truly face the fact that its all done and I have to start acting a little less lost. We’ll see..
Anyway, I’ll probably be blog-lite the next week or so as I prepare to move. TIFF’s around the corner, and that will likely be my full time return.
I have seven days until I move. A by “move,” I mean drift into accommodation oblivion. I’ve decided to opt out of immediately getting an apartment, storing most of my stuff at my mom’s house, and living life out of a suitcase in a triangle of cities across Eastern North America. Besides a variety of reasons, I thought it might liberate me of attachments to material possessions. But now I’m getting cold feet. The past few days have been a back and forth of social goodbyes, prepping for the doom that might be my thesis defense (48 hours away, and I haven’t prepared anything), and trying to figure out how to pack for my decided life of a hobodom. This was my closet area this morning:
I still own clothes I bought when I was 14. And this is a trend across all my belongings, creating a serious existential crisis for me in the final days of packing. For example, do I throw out the “Free Winona” t-shirt that hasn’t fit me since “Mr. Deeds” came out? Or what about my ten Nine Inch Nails t-shirts, all of which go down to my knees and permanently smell like CK One? The answer is obviously yes, but I don’t like it.
I collect clothes, and usually not-at-all expensive ones. I go to Value Village or Goodwill at least once a month, filling a cart and paying $25 for it. And when t-shirts cost $1, its so easy to find this state of denial in terms of whether I’d ever actually wear them. As a result, I found a really embarrassing number last week when I did a guilt-inducing head count. And I doubt I’ve worn half of them more than once.
So now I am forced to pack two suitcases with clothes I’d like to wear on a regular basis, and the rest go to either Goodwill or my mom’s basement. Tonight’s first haul to Goodwill was 8 garbage bags full, so I am on my way. But its not as liberating as I thought it would be.
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