We used to go everywhere together.
Tonight: blustery and hollow. Tonight I thought, now this is winter. Tonight seemed like the stars should have rested just a few feet above the ground. And I mean that in the most removed way because I find nothing romantic or idealized about it. Tonight I gathered my collar around my neck where a scarf should have been and I swore I heard someone yell my name, and yet I didn't turn around. And I mean nothing romantic in that either.
Tonight *someone far too young to even consider said he recognized me from MySpace and that he appreciated my seriousness. I thought about how Ryan was always accusing me of being too serious for my own good. And I was displeased because they both have it all wrong. Because I am not serious. Because, really, it is that I want badly for the metaphysical world to take itself more seriously. For the universe to obey its own cliches of karmic law. And so, this desire is misinterpreted as seriousness.
Tonight I was impressed by Margaret Atwood's musings on orphans and also of animals reclaiming their identities. When the bear renounces the names we've assigned him in language, the world ends.
And of orphans, from "Orphan Stories" The Tent by Margaret Atwood:
ii) Orphans have bad experiences in barns, in cellars, in automobiles, in woodsheds, in vacant fields, in empty classrooms. It's because they're so tempting. It's because they're so damaged. It's because they're so scrawny. It's because they're so easily broken. It's because they're so available. It's because they're so erotic. It's because no one will believe what they say.
Tonight I thought about two people who have authority over me. How neither are particularly artistically gifted. How neither seem to think in the abstract. Neither have ideas. How both are motivated by money and so easily swayed by general consensus. Tonight I thought about how one is of no threat to me at all and how the other is terrifyingly dangerous. Dangerous because she is simply unaware that she is not artistically gifted. That she does not have ideas. How she does not understand. How she is so easily swayed - how she is motivated. Tonight I thought how the universe could redeem itself by just placing her at a used car salesman's desk tomorrow morning. Tonight I thought about just how much damage we do to people when we take on a role that doesn't suit us. How much damage I did.
Tonight I thought about bees again.
Tonight I thought about James Frey. I thought about how his only mistake was to not tell Oprah to go fuck herself.
Tonight Chan Marshall's cover of Naked If I Want To came on as I was reading and I had an urge to tap my foot. But, you know, that song doesn't even begin to lend itself to toe-tapping. I wondered why this urge? Because I wanted the people across from me to see that I knew this song and loved it and that somehow, that would help define me for these strangers who didn't much care? And I immediately likened myself to the girls at Ani DiFranco concerts who sing along too loudly to prove to you that they are, in fact, the hardcore fans. But how the real hardcore fans tend to just keep as quiet as they can and listen. (Tonight, I thought about how I subconsciously chose to write Chan Marshall here rather than Cat Power. And I'm winking at you right now. And I will also admit that until about a year ago I used to pronounce her name phonetically.)
And of keeping quiet and just listening. And of admitting that I've been feeling quite pious lately. And of taking on roles that don't suit you. And of swearing to hear a (familiar) voice calling my name again: I met someone awhile ago who was very much himself at the time. And I was very much playing a role that didn't suit me. And I've noticed lately, with sadness and disappointment, that he is now playing a role that doesn't suit him at all. Keeping company with people of less than desirable character - The Vapid. Turning into Them. And because I knew him previously, this new identity seems more intensely shallow, placating, ugly and meaningless than it would if I had just met him tonight. But the reason it disheartens me is not really about him, it is this:
I spent a very long time working toward the goal he seemed to have achieved back then. And to see him give it up so easily makes me insecure about my own ability to hold onto it. This disappointment is much like my mother and the humiliating (I thank God for them) rules she imposed on my sister and me as teenagers. We were not allowed to shave our legs, wear makeup, pierce our ears, or wear nylon stockings, heels or above-the-knee skirts until we were in our late teens (much, much later than the rest of the girls.) And her reason was that we do these things to please men. Women are not meant to be wasting time pleasing men. But, then, just weeks ago she suggested, out of the blue, that I get breast implants. Everything I knew was sucked away. Will I give in, eventually, too?
Tonight I wondered if he still takes me places, even just sometimes. Because I still take him everywhere.
Tonight, on my way home and again as I've read this over, I realized why I might be called "serious." Why I might be interpreted as a Know It All. Or pious. Sanctimonious. Or just plain rotten. I realize why it might have brought that person a bit of joy to call me on my hypocrisy in a Blogger comment. And it doesn't bother me too much. And, oddly, it is sort of relieving. Because Jen, Erin, my family, Kate, Josh, my coworkers, but mostly Claire (if she knew what it meant) would most-likely put "serious" at the very bottom of my list of characteristics. Tonight I thought, if I did not seem serious here I might not be the one to break into ridiculous song on deadline day. I might not laugh until I snort when Erin tells me stories of Jerry the Granite Guy. Or convince Claire that Mr. Squirrel called and invited himself to dinner again. Or giggle with strangers when I've stumbled on the sidewalk. Make goofy jokes and talk about my new trouser shorts for far too long. If I weren't serious here, I'd have to be serious there. And I don't want to be serious there - so I am not. But I can see how they might think I would be. And I guess I don't blame them.
Tonight I wondered why I think serious is so bad.
