I see photographs of couples I know with smiling faces and confident postures, whether they're happy or not. Do we all do this? How great a divide is there between our mental picture of what our coupledom should be - how it should be presented to the world - and the reality of the relationship?
I vacillate greatly from one extreme to another; between my two natures. At times, I want the exact truth, with all its nuances and contradictions, to be known. It's the stuff of this life. There's beauty and pain in it. It's a blending of our sameness and our differences, of our easy flowing and our conflicts. It's what makes us unique and what makes us the same. It's ugly and it's just what I want it to be, even if it's, at times, difficult.
Other times, I want fewer brush strokes visible. I want the view to be from a distance, where you can't see the imperfections and the overall impression is more simplistic.
Going over this now makes me realize the problem, for me, is you can't control the audience and what they bring away from a piece of artwork. Whether the detailed portrait or the more cartoon-ish picture, the person who is going to see only the imperfections is the same.
I prefer the reality to the lie, since there's no control of what anyone does with the information one way or the other.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Writers as Characters in Stories
Why do writers so often write about writers? Well, in part, I’m sure it’s because writers like writers. But I think it’s more than that. Consciously or not, doesn’t everyone see themselves as a writer, at least hypothetically? There’s something we’d all like to put on paper, to immortalize, some piece of ourselves. And, even if we don’t devote ourselves to the pursuit of that goal, it’s in the back of our minds. It’s easy to connect to the concept of being a writer. What a fantasy it is in and of itself, to imagine creating a fantasy – even one based on the realities of life. Whether it be to escape from the bitterness of the experience by putting it into the abstract realm of stories or to voice an injustice that has gone unseen, we all have something to write about. Do you agree?
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Pure Romance
Here begins a self-indulgent project I will be posting in serial-form, if I end up being self-disciplined enough to continue to produce on a regular basis. It will be posted in rough draft. Feel free to ask any questions it raises for you and to point out any mistakes. Thanks!
As I lay in bed, slowly drifting into that most sacred state of sleep, my mind came to the subject of my life. What would be the defining theme? I flash on childhood, somewhere around five or six years old. Life was more frightening, more magical, and more exciting. I picture myself sitting on the cold open-concept steps leading up to the second floor of our tiny Van Nuys apartment building, holding my vinyl ET doll. It, like all the others I had, was alive to me. I was sure if I didn’t give it appropriate attention and if I ever said anything bad about it or looked at it wrong, it would hurt me somehow in my sleep. And yet, I loved my dolls to the point of pain. They all had unique personalities and, if any one of them ever went missing, I would mourn. They, like no breathing persons in my life, truly understood me. They liked me and saw when I was hurting and when I was happy, even if the adults in my life were too busy to care or notice. Life was a great romance, even though I didn’t yet know to define it that way. Back then, the romance of which I speak was a quiet ache in my chest that could send out bursts of hot energy into the sky, or at least, that’s how it felt. It took years to understand my relationship with my own personal concept of romance. It’s taken me until now to see it as the running theme of my life.
In fifth grade, though I still had the dolls, my relationship with romance had moved more toward inner dialogue. At school during recess, I revelled to go to the large grassy slope where kids weren’t allowed to play. The kids weren’t allowed to play there because the yard supervision felt it was dangerous to roll down the hill. But I didn’t want to roll down. I wanted to play in isolation, where I could forget there were other people in the world. I would walk down just far enough that, if I were to sit on the slope, my head would fall beneath the crest of the hill and I could remain unseen. I’d find rocks in the grass and pull them out of the ground to see the caves they created. I imagined little families of cave people lived there. I made grass beds for them and imagined their lives together in this remote part of the uncharted earth. The days I remembered to wear my red sweatshirt, another of my favourite games, also played in this same isolated area, was to tuck myself entirely inside my sweatshirt and watch the sunlight shine through the redness of the sweater. From inside, I pretended I was in my mother’s womb watching the sunlight shine through her skin on me. The peacefulness of imagining that was unmatched anywhere else in my life at the time. If I’d had a chance to spend time in the “womb,” I’d return to class in a blissful state of mental separation from any frightening, intrusive forces that were other kids and their unpredictable thoughtlessness and stupidity. On the days the yard supervisor caught me on the hill and told me I couldn’t play there, I felt robbed of that bubble of security.
