It is April 3, 2022, a Sunday, and it is snowing in the mountains.
Yesterday, Saturday, it was sunny and warm and I spent the entire day baking and cleaning and doing laundry and disemboweling and reassembling the vacuum. It was a productive day. Then, in the evening, I spent hours digitally house-hunting, owing to having recently accepted a new teaching job at a high school in Greeley.
I've felt calm about this impending change, at times. At times I've felt afraid, nervous, apprehensive, reckless, invigorated, lonely, adventurous, and a thousand other things. Mostly, though, (and I suppose anxiety is the root of this), I have felt the heft of coming loss.
I awoke around 2:00 or 3:00 this morning in a sweat, so I turned in bed and cracked open the window just above my pillow. It was snowing, silently, gently--the large, wet flakes wiping down and dancing off the light from the street lamp in the parking lot below. In that moment where I awoke from fear, and in the morning hours when fear surrounded me because change is awash in fear for me, I thought of the loss of that view; I thought of the loss of the snowflakes in the quiet mountain air and the cold that cures the sweat that strikes in the night.
I fear the feeling of regret--that I might regret this choice, this impending move, this stage of my life wherein I take steps that look like they might be forward but could so easily be years and miles backward.
I haven't lived in Weld county for many years. I did so as a grad student, happily enough, for a time. It has changed a great deal since I knew it, in many ways. It's bigger. It's creeping West toward I-25. It's attracting people from out of state who want to be close to the mountains. It's flood risk and fire risk are both rising. But even so, it is, really, just a place like any other place.
I want to look forward with alacrity to this new step, this new job, and this new, yet familiar place. I want to find human connection in greater number and with greater ease than I have done living in Edwards. (Pandemic notwithstanding). I would like to find a place to put down roots and build a life and find a community to embrace and to be embraced by and to grow into for the long-haul.
And in that hope, there is, too, loss. I hope I can grieve the loss of apartment 5304, the friends I've made while attending CMC, and the truly lovely students and their parents that I so greatly appreciate and admire with grace.
Like the Disney movie Onward indicates in its title, there is progress to be made in moving onward--physically, emotionally, professionally, and inter-personally. I hope I have the courage to take the leap and keep walking. Or, even more than that, I know I'm lucky to have supportive friends and family to hold the rope if I fall and need to be pulled back up again.
To everything a season. Here's to Second Winter. May it bring reminders that nothing lasts forever, either for the good or for ill. May the seasons of the natural world serve to show that our own lives have seasons too, and we need only dress for the weather in order to enjoy it.
Sunday, April 3, 2022
Second Winter
Sunday, November 28, 2021
It's Cold and Dark, Tonight, in the Mountains
Like most Americans, I imagine, I am not a fan of Daylight Savings Time. Leaving work in the darkness for months every winter is depressing. In my case, I find, the darkness exacerbates my superpower of being invisible to other humans. It's bad enough being physically run into in grocery stores and halls at work, but this year I almost got hit by cars in parking lots because drivers could not see me. Twice. Thus, I feel and have long, long felt that I am merely inconsequential. My presence makes no difference, and that f&%$#ing sucks.
Maybe that's why I stayed in teaching? Because at least in the classroom, at the front of it, anyway, I matter.
But I want to matter to other people in the world. I want my existence to echo in the minds and hearts of other people. I want to leave an impact not so that I will be remembered after I am gone, but NOW; I want people to notice and to comment when I am not around. I want them to come looking if I am not there. I want to be wanted and talked to and sought out and desired for as company and companion.
Once, when I was in college and went to a bookstore with some classmates when we were in a foreign city, I knew we all had to be somewhere soon and I also KNEW, even then, that my fellows were likely to leave without me, so I went over to two different people in different groups and asked them to please come get me from the spot where I was reading when it was time to go, as I was as bad with directions then as I am now and knew I'd get lost alone. Sure enough, as the sun started to set, I looked up and saw none of my fellow students. I quickly paid for my book and ran outside, looking frantically in every direction for either group. I eventually caught up with one of them, but neither I nor they said anything about my being left behind. It wasn't a big deal to anyone but me, and I didn't want to be the baby who whined about being neglected and forgotten by everyone else.
To my sadness and shame and perhaps predictably, I am not in contact with anyone from college anymore, nor from grad school. In my school days I was always envious of the people who were the life of every room--who, if they got up from the table, it somehow meant the gathering was over, or conversation would not be as lively, or it would cause at least one person to ask, mid sip, "where did X go?". [It is true that when I was in relationships in grad school mattering to others mattered less to me, I am sure because in those situation I had someone to whom it was clear I DID matter. When those relationships ended, though, mattering became even more important to me because I had finally figured out that I could be valued to one someone, and to have lost that made its absence all the more galling.]
Now, years later, I try to enjoy singledom and solitary status and alone time. I bake. I read books. I watch whatever I want on streaming services and no one gets to comment or complain or need even be consulted. I eat when and what I please, and I can starfish in my bed as I like. As the late great Stephen Sondheim once wrote, I am free from the stifling grasp of someone who "ruins my sleep," but I wish I weren't. I think I would happily hold someone close, let someone in, need someone, spare someone's feelings, put someone through hell and be put through hell by them in return...if it meant doing it together; not being forgotten; mattering.
Maybe that's why I stayed in teaching? Because at least in the classroom, at the front of it, anyway, I matter.
But I want to matter to other people in the world. I want my existence to echo in the minds and hearts of other people. I want to leave an impact not so that I will be remembered after I am gone, but NOW; I want people to notice and to comment when I am not around. I want them to come looking if I am not there. I want to be wanted and talked to and sought out and desired for as company and companion.
Once, when I was in college and went to a bookstore with some classmates when we were in a foreign city, I knew we all had to be somewhere soon and I also KNEW, even then, that my fellows were likely to leave without me, so I went over to two different people in different groups and asked them to please come get me from the spot where I was reading when it was time to go, as I was as bad with directions then as I am now and knew I'd get lost alone. Sure enough, as the sun started to set, I looked up and saw none of my fellow students. I quickly paid for my book and ran outside, looking frantically in every direction for either group. I eventually caught up with one of them, but neither I nor they said anything about my being left behind. It wasn't a big deal to anyone but me, and I didn't want to be the baby who whined about being neglected and forgotten by everyone else.
To my sadness and shame and perhaps predictably, I am not in contact with anyone from college anymore, nor from grad school. In my school days I was always envious of the people who were the life of every room--who, if they got up from the table, it somehow meant the gathering was over, or conversation would not be as lively, or it would cause at least one person to ask, mid sip, "where did X go?". [It is true that when I was in relationships in grad school mattering to others mattered less to me, I am sure because in those situation I had someone to whom it was clear I DID matter. When those relationships ended, though, mattering became even more important to me because I had finally figured out that I could be valued to one someone, and to have lost that made its absence all the more galling.]
Now, years later, I try to enjoy singledom and solitary status and alone time. I bake. I read books. I watch whatever I want on streaming services and no one gets to comment or complain or need even be consulted. I eat when and what I please, and I can starfish in my bed as I like. As the late great Stephen Sondheim once wrote, I am free from the stifling grasp of someone who "ruins my sleep," but I wish I weren't. I think I would happily hold someone close, let someone in, need someone, spare someone's feelings, put someone through hell and be put through hell by them in return...if it meant doing it together; not being forgotten; mattering.
