I’m at my office late today, for no other reason than I’m too exhausted to drive home. I’ve missed several deadlines, including the one for this post. I forgot to eat today…breakfast, lunch, all of it. I don’t remember where I parked my car. I’m terrified to look in the mirror. I don’t know what to do.
I’m listening to Richard and Linda Thompson’s I Want to See the Bright Lights Tonight. I’ve always loved this album, but I never thought I would need it. Its ten songs are about the impossibility of perfection, something I struggle to accept for myself. One of the singers wants perfect truth. Another wants perfect love. One just wants to be left alone. But these people never find what they’re looking for. Instead, they must learn that you can never run far enough away. Crossing the border doesn’t mean you are safe. There’s nothing at the end of the rainbow.
If you are someone who believes perfection is impossible, then I envy you. The voices in these songs envy you, too. It’s not that I don’t understand failure; I do. But I believe in perfection. The same way some people believe in absolute truth, or the way children believe in Santa Claus. I can remember when perfection seemed easy. When I was three years-old, I could match my socks with my shirt and be perfect. When I was in college, I could earn good grades and be perfect. I still want to be able to do x or y or z and be perfect. But perfection is no longer so easy. It has a greater, more complex definition—the perfect career, the perfect relationship…
This morning, I dreamed the perfect day. My commute would be easy, no traffic, no delays. I would get to my office by seven. I would drink another cup of coffee. I would go over my lesson plans one more time. In class, my students would be awake. They would be interested, engaged. They would laugh at my jokes, and we would have a meaningful discussion about language, or argument, or whatever. I would eat something green: spinach, arugula, broccoli. I would finish all of my planning and grading and paperwork by the end of my office hours. I would go home early, drink a beer, read a book.
Every morning, I dream these perfect days knowing they won’t exist. I just can’t let go of the idea.
But today, I think perfection might actually be impossible. I don’t know if I can have the perfect career, the perfect relationship, perfect salads, perfect conversations… I’m beginning to see that perfection is a childish desire. It prevents me from making priorities, vital priorities. I need to know that I can’t do everything.
Last week, I attended a new faculty orientation where a hundred or so instructors shared their concerns for the upcoming semester: How do we stop our students from using iWatches during exams? How close does the deceased relative need to be to the student in order for the absence to be excused? I listened to these concerns, tried to understand their importance, but I only became more overwhelmed with my own selfish concerns. How will I make time to write this semester? If I continue to teach first year writing courses, will I always struggle with my own writing? Can I be a poet and a teacher? Am I cut out for this?
I never want to admit that some things might not be possible, that I might not be able to do everything that I want to do. But, in the last year, I have had more dreams and moments of inspiration about how to teach C.H. Knoblauch’s “Literacy and the Politics of Education” or how to get students to analyze instead of summarize than I’ve had about my own writing. And I’m tired of hearing the same vague advice: it’ll be hard. You’ll get used to this. Squeeze it in when you can. As I write this, one of my colleagues is running through the halls in a blue jogging suit… Is this how we are supposed to function? Does it have to be hard? And, if things must be difficult, do they ever get better? Will I adjust? How will I adjust?
On the second track of this album, Richard Thompson sings the following verse:
I was under The Calvary Cross,
When the pale-faced lady, she said to me
I’ve watched you with my one green eye,
And I’ll hurt you until you need me.
I don’t know what this song is about. It could be about spirituality, religion, Jesus Christ… a muse, a lover…. In interviews, Thompson has said that these explanations are as good as any, but even he cannot articulate its meaning. As I listen to this song now, specifically these opening lines, I can only see it as a song about writing, about being a poet. The pale-faced lady…she is poetry. Her green eye, her anger, her jealousy, her claws, her light…it’s all poetry, vying for my attention, my time, my trust.
I love my job. I love teaching students. But when I come home in the evenings, I feel as if every ounce of my creative energy is spent. I’ve written lesson plans and assignment sheets, found a helpful way to explain commas to Johnny. I’ve graded fifteen essays. But I haven’t written a poem.
You can make believe on your tin whistle.
You can be my broom boy.
Scrub me until I shine in the dark,
and I’ll be your light until doomsday.
The offer here seems irresistible: to be the broom boy, to make believe on a tin whistle. It’s poetry saying, Work for me, Kristin; Give your attention to me, Kristin. I know can’t make poetry my day job. Not now, anyway. But I need it to be a priority.
Richard Thompson was about my age, 25 or 26, when he wrote “The Calvary Cross” and the other songs on I Want to See the Bright Lights Tonight. This must be the age when we begin to understand our limitations are humans…the age when we learn how to make priorities.
Everything you do, everything you do, you do for me, Thompson sings in the song’s refrain. This is the pale-faced lady speaking again.
At the time this song was written, Richard Thompson was a renowned young guitar prodigy; he had received a great deal of critical acclaim. But he wasn’t selling records. He couldn’t pay his rent, feed his family, or even afford to make music. If “The Calvary Cross” is about making music everything, then I admire him for that. It feels like a brave thing to do.