Yes, a sensitive child was I with high expectations of those around me that were usually unmet. That’s why, when I would meet someone who seemed able to read my mind and empathize with my every hurt or joy, the euphoria of it was mind numbing. In sixth grade, amidst moving to a new school for the sixth time – half way through the year, as per usual – and amidst my first real experience with bullies, I was reacquainted with a cute boy named Michael who would happily spend time with me and indulge me in my silly imaginings and games. I made up a board game that was based on intuition and feelings. It was a game that had no logical rules to follow. Yet, when Michael and I played it, we anticipated each other’s moves and followed the “rules” exactly. That was extremely romantic to me, sharing an intimate understanding of another person and having it reciprocated. Of course, at the time, I didn’t understand it the way I do today. It created as much fear in me as it did exultation, because I didn’t know how to voice what I wanted from the experience and I was afraid it might be asking too much to experience it again. This was the beginning of my search to connect to the depths of my soul with other people every chance I got. My dance with the romantic notion of the perfect emotional experience began. And, though I understand it better today and know its limits, I have to admit, it’s still a thing of precious worth. It is so dear to my heart and so addictive, it can blind me to all else while I experience it, on those rare occasions. Certainly, this is the ever budding theme of my life. How has it landed me here? I’ll tell you.
As I lay in bed, slowly drifting into that most sacred state of sleep, my mind came to the subject of my life. What would be the defining theme? I flash on childhood, somewhere around five or six years old. Life was more frightening, more magical, and more exciting. I picture myself sitting on the cold open-concept steps leading up to the second floor of our tiny Van Nuys apartment building, holding my vinyl ET doll. It, like all the others I had, was alive to me. I was sure if I didn’t give it appropriate attention and if I ever said anything bad about it or looked at it wrong, it would hurt me somehow in my sleep. And yet, I loved my dolls to the point of pain. They all had unique personalities and, if any one of them ever went missing, I would mourn. They, like no breathing persons in my life, truly understood me. They liked me and saw when I was hurting and when I was happy, even if the adults in my life were too busy to care or notice. Life was a great romance, even though I didn’t yet know to define it that way. Back then, the romance of which I speak was a quiet ache in my chest that could send out bursts of hot energy into the sky, or at least, that’s how it felt. It took years to understand my relationship with my own personal concept of romance. It’s taken me until now to see it as the running theme of my life.
In fifth grade, though I still had the dolls, my relationship with romance had moved more toward inner dialogue. At school during recess, I revelled to go to the large grassy slope where kids weren’t allowed to play. The kids weren’t allowed to play there because the yard supervision felt it was dangerous to roll down the hill. But I didn’t want to roll down. I wanted to play in isolation, where I could forget there were other people in the world. I would walk down just far enough that, if I were to sit on the slope, my head would fall beneath the crest of the hill and I could remain unseen. I’d find rocks in the grass and pull them out of the ground to see the caves they created. I imagined little families of cave people lived there. I made grass beds for them and imagined their lives together in this remote part of the uncharted earth. The days I remembered to wear my red sweatshirt, another of my favourite games, also played in this same isolated area, was to tuck myself entirely inside my sweatshirt and watch the sunlight shine through the redness of the sweater. From inside, I pretended I was in my mother’s womb watching the sunlight shine through her skin on me. The peacefulness of imagining that was unmatched anywhere else in my life at the time. If I’d had a chance to spend time in the “womb,” I’d return to class in a blissful state of mental separation from any frightening, intrusive forces that were other kids and their unpredictable thoughtlessness and stupidity. On the days the yard supervisor caught me on the hill and told me I couldn’t play there, I felt robbed of that bubble of security.
Yes, a sensitive child was I with high expectations of those around me that were usually unmet. That’s why, when I would meet someone who seemed able to read my mind and empathize with my every hurt or joy, the euphoria of it was mind numbing. In sixth grade, amidst moving to a new school for the sixth time – half way through the year, as per usual – and amidst my first real experience with bullies, I was reacquainted with a cute boy named Michael who would happily spend time with me and indulge me in my silly imaginings and games. I made up a board game that was based on intuition and feelings. It was a game that had no logical rules to follow. Yet, when Michael and I played it, we anticipated each other’s moves and followed the “rules” exactly. That was extremely romantic to me, sharing an intimate understanding of another person and having it reciprocated. Of course, at the time, I didn’t understand it the way I do today. It created as much fear in me as it did exultation, because I didn’t know how to voice what I wanted from the experience and I was afraid it might be asking too much to experience it again. This was the beginning of my search to connect to the depths of my soul with other people every chance I got. My dance with the romantic notion of the perfect emotional experience began. And, though I understand it better today and know its limits, I have to admit, it’s still a thing of precious worth. It is so dear to my heart and so addictive, it can blind me to all else while I experience it, on those rare occasions. Certainly, this is the ever budding theme of my life. How has it landed me here? I’ll tell you.
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