Saturday, July 11, 2020
Liar, Liar
You know that scene in movies where a character will find out that the person they've trusted has been lying to them and then the pair have a massive fight, the climax of which, inevitably, is the character shouting something to the effect of "You LIED to me!" in a heartbroken, betrayed, relationship-shattering kind of way?
In my own life, I've never really minded being lied to. More to point, I suppose, is the fact that I don't mind being lied to because I lie so very frequently myself.
I'm told that many people do, and that there are all kinds of reasons for this: to spare someone's feelings; to avoid embarrassment; to appear "better" in the eyes of others, be that professionally, socially, emotionally, or what have you...the list goes on and on. Lying, for many, is as second nature as breathing. So it is with me.
I think the reason I don't mind being lied to is because the person I tell the most lies to is myself, so why would I object to someone else lying to me right alongside? Indeed, so many lies are told with "good intention" behind them, it only seems fitting.
My downright comfort with lying, near as I can tell, takes it roots, in part, in a desire of everyone to always be happy and be a peace and to get along, and the easiest way to achieve peace--that is, to give everyone what they want, even when those things are diametrically apposed--is to lie to one or all parties. I have been lucky enough (maybe?) in my life to never really get bitten too badly by being caught in a lie, so I never really learned to stop doing it. Additionally, the other part of why I find lying so natural is that it involves making up stories, and, loath my own reality as I do (and as I have for as damn long as I can remember) making up stories proves to make living in the world an easier thing to do than to accept truths that are far less rose-colored and infinitely more uncomfortable.
Substantively, the lies I tell are principally to myself, and nothing so juicy as to create fodder for a film script. No, my own lies center on experiences had (or not had), and, of late, hopes and dreams (or, again, the lack thereof). For example, I profess to a Christian identity in certain company, and an atheistic or agnostic identity in the wider world. I genuinely cannot say which, if either, is actually true. Other examples include: lying about being "very well, thank you" when asked on a daily basis how I am; lying about being able to cook; lying about knowing a good third to half the things I profess to know, be they historical, literary, or cultural in nature; and/or lying about what my interests are. (Truth be told, anxiety has robbed me of any "interest" I once had in cooking, reading, traveling, and most other actions that involve interacting with other people or feeling inferior to the same, which, of course, is damn near everything).
***
I remember having a conversation with my friend Scott on the topic of serial killers, and how he was surprised by my assertion that, given the option, I would far rather be charmed and lied to and tricked into leaving my home and then killed quickly by surprise by someone than the alternative of recognizing the killer for who and what he was. Odd as this conversation was, it revealed the fact that I desire to be comfortable at the expense of truth*.
Examples of this desire for comfort in the face of truth surface when I think about A) my (repeated) failed attempts at a graduate thesis wherein I tried again and again to write "truths" about literature and could not for the life of me find anything new/true to say about the texts on offer in the classes I was taking from the professors I had in the school I was in. I WANTED to read myself into Walt Whitman and sentimentality and affection and the futility and simultaneous restoration of soul that come from praising a world that is broken and a nation that is broken and a humanity and its members who are the most broken of all. Beyond that, B) I sought comfort by refusing to see the truth and futility of and in my romantic relationships. I loved, and loved deeply. But I think I have never been loved. That realization stings something awful, so I stayed and fought for men that didn't want me, because the truth was too terrible to contemplate and the comfort of even marginal companionship was better than returning to the misery of isolation and involuntary solitude. C) The greatest lie of all, though, I think is the one I tell myself semi-regularly which goes something like "I'm fine." I am not and have not been "fine" for longer than I can calculate. Surviving? Sure. Thriving? Not on your life. I lie to survive. To stay afloat. To keep myself from feeling the full weight of bottomless self-loathing that I've felt for 20 years.
So when those characters in those movies fight and scream and shout "BETRAYAL!" about lying, I have to wonder....is lying really such a big deal on the human level? Because, in my experience, lying has far more to do with the person telling the lie than with the audience to whom it is told. Lying comes from shame, from guilt, from exhaustion, from pain, from a desire for things to be neat and tidy, for comfort, or for love. That's all any of us want in the end anyway, right? Love. But then, I guess I just disproved my own point, in that lying doesn't in fact ensure any of those desired things...
I had a relationship that was built of secrets and lies, in many ways, but, confusingly, it was also the most open and honest relationship I've ever had, at exactly the same time. It went to hell in a hand-basket. Thus, in my next relationship, I assumed--quite wrongly--that I could avoid the issued of the previous relationship in this new one by being truthful all the time. That did not work either. (The second relationship failed for different reasons, or, I suppose, the same reasons, manifest in different forms. For while I was no longer lying outright, I was made to feel I should keep things unsaid, which is a form of concealment and lying by omission).
Lying has followed me from my youthful days of social anxiety wherein I tried and failed to act/lie to look more confident than I was, which transformed into lying about not being lonely or friendless or miserable, which became a falsification of intellectualism hidden behind stacks of books, quite literally, which became enhancing the events of my own life with the fictions in those books, in the vain hope that someone might someday find me worthy of love and time and attention if I had a good enough story to tell. It hasn't worked yet, but being loved for looks or sunny personality or talent or skill is less possible with every passing second of my life, and it wasn't likely when I was young. So. Lying to myself and others has gotten me to where I am now, which is alive and employed and housed and fed and safe and all the other basic standards for not in any danger whatsoever. What it hasn't gotten me is hope or peace of mind or love or companionship or determination or courage or anything else that might be worth striving for or considered noble.
I like neither the honest miserable me nor the lying, attempted fine me. And I know even less what other people might see and value herein. ........I do know that I wouldn't mind being lied to or taken for a ride or defrauded if it meant I was happy in the lie. I think I'd take the rose-tinted glasses and try to be content; I'd try to no see the shoe about to drop if a good thing came my way, if only so I could have the good feeling for as long as the ride would last.
(*Liner note: White woman that I am, I DO acknowledge that I have the privilege to hide in my bubble away from the uncomfortable truths of race inequality in this country, and thus I do not wish to shy away from that. Perhaps oddly again, I have no problem believing myself to be at fault for the indirect disadvantages of POC because of my background, and I don't wish to lie about THAT. Rather, my sea of deception is about myself and my life, and those directly encircled therein. Wider social issues, for the most part, escape the web of lies I've Charlotte's Webb-ed myself into. Here ends Social Justice Diatribe).
In my own life, I've never really minded being lied to. More to point, I suppose, is the fact that I don't mind being lied to because I lie so very frequently myself.
I'm told that many people do, and that there are all kinds of reasons for this: to spare someone's feelings; to avoid embarrassment; to appear "better" in the eyes of others, be that professionally, socially, emotionally, or what have you...the list goes on and on. Lying, for many, is as second nature as breathing. So it is with me.
I think the reason I don't mind being lied to is because the person I tell the most lies to is myself, so why would I object to someone else lying to me right alongside? Indeed, so many lies are told with "good intention" behind them, it only seems fitting.
My downright comfort with lying, near as I can tell, takes it roots, in part, in a desire of everyone to always be happy and be a peace and to get along, and the easiest way to achieve peace--that is, to give everyone what they want, even when those things are diametrically apposed--is to lie to one or all parties. I have been lucky enough (maybe?) in my life to never really get bitten too badly by being caught in a lie, so I never really learned to stop doing it. Additionally, the other part of why I find lying so natural is that it involves making up stories, and, loath my own reality as I do (and as I have for as damn long as I can remember) making up stories proves to make living in the world an easier thing to do than to accept truths that are far less rose-colored and infinitely more uncomfortable.
