Next week I begin the Criminology/Criminal Justice program at Portland State University, and already, I feel myself changing. Last week I purchased my textbooks, the kinds of books I lust after in the back corner of Powell's Technical Store, kneeling on the cold floor and squinting at illustrations of bloodstain evidence or skull sculpture technique. The kinds of books I have always bought for research and pleasure: forensic science texts, true crime accounts, and anthologies about the nature of the American court system.
I ask myself over and over: Why does it feel different to buy these books as textbooks for a degree? Why does it feel so strange?
I think it has something to do with commitment. When I purchased the books for creative research or personal interest, it was all about poetic leaps, creative interpretations, and fluid connections. I investigated mysteries of my own choosing and strayed from the paved paths. Now, the books are part of something much more linear, a path to someplace new. I could lay them down like paving stones and follow them to a new life - not just a new essay or idea.
But maybe it has something to do with fear, too. Though I will never quit writing, I am in for some big changes in my life - and soon. Maybe part of me fears the books now, almost like omens or signs.