RIP CSF
She said that if I belonged there, the place would embrace me. Being from Chicago I thought her ideas were a bit squishy. But this was New Mexico and wild horses were neighing on the mesa - the moon appeared bigger than I'd ever seen it - we'd toked up some. I was open to something new. And she was right. The place did embrace me and the College of Santa Fe was a big part of it, and now it's effectively gone.
When I first settled in New Mexico I rented a guest house from a crazy woman in Albuquerque who rented to me even though I didn't have a job - but she was from Chicago and had worked at DePaul as well, so how could she not trust me? Eventually she tossed me out, but that is another story.
That first year in New Mexico I had enough money where I didn't have to work so I would explore around and every afternoon at 1:00 I went to a coffee house called Uncommon Grounds and sat outside on the patio where I drank coffee and wrote. I wrote eight stories in as many months and met some writers who invited me to join their group and six of those stories eventually got published and one won a PEN Syndicated Fiction award. I felt good. The squishy thinking woman had been right.
The money eventually ran out and I scrambled to find a job. It turned out that the College of Santa Fe (CSF) needed a Circulation Supervisor and I applied. The interview went well, I thought, and when I was walking out of the building one of the women who interviewed me came running up and offered me the job on the spot. I felt that embrace again.
CSF was a great place. It was an arty school in an arty town. Writers, painters and sculptors - the whole arty lot were around. It was in the air - in the pores. I met great writers and became friends with some of them - Greg Glazner, Arthur Sze, Julie Shigekuni, Jon Davis and many others. Some of them read my stories - I house-sat for Greg. And some of the students I met there - some who worked for me, went on to be published writers - Gabe Gomez, Danielle Deulen, Eddie Chuculate.
But it didn't end as well as it started. Not much does. The library director who I was close to died, and the school always on shaky financial footing got shakier. It felt a little like a broken heart when I left for California, and to watch it go under now, tugs at the heart again.
When I first settled in New Mexico I rented a guest house from a crazy woman in Albuquerque who rented to me even though I didn't have a job - but she was from Chicago and had worked at DePaul as well, so how could she not trust me? Eventually she tossed me out, but that is another story.
That first year in New Mexico I had enough money where I didn't have to work so I would explore around and every afternoon at 1:00 I went to a coffee house called Uncommon Grounds and sat outside on the patio where I drank coffee and wrote. I wrote eight stories in as many months and met some writers who invited me to join their group and six of those stories eventually got published and one won a PEN Syndicated Fiction award. I felt good. The squishy thinking woman had been right.
The money eventually ran out and I scrambled to find a job. It turned out that the College of Santa Fe (CSF) needed a Circulation Supervisor and I applied. The interview went well, I thought, and when I was walking out of the building one of the women who interviewed me came running up and offered me the job on the spot. I felt that embrace again.
CSF was a great place. It was an arty school in an arty town. Writers, painters and sculptors - the whole arty lot were around. It was in the air - in the pores. I met great writers and became friends with some of them - Greg Glazner, Arthur Sze, Julie Shigekuni, Jon Davis and many others. Some of them read my stories - I house-sat for Greg. And some of the students I met there - some who worked for me, went on to be published writers - Gabe Gomez, Danielle Deulen, Eddie Chuculate.
But it didn't end as well as it started. Not much does. The library director who I was close to died, and the school always on shaky financial footing got shakier. It felt a little like a broken heart when I left for California, and to watch it go under now, tugs at the heart again.
posted by Philip Dean Brown at 6:59 AM
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