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Biographies was what was left preceding that final tragic day. Religious fiction, westerns, books en espanol, and biographies—all of it 90% off. 90%! Even in my brokenheartedness I couldn't deny the thrill of such a steal, and I squealed to myself as the books weighed my arms down to the floor. Emily Dickinson, Wallace Stegner, Amy Grant, Euna Lee, Anne Rice, random artist from New York, random woman with a history of family illness, random Christian guy from Survivor: I will know you. All of you. I went home giddy in my greed.
I love memoirs and biographies to begin with. The good ones are like being in an interesting conversation without pressure to reply and be witty and liked. Most of all, it's the idea of renouncing a bit of your own experience on earth to fully slip into someone else's shoes that is really amazing. More amazingly, almost always, one size fits all. And it's only after such shared experiences that my own life—fills out better; a few healthy inches filling out the corners.
For whatever reason, I read the Survivor guy's first, and I read it in one sitting.
I'll never stop being amazed at connecting with another person on even the smallest level. It's a hard, rare thing—especially in person—not because we're all oh so unique in our experiences, but because each person is as vulnerable in their pride as the next, and true connection happens only beyond that. But I digress.
My train of thought: Who are you, Austin Carty, guy from Survivor—a show I have never seen a single episode of. I've never even heard of you, will probably never meet you, and yet here I am, connecting.
So never mind the reality of this gadget-happy generation that's making the good old-fashioned paperback obsolete. If there's reason behind tragedy like people say, then here's my attempt at comprehension.
What if it took Borders' closure for me to pick up this book; would I have ever come across it otherwise? A 90% liquidation sale price to get someone to take home your book and read it. Seems sad, but who cares what the means? That there was readership is what counts. That someone somewhere connected, and who knows what kind of doors that could open for a person? Not to make the grandiose claim that Carty's book changed my life or anything, not by any means. But did I learn something? Yes.
Maybe to the writers of those biographies, westerns—all those leftover books scattered across emptying shelves across the country—the Borders closing wasn't a tragedy at all, but a miracle. A beginning. Because connection is the lifeline of their work and that's what it took.
And for all the unsuspecting readers that went home with someone else's story in their hands that day, all because they couldn't resist the discount. Whether they pored over a surprisingly good read over cereal the next morning, or simply shelved away their book for a rainy day—that's what it took. That's what it took for this possibility.
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I'm not at work today. Not in NYC, either, like I was supposed to be, with my friends. Who knew when this week began that I'd be sitting at home right now, this Friday afternoon, Hello Kitty mug at hand, in front of the window that floods my little apartment with the whole sun.
Plans. How arrogant it is to have them. Not my world, not yours either. Had it been mine, a light rain would be beating against the pane now. Of course I appreciate the summer warmth. But there is nothing, nothing more romantic than coffee and rain and words. My world.
I just watched a Lifetime movie about J.K. Rowling. If you look up empathy in the dictionary, there'd be a picture of me watching that movie, dewy-eyed, heart caught in my throat. "But it's just not practical," her parents would say. And to go the whole train ride trying not to let the ideas spill out of your head just because you don't have the energy to ask someone for a pen. And the Mirror of Erised - I read enough of the series to at least catch the reference - our reflections are one in the same.
When she was 6, she wrote a short story about a rabbit. When I was 6, I wrote a short story about a rabbit. I remember spelling "hole" w-h-o-l-e. Even then, my brain liked to complicate things. And I remember my parents making a big woop about my story, showing it to my teachers and whatnot, and while I basked in the attention, I remember thinking, what's the big deal? I can do better.
I can do better.
There are plans and there are dreams. Which is more practical?
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I have this recurring thought, and I did again a month ago at the zoo.
Boyfriend and I were looking around for bears in the tiny sectioned off bear area - no luck - and I thought, good for you, bears. I thought, if I were a bear in this zoo, or any animal here at that, I'd hide on purpose. I'd hide so well that even the zookeepers might think I was dead. 'Cause who the heck are all these nosy, overfed humans and what business do they have trying to ogle me and snap pictures?
But that's not the recurring thought I'm talking about.
Then I realized how sad the situation was...the zoo situation. The poor locked up animals. Kind of like the horses used to pull carriages around Michigan Ave and are forced to poo into little sacks that go wherever they go so that when nature calls, passersby sneer at the them for the stench, as if it were their choice to lug their poo around. Should be illegal if you ask me. It's the same overfed tourists that perpetuate this madness! We should cut the beasts free. The horses, I mean. I daydream about carrying shears in my purse.