* You know I'm not being rotten. You're lovely. But how foolish you'd make me look.
Tonight *someone far too young to even consider said he recognized me from MySpace and that he appreciated my seriousness. I thought about how Ryan was always accusing me of being too serious for my own good. And I was displeased because they both have it all wrong. Because I am not serious. Because, really, it is that I want badly for the metaphysical world to take itself more seriously. For the universe to obey its own cliches of karmic law. And so, this desire is misinterpreted as seriousness.
Tonight I was impressed by Margaret Atwood's musings on orphans and also of animals reclaiming their identities. When the bear renounces the names we've assigned him in language, the world ends.
And of orphans, from "Orphan Stories" The Tent by Margaret Atwood:
ii) Orphans have bad experiences in barns, in cellars, in automobiles, in woodsheds, in vacant fields, in empty classrooms. It's because they're so tempting. It's because they're so damaged. It's because they're so scrawny. It's because they're so easily broken. It's because they're so available. It's because they're so erotic. It's because no one will believe what they say.
Tonight I thought about two people who have authority over me. How neither are particularly artistically gifted. How neither seem to think in the abstract. Neither have ideas. How both are motivated by money and so easily swayed by general consensus. Tonight I thought about how one is of no threat to me at all and how the other is terrifyingly dangerous. Dangerous because she is simply unaware that she is not artistically gifted. That she does not have ideas. How she does not understand. How she is so easily swayed - how she is motivated. Tonight I thought how the universe could redeem itself by just placing her at a used car salesman's desk tomorrow morning. Tonight I thought about just how much damage we do to people when we take on a role that doesn't suit us. How much damage I did.
Tonight I thought about bees again.
Tonight I thought about James Frey. I thought about how his only mistake was to not tell Oprah to go fuck herself.
Tonight Chan Marshall's cover of Naked If I Want To came on as I was reading and I had an urge to tap my foot. But, you know, that song doesn't even begin to lend itself to toe-tapping. I wondered why this urge? Because I wanted the people across from me to see that I knew this song and loved it and that somehow, that would help define me for these strangers who didn't much care? And I immediately likened myself to the girls at Ani DiFranco concerts who sing along too loudly to prove to you that they are, in fact, the hardcore fans. But how the real hardcore fans tend to just keep as quiet as they can and listen. (Tonight, I thought about how I subconsciously chose to write Chan Marshall here rather than Cat Power. And I'm winking at you right now. And I will also admit that until about a year ago I used to pronounce her name phonetically.)
And of keeping quiet and just listening. And of admitting that I've been feeling quite pious lately. And of taking on roles that don't suit you. And of swearing to hear a (familiar) voice calling my name again: I met someone awhile ago who was very much himself at the time. And I was very much playing a role that didn't suit me. And I've noticed lately, with sadness and disappointment, that he is now playing a role that doesn't suit him at all. Keeping company with people of less than desirable character - The Vapid. Turning into Them. And because I knew him previously, this new identity seems more intensely shallow, placating, ugly and meaningless than it would if I had just met him tonight. But the reason it disheartens me is not really about him, it is this:
I spent a very long time working toward the goal he seemed to have achieved back then. And to see him give it up so easily makes me insecure about my own ability to hold onto it. This disappointment is much like my mother and the humiliating (I thank God for them) rules she imposed on my sister and me as teenagers. We were not allowed to shave our legs, wear makeup, pierce our ears, or wear nylon stockings, heels or above-the-knee skirts until we were in our late teens (much, much later than the rest of the girls.) And her reason was that we do these things to please men. Women are not meant to be wasting time pleasing men. But, then, just weeks ago she suggested, out of the blue, that I get breast implants. Everything I knew was sucked away. Will I give in, eventually, too?
Tonight I wondered if he still takes me places, even just sometimes. Because I still take him everywhere.
Tonight, on my way home and again as I've read this over, I realized why I might be called "serious." Why I might be interpreted as a Know It All. Or pious. Sanctimonious. Or just plain rotten. I realize why it might have brought that person a bit of joy to call me on my hypocrisy in a Blogger comment. And it doesn't bother me too much. And, oddly, it is sort of relieving. Because Jen, Erin, my family, Kate, Josh, my coworkers, but mostly Claire (if she knew what it meant) would most-likely put "serious" at the very bottom of my list of characteristics. Tonight I thought, if I did not seem serious here I might not be the one to break into ridiculous song on deadline day. I might not laugh until I snort when Erin tells me stories of Jerry the Granite Guy. Or convince Claire that Mr. Squirrel called and invited himself to dinner again. Or giggle with strangers when I've stumbled on the sidewalk. Make goofy jokes and talk about my new trouser shorts for far too long. If I weren't serious here, I'd have to be serious there. And I don't want to be serious there - so I am not. But I can see how they might think I would be. And I guess I don't blame them.
Tonight I wondered why I think serious is so bad.
* You know I'm not being rotten. You're lovely. But how foolish you'd make me look.
posted by Floge at 9:27 AM
1 Comments:
your writing is so lovely that I read all of your entries in a single sitting,
you create a whole gorgeous world to swim around in, and an artist?
There is probably someone walking around with no talent because you got an extra helping... lovely, lovely...
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