Written spring 2008:
Seven years ago I said: ( ) would have done a better job at life than I have. My father cried. It will be fifteen years this November since ( )'s death.
There was a line of demarcation drawn between my life before and my life after. The question was: are you looking for salvation, redemption? The answer was: no, I am searching for my own death.
Nowhere was home, that much was clear.
There were places with rain, places with sun splitting the clouds. There were places on the ring of fire, places near fault lines.
Now, the city seems no longer a myth – just a place where earth is volatile. Palms, anorexic, sway toward the ocean.
My mind's not right.*
There was a list of what angered me:
The bride and groom were in a capsule.
My ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend were in a similar capsule.
They smiled.
I smiled. The smiling exhausted me.
The sun went down and I had to take off my sunglasses.
He introduced her as his girlfriend.
She was born in 1981.
I called a sometime lover. He talked about himself.
My dress was old.
I felt old.
I only saw the past, which I couldn't get back to,
and the present, which I didn't want.
My sweater didn't match; my nails were bare.
I didn't want to get back to the past. It seemed as ugly as the present.
The future may or may not exist.
I was alone, even though I was talking to people.
There were people I missed, some dead, some far away.
I didn't want to dance.
*from Robert Lowell's "Skunk Hour"
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
Vanadium I-Ching
(The following is an essay I wrote last term for an intro. philosophy course.)
I learned quietness was an undesirable trait as early as fourth grade. “You’re going to have to speak up,” my teacher once said, “or else you’ll never be a cheerleader.” Of course, I didn’t want to be a cheerleader. I’d never said I wanted to be a cheerleader. But she implied that I should. After all, didn’t every girl dream of being a high school cheerleader someday, especially at a Texas elementary school?
The “quiet” label followed me. I was told being quiet – by teachers, parents, friends – was something I needed to shake. Had it ever served me well? In school, I was perceived as stuck up. I stood in front of class and mumbled intelligent book reports, but my presentation and speaking style left much to be desired.
In the workforce, I eventually learned that the people who hired me for my current job thought I was “a bad interview.” They’d taken a chance on me, on the strength of my resume, and they were glad they did. (As it turns out, I still work for said company.)
But the point is: I gave a bad first impression. I almost didn’t get hired. And I believe that’s because my traits are not compatible with America’s idea of success. I’m quiet, which leads one to believe I may not be a competitive go-getter. Perhaps quietness, too, indicates that I like to be alone. I therefore may not be a “team player.” How could a person with these traits be successful in corporate America?
To be quiet and still and quite content spending time alone is incompatible with our culture in general. To be busy and on-the-go, talking on the phone in the car, at the supermarket, in the middle of dinner, indicates success, a full life. To be “plugged in,” BlackBerry or iPhone in hand, indicates that one is a Very Important Person.
When I was younger, there was a time when I wanted to be someone else. Then I realized as I grew older that sure, I’d changed a bit - I certainly wasn’t as shy or reticent, and it’s not like I could be considered maladaptive - but I was still quiet. I would always be labeled “quiet.” I would always prefer solitude. Some things weren’t going to change, and did I really want them to? The answer was no. What was wrong with me? Perhaps nothing.
It dawned on me eventually that other cultures might value quietness, or at very least, have a tradition of quietness, counter to America’s tradition of conquering the frontier. Coming to the Tao Te Ching, my personality traits were affirmed in Chapter Fifty-Six: “Those who know do not talk. / Those who talk do not know.”
From this premise, the Tao instructs the reader on how to “know.” The first instruction is: “Keep your mouth closed.” To accomplish this means you have to keep still. You have to keep quiet and listen, as it is more important to listen than to talk. If you are too busy talking, you might miss what you need to know.
The reader is instructed further to “Guard your senses. / Temper your sharpness. / Simplify your problems. / Mask your brightness.” The initial instructions indicate that we must protect ourselves in terms of what we expose ourselves to. We must be careful and discriminating; if we’re not, we may stray off course. To whom might we not want to expose ourselves? Those who talk.
The subsequent instructions tell us to be humble and not call attention to ourselves. We should tone down our sharpness – and sharpness can mean many things, ranging from acute perception to shrewd intelligence. We should not catastrophize and dramatize our problems. We should not flaunt what we have, whether it is intelligence or riches.