Substantively, the lies I tell are principally to myself, and nothing so juicy as to create fodder for a film script. No, my own lies center on experiences had (or not had), and, of late, hopes and dreams (or, again, the lack thereof). For example, I profess to a Christian identity in certain company, and an atheistic or agnostic identity in the wider world. I genuinely cannot say which, if either, is actually true. Other examples include: lying about being "very well, thank you" when asked on a daily basis how I am; lying about being able to cook; lying about knowing a good third to half the things I profess to know, be they historical, literary, or cultural in nature; and/or lying about what my interests are. (Truth be told, anxiety has robbed me of any "interest" I once had in cooking, reading, traveling, and most other actions that involve interacting with other people or feeling inferior to the same, which, of course, is damn near everything).
***
I remember having a conversation with my friend Scott on the topic of serial killers, and how he was surprised by my assertion that, given the option, I would far rather be charmed and lied to and tricked into leaving my home and then killed quickly by surprise by someone than the alternative of recognizing the killer for who and what he was. Odd as this conversation was, it revealed the fact that I desire to be comfortable at the expense of truth*.
Examples of this desire for comfort in the face of truth surface when I think about A) my (repeated) failed attempts at a graduate thesis wherein I tried again and again to write "truths" about literature and could not for the life of me find anything new/true to say about the texts on offer in the classes I was taking from the professors I had in the school I was in. I WANTED to read myself into Walt Whitman and sentimentality and affection and the futility and simultaneous restoration of soul that come from praising a world that is broken and a nation that is broken and a humanity and its members who are the most broken of all. Beyond that, B) I sought comfort by refusing to see the truth and futility of and in my romantic relationships. I loved, and loved deeply. But I think I have never been loved. That realization stings something awful, so I stayed and fought for men that didn't want me, because the truth was too terrible to contemplate and the comfort of even marginal companionship was better than returning to the misery of isolation and involuntary solitude. C) The greatest lie of all, though, I think is the one I tell myself semi-regularly which goes something like "I'm fine." I am not and have not been "fine" for longer than I can calculate. Surviving? Sure. Thriving? Not on your life. I lie to survive. To stay afloat. To keep myself from feeling the full weight of bottomless self-loathing that I've felt for 20 years.
So when those characters in those movies fight and scream and shout "BETRAYAL!" about lying, I have to wonder....is lying really such a big deal on the human level? Because, in my experience, lying has far more to do with the person telling the lie than with the audience to whom it is told. Lying comes from shame, from guilt, from exhaustion, from pain, from a desire for things to be neat and tidy, for comfort, or for love. That's all any of us want in the end anyway, right? Love. But then, I guess I just disproved my own point, in that lying doesn't in fact ensure any of those desired things...
I had a relationship that was built of secrets and lies, in many ways, but, confusingly, it was also the most open and honest relationship I've ever had, at exactly the same time. It went to hell in a hand-basket. Thus, in my next relationship, I assumed--quite wrongly--that I could avoid the issued of the previous relationship in this new one by being truthful all the time. That did not work either. (The second relationship failed for different reasons, or, I suppose, the same reasons, manifest in different forms. For while I was no longer lying outright, I was made to feel I should keep things unsaid, which is a form of concealment and lying by omission).
Lying has followed me from my youthful days of social anxiety wherein I tried and failed to act/lie to look more confident than I was, which transformed into lying about not being lonely or friendless or miserable, which became a falsification of intellectualism hidden behind stacks of books, quite literally, which became enhancing the events of my own life with the fictions in those books, in the vain hope that someone might someday find me worthy of love and time and attention if I had a good enough story to tell. It hasn't worked yet, but being loved for looks or sunny personality or talent or skill is less possible with every passing second of my life, and it wasn't likely when I was young. So. Lying to myself and others has gotten me to where I am now, which is alive and employed and housed and fed and safe and all the other basic standards for not in any danger whatsoever. What it hasn't gotten me is hope or peace of mind or love or companionship or determination or courage or anything else that might be worth striving for or considered noble.
I like neither the honest miserable me nor the lying, attempted fine me. And I know even less what other people might see and value herein. ........I do know that I wouldn't mind being lied to or taken for a ride or defrauded if it meant I was happy in the lie. I think I'd take the rose-tinted glasses and try to be content; I'd try to no see the shoe about to drop if a good thing came my way, if only so I could have the good feeling for as long as the ride would last.
(*Liner note: White woman that I am, I DO acknowledge that I have the privilege to hide in my bubble away from the uncomfortable truths of race inequality in this country, and thus I do not wish to shy away from that. Perhaps oddly again, I have no problem believing myself to be at fault for the indirect disadvantages of POC because of my background, and I don't wish to lie about THAT. Rather, my sea of deception is about myself and my life, and those directly encircled therein. Wider social issues, for the most part, escape the web of lies I've Charlotte's Webb-ed myself into. Here ends Social Justice Diatribe).
Friday, May 29, 2020
On Laughter
I don't laugh enough.
When I laugh, most of the time, it is sardonic, dry, "ironic" laughter. That is, it is joyless. Blissless. Humorless.
Part of me chalks that up to being a tough critic: I don't laugh easily, and simple jokes and puns and cheap laughter don't often crack me. I used to take pride in this. Now, it seems to me, that laughter is one of the most sacred things, and that I am somehow missing out on one of life's most vital sacraments.
...
In my teens, I didn't really feel like I missed out on things when other people were partying and doing drugs and having sex. I wasn't interested in loosing myself that way, self-possessed as I was, and happy to stay that way. But I was far more serious than my fellows. Looking back, I think that seriousness was (and remains) a symptom of profound anxiety and social fear.
I think the idea of being laughed *at* rather than making others laugh was such a terrifying prospect that removing laughter from the equation all together became my pattern of choice.
Silliness. Light-heartedness.
These were things that, somewhere in my early childhood, I learned, were not valued by serious adults, and so, therefore, not valuable. (Or, just as likely, I lost the ability to make others laugh, and so decided that if I could not create laughter, I would abandon it completely).
I was a deeply frightened, doggedly serious, social-awkward, bookish teen and young adult. I knew myself to be unpopular and, as such, seriousness and humorlessness became another wall to fortify and hide the fear and insecurity.
Seriousness worked so well that a few people mentioned that they felt intimidated by me in college; I figured if I could not be loved--could not inspire affection and create laughter--I could be smart and aloof and serious, and, therefore, impressive in some way. But seriousness does not inspire love or bonding or affection or depth of feeling or intimacy.
All the almost-friends I made in college no longer speak to me. A few friends from grad school text once a year or less.
I profoundly hate isolation and loneliness and feeling unworthy of friendship, and COVID quarantine has heightened that discomfort considerably. I feel that my seriousness and bend toward the pessimistic and depressing is part of the cause. I don't laugh enough.
I wish I had more reasons to laugh for pleasure and amusement and joy. I wish I felt joy, without pressure or strings. I thought I kind of had that, once. (Though it was toxic and doomed to burn out; still, I laughed, then. With mirth and passion and freedom. It may have been build on lies, but the laughter, at least, that was Real). I want to be Real. And Really Me. Honest, flawed, broken, passionate, true, and full of laughter.
....
Today was the Continuation celebration for the 8th grade students at St. Clare following my first year teaching in Edwards. It was sunny, then windy, then rainy. Joy was had, and so was bittersweet sorrow. I said goodbye to a favorite student. She is a creature of strength and grit and abundant laughter. I hope to grow into a person worthy of the admiration of this exceptional 14-year-old. She is Real. May we all be so, someday.
