Last week I watched a documentary about Spalding Gray – an actor, writer and monologist. Despite his creativity, intelligence, and amazing story telling, Spalding decided to take his own life by jumping off the Staten Island Ferry in 2004. He was the brother of my favorite professor, Rockwell Gray, at Webster University.
I took my first course with Rocky in 1998 called, “Literature in Exile”. The course depicted writers who, for mainly political reasons, were exiled from their home countries and wrote about their tales. During this time, I read autobiographical accounts from Hoffman, Nabokov, Gass, and Santayana to name a few. Like his brother, Rocky was a great story-teller. He often staccotoed accounts of his life that pertained to the literature we were reading. Moreover, he used GRE words in everyday vernacular which left most of us egotistical collegiate students wondering how in the hell we were even allowed in this man’s presence; No one word could encapsulate the breadth of Rocky’s love of words. And he imparted that passion onto his students.
By the fall of 1999, my graduating semester, I had become obsessed with Rocky. He wasn’t one of the most well-attended professors at Webster because he taught esoteric classes such as “Reading and Writing Autobiography” and “Essay Writing” that didn’t garner the sex appeal of “Modern Poetry” and “Social and Political Philosophy” that liberal college students gravitate towards. Regardless, my friend Eric and I were disciples of Rockwell Gray – outcasts following an unheralded rebel.
As with every Creative Writing major, I had to do a senior thesis which required a professor to oversee the progress of the student. I, of course, chose Rocky. Not only had he captivated me for a year and a half with his extensive knowledge of the OED, but he legitimized the genre of non-fiction as something modern and exciting. Ergo, my senior thesis was about growing up in my household.
No big deal, right? Just talk about yourself.
For four months, Rocky and I met routinely at Kaldi’s on DeMun scratching out pages upon pages of crap that I had written. We had therapeutic cups of coffee relegated by old wounds and new scabs. He taught me how to be a writer and a protagonist. He taught me the struggle of creation. He taught me objectivity. He helped synchronize my self-perception with self-expectation. No professor’s salary paid him enough for all of this.
At the end of the semester, I took my unfinished manuscript consisting of 40 wishy-washy pages to the English Chair, David Clewell, the former Missouri Poet Laureate. (This sounds like name-dropping but I mean it as like a, “Holy shit – I’ve had some pretty incredible teachers!”) In the final oral examination about my thesis, David asked me what I thought about it. I told him: “It’s unfinished. It sucks. I only had 4 months but I see now that I need 4 years. I only have 40 pages but I’ve deleted like 50. I’m proud that I was able to write this but I’m not proud of the finished product”.
David replied, “That’s what writers say. You get an A”.
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Back to the documentary on Spalding. Watching it made me feel really bad for Rocky in losing his brother. The objective part of me made me miss reflection. For the past couple of years as I’ve been delving into painting, I realize that I haven’t done any personal reflecting that writing mandates. I haven’t created any plot lines, any characters, I’ve had no heroes or anti-heroes. Painting has given me the luxury of recognizing my emotions and philosophies as they happen. I don’t bring my past into my paintings. I don’t bring self-perception into them either. I am the consummate observer in my works – the outsider once again.
Like doing my poorly written senior thesis, I don’t know how to meld all of my Self into my work. What is my “work”, anyway? I had a great conversation with my Uncle Mark, an artist, the other night. I told him I was getting bored with painting but this journey has solidified my self-perception as innately creative. This sounds so fucking egomaniacal I want to throw up. But what I mean is that I am happiest when I am exploring and creating. I’m happiest when I’m learning. I’m happiest when my house is clean and my kids are asleep. Seriously.
Regardless of which path I walk to get to the shore, I’m in the Creative Boat for the long haul. I’m happy to be the deckhand or the sous chef. Both feet are on that boat and No, I won’t take them off.
In my copy of Finding Joy by Charlotte Davis Kasl, there is an echo of your creative spirit, Megan.
From one chapter – Follow Your Calliing: Let the Story Write You:
“Letting the story write us starts with surrendering to the messages from our hearts and trusting that following our path is truly the way to find peace and joy.”
May you find abundant joy on your journey.