Such a person will no doubt mystify. As Anneli Rufus writes in her collection of essays titled Party of One: “By Veblen’s reckoning, we [loners] give no evidence." She is referencing political economist Thorstein Veblen’s concept of “conspicuous consumption.” To be a conspicuous consumer is to display wealth ostentatiously. Quiet, under-the-radar loners aren’t conspicuous, so we give the outside world little indication of who we are. The Tao, likewise, instructs us to give no evidence.
Our final instruction is to “Be at one with the dust of the earth,” for that is “primal union.” If we follow these instructions, the Tao indicates that we will be unconcerned, which is “the highest state of man.”
To be at one with the dust also is to be humble because you are dust. To be at one with the dust also indicates that you are grounded – not untethered. You have gravity pulling you toward the earth, and you are heavy; but you are also light: “unconcerned with friends and enemies, / With good and harm, with honor and disgrace.”
The book has instructed me to be more like myself. I am keeping still. I am keeping quiet.
I learned quietness was an undesirable trait as early as fourth grade. “You’re going to have to speak up,” my teacher once said, “or else you’ll never be a cheerleader.” Of course, I didn’t want to be a cheerleader. I’d never said I wanted to be a cheerleader. But she implied that I should. After all, didn’t every girl dream of being a high school cheerleader someday, especially at a Texas elementary school?
The “quiet” label followed me. I was told being quiet – by teachers, parents, friends – was something I needed to shake. Had it ever served me well? In school, I was perceived as stuck up. I stood in front of class and mumbled intelligent book reports, but my presentation and speaking style left much to be desired.
In the workforce, I eventually learned that the people who hired me for my current job thought I was “a bad interview.” They’d taken a chance on me, on the strength of my resume, and they were glad they did. (As it turns out, I still work for said company.)
But the point is: I gave a bad first impression. I almost didn’t get hired. And I believe that’s because my traits are not compatible with America’s idea of success. I’m quiet, which leads one to believe I may not be a competitive go-getter. Perhaps quietness, too, indicates that I like to be alone. I therefore may not be a “team player.” How could a person with these traits be successful in corporate America?
To be quiet and still and quite content spending time alone is incompatible with our culture in general. To be busy and on-the-go, talking on the phone in the car, at the supermarket, in the middle of dinner, indicates success, a full life. To be “plugged in,” BlackBerry or iPhone in hand, indicates that one is a Very Important Person.
When I was younger, there was a time when I wanted to be someone else. Then I realized as I grew older that sure, I’d changed a bit - I certainly wasn’t as shy or reticent, and it’s not like I could be considered maladaptive - but I was still quiet. I would always be labeled “quiet.” I would always prefer solitude. Some things weren’t going to change, and did I really want them to? The answer was no. What was wrong with me? Perhaps nothing.
It dawned on me eventually that other cultures might value quietness, or at very least, have a tradition of quietness, counter to America’s tradition of conquering the frontier. Coming to the Tao Te Ching, my personality traits were affirmed in Chapter Fifty-Six: “Those who know do not talk. / Those who talk do not know.”
From this premise, the Tao instructs the reader on how to “know.” The first instruction is: “Keep your mouth closed.” To accomplish this means you have to keep still. You have to keep quiet and listen, as it is more important to listen than to talk. If you are too busy talking, you might miss what you need to know.
The reader is instructed further to “Guard your senses. / Temper your sharpness. / Simplify your problems. / Mask your brightness.” The initial instructions indicate that we must protect ourselves in terms of what we expose ourselves to. We must be careful and discriminating; if we’re not, we may stray off course. To whom might we not want to expose ourselves? Those who talk.
The subsequent instructions tell us to be humble and not call attention to ourselves. We should tone down our sharpness – and sharpness can mean many things, ranging from acute perception to shrewd intelligence. We should not catastrophize and dramatize our problems. We should not flaunt what we have, whether it is intelligence or riches.
Such a person will no doubt mystify. As Anneli Rufus writes in her collection of essays titled Party of One: “By Veblen’s reckoning, we [loners] give no evidence." She is referencing political economist Thorstein Veblen’s concept of “conspicuous consumption.” To be a conspicuous consumer is to display wealth ostentatiously. Quiet, under-the-radar loners aren’t conspicuous, so we give the outside world little indication of who we are. The Tao, likewise, instructs us to give no evidence.