When I laugh, most of the time, it is sardonic, dry, "ironic" laughter. That is, it is joyless. Blissless. Humorless.
Part of me chalks that up to being a tough critic: I don't laugh easily, and simple jokes and puns and cheap laughter don't often crack me. I used to take pride in this. Now, it seems to me, that laughter is one of the most sacred things, and that I am somehow missing out on one of life's most vital sacraments.
...
In my teens, I didn't really feel like I missed out on things when other people were partying and doing drugs and having sex. I wasn't interested in loosing myself that way, self-possessed as I was, and happy to stay that way. But I was far more serious than my fellows. Looking back, I think that seriousness was (and remains) a symptom of profound anxiety and social fear.
I think the idea of being laughed *at* rather than making others laugh was such a terrifying prospect that removing laughter from the equation all together became my pattern of choice.
Silliness. Light-heartedness.
These were things that, somewhere in my early childhood, I learned, were not valued by serious adults, and so, therefore, not valuable. (Or, just as likely, I lost the ability to make others laugh, and so decided that if I could not create laughter, I would abandon it completely).
I was a deeply frightened, doggedly serious, social-awkward, bookish teen and young adult. I knew myself to be unpopular and, as such, seriousness and humorlessness became another wall to fortify and hide the fear and insecurity.
Seriousness worked so well that a few people mentioned that they felt intimidated by me in college; I figured if I could not be loved--could not inspire affection and create laughter--I could be smart and aloof and serious, and, therefore, impressive in some way. But seriousness does not inspire love or bonding or affection or depth of feeling or intimacy.
All the almost-friends I made in college no longer speak to me. A few friends from grad school text once a year or less.
I profoundly hate isolation and loneliness and feeling unworthy of friendship, and COVID quarantine has heightened that discomfort considerably. I feel that my seriousness and bend toward the pessimistic and depressing is part of the cause. I don't laugh enough.
I wish I had more reasons to laugh for pleasure and amusement and joy. I wish I felt joy, without pressure or strings. I thought I kind of had that, once. (Though it was toxic and doomed to burn out; still, I laughed, then. With mirth and passion and freedom. It may have been build on lies, but the laughter, at least, that was Real). I want to be Real. And Really Me. Honest, flawed, broken, passionate, true, and full of laughter.
....
Today was the Continuation celebration for the 8th grade students at St. Clare following my first year teaching in Edwards. It was sunny, then windy, then rainy. Joy was had, and so was bittersweet sorrow. I said goodbye to a favorite student. She is a creature of strength and grit and abundant laughter. I hope to grow into a person worthy of the admiration of this exceptional 14-year-old. She is Real. May we all be so, someday.
Sunday, November 3, 2019
On Yearning
I read recently that forgiveness is the "willingness to give up yearning for a better past."
So many terms in there cry out to me to be unpacked, all English-major-101 style. "willingness." "give." "yearning." "better." "past."
And yet...I also know that my academic, convoluted, verbose manner of wanting to break down and analyze these words has it own roots---roots in a time and a place where forgiveness was not a part of my lexicon, nor of anyone else I knew.
In grad school, English majors learn about "loaded" terms, about "problematic" phrasing or word usage, and about "troubling" the norms. We learn to do these things, to engage with them and fight with them, to expound upon them for pages at a time, and to bury them under miles of contextualizing foot and end notes...all, so we think, for the sake of "clarity."
Meaning-making. That was, in many ways, the goal. Clear, true, thoughtful, new thoughts, committed to the page.
I never quite got that far in school. My work was an accurate reflection of my mind--a jumbled mess of ideas and deeply reverent thoughts on poetic language and the meanings behind words and their sentimental and historical moments...which is to say, it made sense to ME.
But writing is often meant for an audience greater than 1.
My writing never really eclipsed audiences greater than members of my seminar groups, and a few devoted fellow-soldiers in the trenches of thesis-writing hell themselves.
And for that...and for so many other things....I want to stop yearning to have done it better.
I want to be willing to give up hoping for a better past, one I did not live.
I desire the forgiveness of so many people in the world, not the least of which is myself.
So many terms in there cry out to me to be unpacked, all English-major-101 style. "willingness." "give." "yearning." "better." "past."
And yet...I also know that my academic, convoluted, verbose manner of wanting to break down and analyze these words has it own roots---roots in a time and a place where forgiveness was not a part of my lexicon, nor of anyone else I knew.
In grad school, English majors learn about "loaded" terms, about "problematic" phrasing or word usage, and about "troubling" the norms. We learn to do these things, to engage with them and fight with them, to expound upon them for pages at a time, and to bury them under miles of contextualizing foot and end notes...all, so we think, for the sake of "clarity."
Meaning-making. That was, in many ways, the goal. Clear, true, thoughtful, new thoughts, committed to the page.
I never quite got that far in school. My work was an accurate reflection of my mind--a jumbled mess of ideas and deeply reverent thoughts on poetic language and the meanings behind words and their sentimental and historical moments...which is to say, it made sense to ME.
But writing is often meant for an audience greater than 1.
My writing never really eclipsed audiences greater than members of my seminar groups, and a few devoted fellow-soldiers in the trenches of thesis-writing hell themselves.
And for that...and for so many other things....I want to stop yearning to have done it better.
I want to be willing to give up hoping for a better past, one I did not live.
I desire the forgiveness of so many people in the world, not the least of which is myself.
Tuesday, October 22, 2019
The Lives of Others
I've been thinking about life. Terrible statement, I know. More specifically, I've been thinking about the lives we lead. That is to say, "We," the Comprehensive Collective of Humanity. I think we lead lives of extreme complication, ones that are messy and that are most certainly unpredictable.....
I have been revisiting some young adult fiction of yesteryear, and I came across Lois Lowry's The Giver. The book offers its audience an image of a seemingly Utopian society wherein such simple offenses like rudeness, lying, and riding Father's bike are causes for reprimand, while the problems of our own world--from war and illness to sexual promiscuity and the notion of revenge--are utterly unknown. And I must tell you that upon first glance this fictitious "community" seemed far better to my 31-year-old eyes than it ever did to the pair that sat in the back of an 8th grade English classroom. Lowry presents a world wherein pain is a virtual unknown, save a skinned knee or bashed thumb; a world where family units are nuclear in the extreme, designed by outside forces to ensure maximum compatibility; where food is provided for all in equal measure, education is compulsory and uniform for all, and "precision of language" is paramount. Oh, and one of my favorite features? In this society one's occupation is assigned by talent and inclination via exterior sources. No application or interview required.
Ok, so maybe I sound a little like a fascist-Marxist-socialist-neo-commie. But you have to admit, some of those things don't sound half bad. And yes, I know, if you read the rest of the book you learn that its characters live lives without passion, without love, and indeed, quite literally, without "color." Like any good 8th grader I know too that the moral of living life in this messy world of color and light and sound is far better than a kind of Stepford/ Pleasantville existence...yet part of me still wishes that I could weekend in Lowry's fictional community, just once.
I guess what I mean to say is that, at the moment, I am frustrated with the the lives of those around me, my own included. I ache knowing that money is tight, that jobs are scarce, that those I love are hurt or sick or lonely or afraid, and that friendships and families and marriages and relationships end.
...
Sometimes I just wish life could be less like the vivid brightness of a 72" HD screen and a little more like a battered old paperback fiction.
