In Praise Of My Cubicle

Cross-posted on the MFA Chronicles

When I visited Penn State in March, some of the MFAs gave us an unofficial tour of the Burrowes Building, home of the English Department. They showed us some of the seminar rooms where we’d have classes, the library of lit mags and previous student theses, the big poster listing all the student publications, and they showed us the GTA offices. All the MFAs have their offices in a large basement room divided into shared cubicles. It’s fluorescently lit, cluttered, and feels like…well, cubicles in a basement.

I was a little put off. My disappointment was probably because I had the good fortune to be an undergrad a couple of years after the English Department had moved into a brand new building and the grad students at BG had real offices – two (or maybe three) people might share a room, a real room with a door, and they’d each have a desk – on the 3rd or 4th floor, with windows. Those little basement cubes were just depressing!

At the beginning of this semester, it was a little bit annoying to have to schedule my time in the office in cooperation with my cube-mate; there’s only one desk and one computer so we can’t both be in there at the same time. And the temperature regulation in the basement is not the best; it tends to be hot, so people open windows, so then it gets cold. I’ve learned to leave a sweater in my cabinet.

In spite of the fun that I’ve had here in State College, I’ve still felt pretty isolated, particularly during the week. My “previous life” in Columbus was very social: I had a lot of friends, I might go to trivia on a Monday, karaoke on a Wednesday, or just meet someone for coffee or a drink or dinner any day of the week. I seldom went more than a couple days without some sort of social interaction. And here it’s not like that. We are all buried in our work during the week (some people stay buried on weekends) and I might talk to the people in my classes, I might talk to my roommate for 5 minutes here and there, but then I go home and work.

Enter my cubicle. For a few different reasons, I ended up spending more time in my cube this week, and I realized that I would not want a separate office somewhere. I really like seeing people walk by; sometimes they just wave and say “Hi, how are you?” and a few times this week I actually had real conversations with some of my fellow students. It was nice! Just taking a few minutes out of the work day to chat with someone was surprisingly refreshing, and I realized that I love my cubicle. I would imagine the set-up was just designed because of the lack of available space, but it functions to foster community and to help people feel connected to each other.

last post for january

first, let me reiterate that january can go to hell. i am so not happy with this month. anyway, just a little haiku to end things.....

I wake shivering
but not from cold. Sweat is dried
on my lonely skin.

In a Supermarket in Columbus, Ohio

I thought of this for some reason when I was driving today.... I thought of that first trip to the grocery store when I'd first moved out of my ex's apartment, and I thought of Ginsberg's poem of course, because how many other poems are there about supermarkets? It doesn't really relate to his, except in the title and first line. It might want to relate more to it, but for now, here's a beginning....


In a Supermarket in Columbus, Ohio

What thoughts I have tonight of my former selves
as I wander these aisles alone, nearly in tears
because I can not find the raisins in this labyrinth
of chilled air, bright lights, and preservatives
I can not pronounce. Grief is green and bitter
at this stage, my first shopping trip for one
in five years. My mind puckers at the sourness
as I walk past the things I only ever bought for him.

I am free now to buy only what I like, to lose myself
in reading labels. I am shivering, too skinny
in a skirt and sleeveless blouse, sandals rubbing
my heels raw. I am lonely, yet I am shopping
at midnight so I'll be alone. In time I know I will
blossom again, fill out this new life, taste sweetness
and, if I am lucky, tenderness.

Just some thoughts

I wrote a poem last night, and now I don't even remember what it was about. Must not have been very good.

I'm thinking today about history. How it's taught, how it's understood, how it's invented and altered and explained. Both in the context of the history we learn in school and our own personal histories. How it's always a matter of hitting the high points because it's too much to try to know it all. But it's not always the high points that really matter so much; it's the day in day out flow of life that makes us what we are, just as much if not more than the dramatic events we tell to others.

And I was thinking last night about the line in yesterday's poem, about being meant to be alone. Maybe it's not so much meant, as just able. Solitude can be a gift, the ability to be okay with nothing but oneself.