Our final instruction is to “Be at one with the dust of the earth,” for that is “primal union.” If we follow these instructions, the Tao indicates that we will be unconcerned, which is “the highest state of man.”
To be at one with the dust also is to be humble because you are dust. To be at one with the dust also indicates that you are grounded – not untethered. You have gravity pulling you toward the earth, and you are heavy; but you are also light: “unconcerned with friends and enemies, / With good and harm, with honor and disgrace.”
The book has instructed me to be more like myself. I am keeping still. I am keeping quiet.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
What I'm Reading
She knows that Love looks like Hans, which is by no means an unattractive proposition but is still decidedly disagreeable. Because he has not realised what a gem she is and that she is the best woman he'll find, really she's too good for him in fact. Alas, he is in pursuit of faraway happiness, yet in reality happiness is so close. As close as the Good Things in Life are. But he must needs go a-roaming far away. Which is disagreeable for her. Though not for him.
~Elfriede Jelinek, Wonderful, Wonderful Times (tr. Michael Hulse)
~Elfriede Jelinek, Wonderful, Wonderful Times (tr. Michael Hulse)
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Dead Letter
There was a time, sitting with you at the work table in your apartment, when I felt like I'd been hit on the head with a brick. And I mean this as a wonderful thing: I was jolted into the present. That's when I realized I might be in trouble because I couldn't see you the way I see most men.
You see, I had begun to think of dating as killing time. But I realized, when I was hit on the head with that brick, that I'd been split open. How easy it would have been simply to kill time with you and to breathe a sigh of relief as your plane took off, away from this city, this country, for good. It could have been that way, if you were a different person. It could have been that way, if it weren't for the brick.
You see, I had begun to think of dating as killing time. But I realized, when I was hit on the head with that brick, that I'd been split open. How easy it would have been simply to kill time with you and to breathe a sigh of relief as your plane took off, away from this city, this country, for good. It could have been that way, if you were a different person. It could have been that way, if it weren't for the brick.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
The Simple Truth (II)
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
-- Sylvia Plath, "The Moon and The Yew Tree"
It's not that I don't like LA. It's fun. There are plenty of things to do if you feel like doing them. It's a metropolis, and once you've lived here you likely are going to be bored anywhere else in the U.S. besides NYC. But I don't love it. Then again, I've never loved any place I've ever lived.
I don't think I'd be bored outside the U.S., mind you. But the places I've been, of which I continue to dream (Berlin, for example, and Prague) ... well, I romanticize those places heavily.
Do I actually want to love the city in which I dwell? I might not. It's become such a part of my identity to be contrary. I lament not fitting in - and yet, this is what I do ... I don't fit in. If I ever felt like I fit in, would I be myself anymore?
LA, like many (most?) large cities, can be a revolving door. I have friends who used to live here, but now they're gone. We're still in touch, and they're still among my dearest friends. Everyone I know in LA now (aside from [ ]) is an acquaintance, really. And of course [ ] is moving soon, so he'll join the ranks of Those Who've Left.
Leaving is what people do, though. Sometimes they disappear altogether. It seems nothing is permanent, except for those things inside ourselves that never change... those personality traits we can't seem to shake. But would we necessarily want to shake them?
-- Sylvia Plath, "The Moon and The Yew Tree"
It's not that I don't like LA. It's fun. There are plenty of things to do if you feel like doing them. It's a metropolis, and once you've lived here you likely are going to be bored anywhere else in the U.S. besides NYC. But I don't love it. Then again, I've never loved any place I've ever lived.
I don't think I'd be bored outside the U.S., mind you. But the places I've been, of which I continue to dream (Berlin, for example, and Prague) ... well, I romanticize those places heavily.
Do I actually want to love the city in which I dwell? I might not. It's become such a part of my identity to be contrary. I lament not fitting in - and yet, this is what I do ... I don't fit in. If I ever felt like I fit in, would I be myself anymore?
LA, like many (most?) large cities, can be a revolving door. I have friends who used to live here, but now they're gone. We're still in touch, and they're still among my dearest friends. Everyone I know in LA now (aside from [ ]) is an acquaintance, really. And of course [ ] is moving soon, so he'll join the ranks of Those Who've Left.
Leaving is what people do, though. Sometimes they disappear altogether. It seems nothing is permanent, except for those things inside ourselves that never change... those personality traits we can't seem to shake. But would we necessarily want to shake them?
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