I have been revisiting some young adult fiction of yesteryear, and I came across Lois Lowry's The Giver. The book offers its audience an image of a seemingly Utopian society wherein such simple offenses like rudeness, lying, and riding Father's bike are causes for reprimand, while the problems of our own world--from war and illness to sexual promiscuity and the notion of revenge--are utterly unknown. And I must tell you that upon first glance this fictitious "community" seemed far better to my 31-year-old eyes than it ever did to the pair that sat in the back of an 8th grade English classroom. Lowry presents a world wherein pain is a virtual unknown, save a skinned knee or bashed thumb; a world where family units are nuclear in the extreme, designed by outside forces to ensure maximum compatibility; where food is provided for all in equal measure, education is compulsory and uniform for all, and "precision of language" is paramount. Oh, and one of my favorite features? In this society one's occupation is assigned by talent and inclination via exterior sources. No application or interview required.
Ok, so maybe I sound a little like a fascist-Marxist-socialist-neo-commie. But you have to admit, some of those things don't sound half bad. And yes, I know, if you read the rest of the book you learn that its characters live lives without passion, without love, and indeed, quite literally, without "color." Like any good 8th grader I know too that the moral of living life in this messy world of color and light and sound is far better than a kind of Stepford/ Pleasantville existence...yet part of me still wishes that I could weekend in Lowry's fictional community, just once.
I guess what I mean to say is that, at the moment, I am frustrated with the the lives of those around me, my own included. I ache knowing that money is tight, that jobs are scarce, that those I love are hurt or sick or lonely or afraid, and that friendships and families and marriages and relationships end.
...
Sometimes I just wish life could be less like the vivid brightness of a 72" HD screen and a little more like a battered old paperback fiction.
Sunday, May 6, 2018
On Perspective: Icarus, Daedalus, and The Looker-On
I've been thinking about Icarus a lot lately.
Maybe it's because I listen to too much Bastille.
Maybe it's because I miss teaching Classics.
Maybe it's because I don't know where I "fit" into the Morality Tale that the story of Icarus is suppose to illustrate.
(For those who don't remember, the story of Icarus goes something like this:)
Daedalus was a gifted, creative, and very proud inventor who gave Greece the sail for her ships and, supposedly, originated the art of carpentry in general. He was commissioned to build the Labyrinth by Minos, King of Crete, in order to contain the Minotaur. Then, to keep the Minotaur and the maze a secret, King Minos had Daedalus (and his son Icarus) imprisoned in the tallest tower. However, respected genius that Daedalus was known to be, he set to work making a "tool" to ensure freedom for himself and his son by using string, bird feathers, and candle wax to fashion wings for the two men to use to literally fly from their captors.
Before Daedalus and Icarus took flight for the first time in human history, Daedalus cautioned his son not to fly too high, as the heat of the sun would melt the wax, nor to fly too low, as the spray from the waves would soak and weigh down the feathers. (No lessons on flapping, coasting, or rudders required, apparently...)
Fearlessly, both men leapt from the ramparts of their prison and flew like birds, or winged gods. Daedalus maintained an even, "middle of the road" altitude, but, at some point, the boy Icarus either forgot his father's warning, decided the risk was worth it, or was perhaps so overcome by the temptations of power and height and the chance to be near to the Sun or the gods themselves that he flew high enough for the wax on his makeshift wings to melt.
Presumably, Daedalus witnessed Icarus' folly as it happened, and yet, knowing that he himself had no way to stop it, watched his son's fall, if he did not wish to suffer the same fate.
Without the aid of the wings, Icarus plummets to the sea below and drowns.
Daedalus survives.
The story goes that, after the death of Icarus, Daedalus bitterly laments his creation, and the Morality Tale the audience is encouraged to take away is to consider the long-term consequences of one's inventions with great care, lest those inventions do more harm than good--meaning not only the wings, but perhaps even so far back as Daedalus' making a wooden cow (that lead to the conception and birth of the Minotaur in the first place), or his construction of the Labyrinth.
Daedalus is, in many ways, ahead of his time; he creates something that may have negative effects on the world, be it the difficulty of solving the "puzzle" of the maze, the emotional damage of imprisoning the Minotaur, or making the ultimate sacrifice of inadvertently constructing the "tool" of wings that lead to his own son's death.
Thus, the idiom "don't fly too close to the sun" was introduced to the world, and the audience is expected to learn that tragic theme of the failure that comes at the hands of Icarus' hubris in not listening to his father.
And yet...
Somehow, I feel that the "moral" of the story has long been lost on modern ears (particularly when considering that for all the people who have heard of Icarus, a much smaller number of them can name his father, or can tell you that Daedalus is his father, if given the name out of context).
ICARUS is a name that has gone down in history. It, like Hercules or Thor means something when it is spoken. And somehow, that name does not seem to conjure up ideas about caution or duty to one's parents, however much story-tellers might want it to.
From my vantage point, I feel that Icarus is a glorified character that people remember because, goddamnit, he FLEW. At least he TRIED. At least he TOOK THE LEAP and BURNED BRIGHT, even if his flame was brief and he crashed at the end. Icarus seems to be something of a rock n' roll icon; a hero of the YOLO movement. Icarus took his life into his own hands, my man, and well, even if it ended tragically, at least he aimed for the highest possible goal before the end.
Ambition is the new Religion, so it seems. "Follow your dreams," the new God.
And I don't think that is a cult I want to join, frankly. Or, rather, I don't want to want to join it. Part of me REALLY wants to have the guts that I imagine Icarus had. Just to jump out of the prison window in the first place--! But then, how do I know what he was thinking when he looked ever upward, instead of down at the earth from whence he came? Perhaps he simply forgot himself, so wrapped up was he in the Newness of the experience of flight...
My envy of Icarus is a jealousy of freedom, of determination, of confidence, and of the thoughtlessness that is the opposite of fear.
And so, too, is my envy of Daedalus a similar kind of jealousy: I am covetous of the spark of creativity, the strength to construct, and the faith to test with all one has--not just his own life, but the life of his son.
And so, I confess, I forgot the traditional Morality Tale of Icarus, as his modern fame seems to eclipse the fact that HE DIED because he didn't follow directions! (I also think the Morality Tale of Daedalus feeling guilty for his inventions loses some of its heft when you learn that, according to some, the goddess Athena did eventually visit Daedalus and give him wings, telling him to fly like a god after all. Talk about the total opposite of Prometheus!)
In terms of divine--or even human--justice, I think I come down somewhere in between the fates of Daedalus, Icarus, and Prometheus (all three of whom are frequent subjects of classical and romantic art depicting their personal famous moments). And it is in these famous, captured, art-rendered moments that I truly consider Perspective.
In "The Fall of Icarus" as painted by so many of the Greats, the focus is on Icarus himself--his body, his face, his fear, his fall. Or, at times, the eye is drawn to Daedalus--the father, helpless to save his son, as in Jacob Peter Gowy's "The Fall of Icarus" [seen below]. (Nice religious metaphors there, too. Good job, old masters. *clap, clap, clap*).
Another rendering of the famous moment that defines Icarus for all of time is unique in that Icarus is a very small feature in the grander scheme of the frame; the painting "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus," by Pieter Bruegel [see below], features a plowman in the foreground, his head bent at his work in the field, with the sea far down below, and Icarus, nothing but a drop of sun from the sky into the ocean.
I like teaching Bruegel's painting because it literally illustrates perspective (both artistically physical, as well as metaphorical) better than many other classical examples I could give. And yet, when I ask one of my favorite Socratic questions, "Who are you in the story?", I fear my own answer. I never cast myself in the role of Icarus, nor even Daedalus. I am, reluctantly, the Looker-On--the peasant, hard at work, head bent low, not always aware of the beautiful and terrible things going on around me, and yet still discontent behind my plow, kicking at rocks in the earth, wishing to thrust them at the boy, falling from on high, too close to everything.
Maybe it's because I listen to too much Bastille.
Maybe it's because I miss teaching Classics.
Maybe it's because I don't know where I "fit" into the Morality Tale that the story of Icarus is suppose to illustrate.
(For those who don't remember, the story of Icarus goes something like this:)
Daedalus was a gifted, creative, and very proud inventor who gave Greece the sail for her ships and, supposedly, originated the art of carpentry in general. He was commissioned to build the Labyrinth by Minos, King of Crete, in order to contain the Minotaur. Then, to keep the Minotaur and the maze a secret, King Minos had Daedalus (and his son Icarus) imprisoned in the tallest tower. However, respected genius that Daedalus was known to be, he set to work making a "tool" to ensure freedom for himself and his son by using string, bird feathers, and candle wax to fashion wings for the two men to use to literally fly from their captors.
Before Daedalus and Icarus took flight for the first time in human history, Daedalus cautioned his son not to fly too high, as the heat of the sun would melt the wax, nor to fly too low, as the spray from the waves would soak and weigh down the feathers. (No lessons on flapping, coasting, or rudders required, apparently...)
Fearlessly, both men leapt from the ramparts of their prison and flew like birds, or winged gods. Daedalus maintained an even, "middle of the road" altitude, but, at some point, the boy Icarus either forgot his father's warning, decided the risk was worth it, or was perhaps so overcome by the temptations of power and height and the chance to be near to the Sun or the gods themselves that he flew high enough for the wax on his makeshift wings to melt.
Presumably, Daedalus witnessed Icarus' folly as it happened, and yet, knowing that he himself had no way to stop it, watched his son's fall, if he did not wish to suffer the same fate.
Without the aid of the wings, Icarus plummets to the sea below and drowns.
Daedalus survives.
The story goes that, after the death of Icarus, Daedalus bitterly laments his creation, and the Morality Tale the audience is encouraged to take away is to consider the long-term consequences of one's inventions with great care, lest those inventions do more harm than good--meaning not only the wings, but perhaps even so far back as Daedalus' making a wooden cow (that lead to the conception and birth of the Minotaur in the first place), or his construction of the Labyrinth.
Daedalus is, in many ways, ahead of his time; he creates something that may have negative effects on the world, be it the difficulty of solving the "puzzle" of the maze, the emotional damage of imprisoning the Minotaur, or making the ultimate sacrifice of inadvertently constructing the "tool" of wings that lead to his own son's death.
Thus, the idiom "don't fly too close to the sun" was introduced to the world, and the audience is expected to learn that tragic theme of the failure that comes at the hands of Icarus' hubris in not listening to his father.
And yet...
Somehow, I feel that the "moral" of the story has long been lost on modern ears (particularly when considering that for all the people who have heard of Icarus, a much smaller number of them can name his father, or can tell you that Daedalus is his father, if given the name out of context).
ICARUS is a name that has gone down in history. It, like Hercules or Thor means something when it is spoken. And somehow, that name does not seem to conjure up ideas about caution or duty to one's parents, however much story-tellers might want it to.
From my vantage point, I feel that Icarus is a glorified character that people remember because, goddamnit, he FLEW. At least he TRIED. At least he TOOK THE LEAP and BURNED BRIGHT, even if his flame was brief and he crashed at the end. Icarus seems to be something of a rock n' roll icon; a hero of the YOLO movement. Icarus took his life into his own hands, my man, and well, even if it ended tragically, at least he aimed for the highest possible goal before the end.
Ambition is the new Religion, so it seems. "Follow your dreams," the new God.
And I don't think that is a cult I want to join, frankly. Or, rather, I don't want to want to join it. Part of me REALLY wants to have the guts that I imagine Icarus had. Just to jump out of the prison window in the first place--! But then, how do I know what he was thinking when he looked ever upward, instead of down at the earth from whence he came? Perhaps he simply forgot himself, so wrapped up was he in the Newness of the experience of flight...
My envy of Icarus is a jealousy of freedom, of determination, of confidence, and of the thoughtlessness that is the opposite of fear.
And so, too, is my envy of Daedalus a similar kind of jealousy: I am covetous of the spark of creativity, the strength to construct, and the faith to test with all one has--not just his own life, but the life of his son.
And so, I confess, I forgot the traditional Morality Tale of Icarus, as his modern fame seems to eclipse the fact that HE DIED because he didn't follow directions! (I also think the Morality Tale of Daedalus feeling guilty for his inventions loses some of its heft when you learn that, according to some, the goddess Athena did eventually visit Daedalus and give him wings, telling him to fly like a god after all. Talk about the total opposite of Prometheus!)
In terms of divine--or even human--justice, I think I come down somewhere in between the fates of Daedalus, Icarus, and Prometheus (all three of whom are frequent subjects of classical and romantic art depicting their personal famous moments). And it is in these famous, captured, art-rendered moments that I truly consider Perspective.
In "The Fall of Icarus" as painted by so many of the Greats, the focus is on Icarus himself--his body, his face, his fear, his fall. Or, at times, the eye is drawn to Daedalus--the father, helpless to save his son, as in Jacob Peter Gowy's "The Fall of Icarus" [seen below]. (Nice religious metaphors there, too. Good job, old masters. *clap, clap, clap*).
Another rendering of the famous moment that defines Icarus for all of time is unique in that Icarus is a very small feature in the grander scheme of the frame; the painting "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus," by Pieter Bruegel [see below], features a plowman in the foreground, his head bent at his work in the field, with the sea far down below, and Icarus, nothing but a drop of sun from the sky into the ocean.
I like teaching Bruegel's painting because it literally illustrates perspective (both artistically physical, as well as metaphorical) better than many other classical examples I could give. And yet, when I ask one of my favorite Socratic questions, "Who are you in the story?", I fear my own answer. I never cast myself in the role of Icarus, nor even Daedalus. I am, reluctantly, the Looker-On--the peasant, hard at work, head bent low, not always aware of the beautiful and terrible things going on around me, and yet still discontent behind my plow, kicking at rocks in the earth, wishing to thrust them at the boy, falling from on high, too close to everything.
Monday, October 9, 2017
On Misery
"Misery," noun; "a state or feeling of great distress or discomfort of mind or body."
Yep. That. That is what I feel. I feel lost and adrift.
And I KNOW that I am the author of my own goddamn fate and the albatross-shooting captain of my own miserable soul.
...
I watched a TED Talk a while ago, given by a man with severe anxiety. At one point he said "I don't have stage fright, I have life fright." I couldn't agree more. I have never failed to make it through a day. I've never called in "sad" or "scared" or "afraid" to work. I'm a dependable, reliable, smiling, friendly employee. I work hard.
And it's such fucking hard work, is life. Getting out of bed is hard. I regularly have to logic myself into brushing my teeth, showering, and doing laundry.
I've been better of late, in some ways: I eat regularly. But I usually feel the desire to "edit undo" what I've just eaten. Meal planning and cooking and spending the necessary time and money and energy needed to "eat healthy" gives me anxiety, so I make the instant gratification poor choices of The Poor, then berate myself for it. I also joined a gym and got a personal trainer. But I'm embarrassed by my physical weakness and my fat body. I fear the eyes of other patrons, the judgement of the trainer, and the lack of results in myself. Again--this results in me mentally berating myself for further failure.
I don't socialize, really. And when I do I am aware of my pessimism and negativity and general unpleasantness. I try to remove myself from all shared environments due to an internal assumption that my presence is a drain and unwanted.
Through all of this, I remember an adage from childhood that went something like, "in order to have friends, you have to be a good one," and another than declared that "you have to be your own best friend in this life." Thus, I know that I am where the buck stops with all of the above miserable shit. I am aware that it is up to me to "fix" me.
And that just makes me seethe with rage. I don't want to have to "change." I don't like the idea that I am my own "problem" to be "solved" by me, myself, and I. I was never good at trouble-shooting or problem-solving, and I am stubborn to the core.
I remember reading somewhere that one has to WANT something in order for it to transpire. I suppose that is my current hurdle. I want my circumstances to alter for the better, certainly: I want a job that pays a living wage, that gives me a sense of satisfaction, and that gives me a sense of mastery and confidence...I want a body that works, that is strong and healthy and able, not fat, sluggish, poisoned, and weak...I want a life that has meaningful friendships and love in it--I want to love others and feel loved in return, and for obligation to not be in the equation.
But do I "want" to "invest" in that job search? That "perfect," healthy body? Nope. I really, really don't. And perhaps because those rather glaring elements are insufficient in my eyes in my life right now, I see myself as pretty damn worthless. And that worthlessness makes me aware of why I don't have a social life. I doubt I'd want to spend time with or become friends with or date me, either.
So here I am. Stuck inside my own head, like I have been for...a long time. I feel misery about myself and my circumstances and not hopeful about very much at all. And I know that that's on me. Which is an annoying and heavy thing.
I wish I could just "wish" away my thoughts and feelings, if only for the benefit of the people I care about. I wish my parents and friends didn't have to put up with this depressing version of a person. I often assume that many people in my life wonder what they did to get saddled with me. I wonder the same thing....I'd say I'd go for a personality transplant, but that's not it, really--I like my few remaining interests (poetry, stories, some books, travel, theater, really good food). I like my high-brow turn of phrase. I even occasionally like my uniqueness, knowing that there is and only ever can be one of me. I think, maybe, that is for the best.
I understand the concept of a "rough patch." But I feel like the mental state of me--my mind, my heart, my soul--has been in the weeds, in the dark, in the woods, stuck in the mire, in a rough patch for...a long time. There have been respites, of course. Even long ones. But it scares me still more to realize that those respites shape themselves around relationships that have been and now are no more. I fear and loathe the idea that my sanity and salvation lie in the companionship of someone else. (Or, if I'm honest, that doesn't bother me at all, really. What bothers me is that that someone else isn't in my life right now, might never be, or--the worst possibility of all--will be some day, but will find me "all too much," "too hard," "too needy," "too frail," "too fat," or "not enough," "not smart enough," "not strong enough," "not generous enough," "not pretty enough," "not woman enough"...). I am very much aware of my shortcomings. And, being so, I struggle to "sell myself" as "valuable" to anyone--a potential employer, a potential new friend, a potential date...myself.
...
I wonder what "value" I'd have as fodder. As internal organs sold to save more significant lives, lives more "full" than my own. Every life has a "purpose," right? And while I think I've had a positive impact as a teacher once or twice, I doubt much else of me has much to offer that is of "value." I'm not really good at anything. I have no standout talents, no spiritual gifts or fruits that make me a tool for the service of others, no skills that aren't more realized and better utilized in a thousand other souls the world over.
Purposeless, am I.
Beyond that, though, I can draw very few conclusions. I can do very little in general, really.
But I can read and write and turn a phrase. So I shall continue to do so for a while yet. Reading might be my favorite skill. And while it is in no way unique to me (indeed, my critical reading skills are rudimentary at best), I nevertheless take comfort in reading the words that other people have written down and sent out into the world, printed and pressed and bound, a message in a bottle, sent to any soul that happened upon them and cared enough to lay eyes of words and say, "I felt that."
These are the words that I feel. Misery, in particular, for the most part, right now.
But there are books. There will always be words. I'm so grateful for that.
Yep. That. That is what I feel. I feel lost and adrift.
And I KNOW that I am the author of my own goddamn fate and the albatross-shooting captain of my own miserable soul.
...
I watched a TED Talk a while ago, given by a man with severe anxiety. At one point he said "I don't have stage fright, I have life fright." I couldn't agree more. I have never failed to make it through a day. I've never called in "sad" or "scared" or "afraid" to work. I'm a dependable, reliable, smiling, friendly employee. I work hard.
And it's such fucking hard work, is life. Getting out of bed is hard. I regularly have to logic myself into brushing my teeth, showering, and doing laundry.
I've been better of late, in some ways: I eat regularly. But I usually feel the desire to "edit undo" what I've just eaten. Meal planning and cooking and spending the necessary time and money and energy needed to "eat healthy" gives me anxiety, so I make the instant gratification poor choices of The Poor, then berate myself for it. I also joined a gym and got a personal trainer. But I'm embarrassed by my physical weakness and my fat body. I fear the eyes of other patrons, the judgement of the trainer, and the lack of results in myself. Again--this results in me mentally berating myself for further failure.
I don't socialize, really. And when I do I am aware of my pessimism and negativity and general unpleasantness. I try to remove myself from all shared environments due to an internal assumption that my presence is a drain and unwanted.
Through all of this, I remember an adage from childhood that went something like, "in order to have friends, you have to be a good one," and another than declared that "you have to be your own best friend in this life." Thus, I know that I am where the buck stops with all of the above miserable shit. I am aware that it is up to me to "fix" me.
And that just makes me seethe with rage. I don't want to have to "change." I don't like the idea that I am my own "problem" to be "solved" by me, myself, and I. I was never good at trouble-shooting or problem-solving, and I am stubborn to the core.
I remember reading somewhere that one has to WANT something in order for it to transpire. I suppose that is my current hurdle. I want my circumstances to alter for the better, certainly: I want a job that pays a living wage, that gives me a sense of satisfaction, and that gives me a sense of mastery and confidence...I want a body that works, that is strong and healthy and able, not fat, sluggish, poisoned, and weak...I want a life that has meaningful friendships and love in it--I want to love others and feel loved in return, and for obligation to not be in the equation.
But do I "want" to "invest" in that job search? That "perfect," healthy body? Nope. I really, really don't. And perhaps because those rather glaring elements are insufficient in my eyes in my life right now, I see myself as pretty damn worthless. And that worthlessness makes me aware of why I don't have a social life. I doubt I'd want to spend time with or become friends with or date me, either.
So here I am. Stuck inside my own head, like I have been for...a long time. I feel misery about myself and my circumstances and not hopeful about very much at all. And I know that that's on me. Which is an annoying and heavy thing.
I wish I could just "wish" away my thoughts and feelings, if only for the benefit of the people I care about. I wish my parents and friends didn't have to put up with this depressing version of a person. I often assume that many people in my life wonder what they did to get saddled with me. I wonder the same thing....I'd say I'd go for a personality transplant, but that's not it, really--I like my few remaining interests (poetry, stories, some books, travel, theater, really good food). I like my high-brow turn of phrase. I even occasionally like my uniqueness, knowing that there is and only ever can be one of me. I think, maybe, that is for the best.
I understand the concept of a "rough patch." But I feel like the mental state of me--my mind, my heart, my soul--has been in the weeds, in the dark, in the woods, stuck in the mire, in a rough patch for...a long time. There have been respites, of course. Even long ones. But it scares me still more to realize that those respites shape themselves around relationships that have been and now are no more. I fear and loathe the idea that my sanity and salvation lie in the companionship of someone else. (Or, if I'm honest, that doesn't bother me at all, really. What bothers me is that that someone else isn't in my life right now, might never be, or--the worst possibility of all--will be some day, but will find me "all too much," "too hard," "too needy," "too frail," "too fat," or "not enough," "not smart enough," "not strong enough," "not generous enough," "not pretty enough," "not woman enough"...). I am very much aware of my shortcomings. And, being so, I struggle to "sell myself" as "valuable" to anyone--a potential employer, a potential new friend, a potential date...myself.
...
I wonder what "value" I'd have as fodder. As internal organs sold to save more significant lives, lives more "full" than my own. Every life has a "purpose," right? And while I think I've had a positive impact as a teacher once or twice, I doubt much else of me has much to offer that is of "value." I'm not really good at anything. I have no standout talents, no spiritual gifts or fruits that make me a tool for the service of others, no skills that aren't more realized and better utilized in a thousand other souls the world over.
Purposeless, am I.
Beyond that, though, I can draw very few conclusions. I can do very little in general, really.
But I can read and write and turn a phrase. So I shall continue to do so for a while yet. Reading might be my favorite skill. And while it is in no way unique to me (indeed, my critical reading skills are rudimentary at best), I nevertheless take comfort in reading the words that other people have written down and sent out into the world, printed and pressed and bound, a message in a bottle, sent to any soul that happened upon them and cared enough to lay eyes of words and say, "I felt that."
These are the words that I feel. Misery, in particular, for the most part, right now.
But there are books. There will always be words. I'm so grateful for that.
Tuesday, December 13, 2016
Struck
Sometimes
I'm struck
by a memory--
a desire
to use the tiny, metal, digital
extension of "me"
to call out to "you."
I want to ask
"if you could eradicate
a book from the world,
what book would you
un-write?
Why?"
The sudden
shock
of pain
strikes
my chest
at the thought of you--
the impulse
to reach
remains.
It has been hard to kill.
It is hard to keep quite.
Even now,
after so much
progress
the impulse
to touch
to "reach" you
takes my breath away
the way
the bitter cold
of winter mornings
robs my lungs
and throat of bliss
and leaves them
too conscience
of their own existence--
Struck by nothing
except reality.
I'm struck
by a memory--
a desire
to use the tiny, metal, digital
extension of "me"
to call out to "you."
I want to ask
"if you could eradicate
a book from the world,
what book would you
un-write?
Why?"
The sudden
shock
of pain
strikes
my chest
at the thought of you--
the impulse
to reach
remains.
It has been hard to kill.
It is hard to keep quite.
Even now,
after so much
progress
the impulse
to touch
to "reach" you
takes my breath away
the way
the bitter cold
of winter mornings
robs my lungs
and throat of bliss
and leaves them
too conscience
of their own existence--
Struck by nothing
except reality.
Saturday, October 22, 2016
Those. Damn. Dots.
Or, thoughts on the emotional roller coaster that is the act of watching the "typing" ellipsis dots in a text message exchange...
1.) F#$!.
2.) If anyone ever has to scratch his or her head in wonder as to why "so many young people are neurotic today" I will clarify at least a portion of that confusion by illuminating the following: like it or not, much of modern communication now takes place via text message. There are no traditional visual or physical cues or signals therein to indicate tone, physical state (tired, depressed, drunk, what have you), or to show even that the recipient has "heard" what you said and is either formulating a reply or ignoring you completely...no signal, that is, save three little grey dots that sort of pulse at you, indicating that someone has at least begun typing, allowing you the slimmest of flickers of information: someone has pressed a finger to at least one key. Me, I have been known to watch the empty text message screen on which my blue or green text now sits, waiting and hoping (often in vain) for those damn dots to appear, so rapt is my attention to this "conversation" I want to be having that is oh so very much, for the moments and longer-than-mere-moments between messages, my sole and soul-consuming focus, while all the while signals are being sent to satellites in space...just so two humans can have a simple conversation.
*3.) F#$!.
*This last, well-chosen, oft repeated sentiment is frequently directed not at the dots themselves, nor, indeed, even at the person or persons with whom I am desperately trying to communicate. No, no. The third (and fourth. and fifth. and...so on) thought in this mental procession is, 98% of the time, directed at MY OWN DAMN SELF for a plethora of reasons, but usually boiling down to this simple truth: that which I initially wanted to say, and indeed might have said hastily and thoughtlessly in a spoken conversation has now been WRITTEN OUT IN WORDS. Words which I myself can now read back. In the voice of the person I just sent them to. Thus allowing me to imagine a thousand new tones, contexts, and assumptions that could be made based on those words that I did not, in fact, intend. This results in me having yet another minor heart attack due to fear at the sight of the previously longed-for dots, convinced as I now am that the person I am talking to has come to the correct and inevitable conclusion that I am, in fact, a horrible person and not at all witty or funny, not worth speaking to any longer, and, what is more, worthy of an almighty lettered thrashing, which he or she will dispense to dole out in all haste, hence the sudden appearance of what has now become the most frightening series of symbols in modern times: those damn, damn dots.
1.) F#$!.
2.) If anyone ever has to scratch his or her head in wonder as to why "so many young people are neurotic today" I will clarify at least a portion of that confusion by illuminating the following: like it or not, much of modern communication now takes place via text message. There are no traditional visual or physical cues or signals therein to indicate tone, physical state (tired, depressed, drunk, what have you), or to show even that the recipient has "heard" what you said and is either formulating a reply or ignoring you completely...no signal, that is, save three little grey dots that sort of pulse at you, indicating that someone has at least begun typing, allowing you the slimmest of flickers of information: someone has pressed a finger to at least one key. Me, I have been known to watch the empty text message screen on which my blue or green text now sits, waiting and hoping (often in vain) for those damn dots to appear, so rapt is my attention to this "conversation" I want to be having that is oh so very much, for the moments and longer-than-mere-moments between messages, my sole and soul-consuming focus, while all the while signals are being sent to satellites in space...just so two humans can have a simple conversation.
*3.) F#$!.
*This last, well-chosen, oft repeated sentiment is frequently directed not at the dots themselves, nor, indeed, even at the person or persons with whom I am desperately trying to communicate. No, no. The third (and fourth. and fifth. and...so on) thought in this mental procession is, 98% of the time, directed at MY OWN DAMN SELF for a plethora of reasons, but usually boiling down to this simple truth: that which I initially wanted to say, and indeed might have said hastily and thoughtlessly in a spoken conversation has now been WRITTEN OUT IN WORDS. Words which I myself can now read back. In the voice of the person I just sent them to. Thus allowing me to imagine a thousand new tones, contexts, and assumptions that could be made based on those words that I did not, in fact, intend. This results in me having yet another minor heart attack due to fear at the sight of the previously longed-for dots, convinced as I now am that the person I am talking to has come to the correct and inevitable conclusion that I am, in fact, a horrible person and not at all witty or funny, not worth speaking to any longer, and, what is more, worthy of an almighty lettered thrashing, which he or she will dispense to dole out in all haste, hence the sudden appearance of what has now become the most frightening series of symbols in modern times: those damn, damn dots.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)