Anyway, I got to thinking (this is it, the recurring one) that the world is set up in such a funny way that if we all disappeared this second and some intelligent species were to study our civilization, going off the things we left behind, they'd scratch their head and wonder W.T.F. ("If aliens were to like, show up right now..." was how I phrased it to Boyfriend at the time, at which point I'm pretty sure he stopped listening. He's not with me because I talk good. -.- )
So yeah, the intelligent species would shake their heads. Why are zoo penguins imprisoned behind a thick sheet of glass, when the ones in the Arctic are waddling happily into the horizon? Criminal penguins? Why are the houses on this block so fancy, and the one just a few streets down so dilapidated; what made the owners of the former superior to the latter? Noting the ubiquitous Apple icon: their leader? Noting a rack of tabloid magazines: Bradgelina...their leader?
why am i in this box?
And you know what. If these intelligent species were to visit the world while we're still in it , say, ride the subway today during rush hour, they'd look around at the white headphones dangling from our ears and conclude: must be their lifeline. And they'd watch as we recharge ourselves, quietly, almost solemnly (why's no one talking to each other?) via the compact "battery" of sorts (iphone, ipod.... yup, Apple was, in fact, their leader) at the other end of the headset.
'Cause isn't that what it looks like? I always thought so.
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That feeling you get when you watch a video recording: be it on the white screen during a wedding reception, or in the palm of your hands as you ride shotgun on the road trip back home, giggling with the friend next to you over the memories while everyone else is knocked out in the backseat. I know this feeling, but I wonder if it's the same for everyone else.
To me, it's sad. No matter how keel-over-funny the moment was, there's a sadness that cloaks it in hindsight because no matter how keel-over-funny the moment was, it's gone. Pictures, I think the same with pictures. One of my best friends told me a long time ago about how he'd look at this one photo of himself and his girlfriend, at the huge smile on his face, and remember how at the precise moment she stretched out her hand to take the picture he felt the strain of the smile on his cheek and consciously thought: I am not this happy. Who'd guess this, if you or I were to look at the photo now? Is anyone really as happy as he/she seems? They broke up not too long after. Just goes to show. Photography is an essential art (hi, Anna!) but like anything else, it's the potential manipulation of truth that has me shaking my fist.
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A few weeks ago, Boyfriend managed to score tickets to the Oprah finale where we saw every A-list celeb you could think of. Yes, it was awesome. It was fun, yes. But when I looked over at him in the middle of the show, what was he doing? Updating Facebook.
We'd gone over this so many times, agreeing to disagree. The heart on his sleeve (his collar, his hat, his eyes...) is what made me first fall for him, it's true, but gosh dangit.
My feeling is that if you have the time and desire to update your status about what a great time you're having at the moment, you must not really be having that great a time. Or is it just me who is engulfed when happy. Those wasted seconds of typing up a status, of wanting to share (brag about?) your excitement is dilution, I don't understand it. Isn't it hard enough as it is to enjoy just being "in" the moment? - who has actually mastered this, tell me please.
And posting photos of our fabulous weekends on Facebook. I wonder if we really want to share our moments that badly, or if we want some kind of validation that comes from saying yes, I have friends - look how much fun we're having - and here, look at me through the lens that shows only the glamorous part of my life; validate me.
It's a tricky balance: transparency among loved ones (good) weighed against narcissism (bad), so what's supposed to be "sharing your life" results in something a little disingenuous. In a book I read a while back someone said that no one's life is as glamorous as it seems. We all have to renew our driver's licenses, pick up groceries, wait in traffic. Part of being human, these things. And it has always been in the back of my mind, even (especially?) during the window of time I myself used to post photos like...like lacy undergarments pinned to the line just so the neighbors can see. I suppose I could have just said "like aired laundry" but cliche sucks.
Necessary filtering and omission of truth - how do you draw the line? But I guess that's the nature of any type of self-showcasing (i.e., this very thing I'm doing now called blogging) so I can't get too bent up about it. That's life, isn't it? Image and first impressions - reputations built on the very things you filter/omit in order to shine as you see fit.
Ah, reputation; a whole other entry. Even with the best of intentions, we're all judgey a-holes.
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I imagine waking up in a perfect world where I function like I'm on NZT a la Limitless, but au naturale, and my mini-tiger of a cat Sammie sits on my lap all day without my having to bribe him, and we could go about publicizing any photo or thing we damn well please - and all this - all the aforementioned crap about subtext - would be a non-issue (for me, anyway, 'cause like...raise your hand if you lose sleep over it in the first place? S'what I thought) and I could write instead about Top 10 Summer Beauty Secrets! or something like that. I wouldn't, but I could...like only a worry-free person can. 'Cause with all the stuff going on in the world, how magazines thrive on such headlines is beyond me. Where are your priorities, people! But that's me being judgey.
Nobody wins.
The truth is I like makeup as much as the next girl.
Why did I wake up this morning on a pulpit with so many words? That too is beyond me.
HEAT 2011-2012!
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Long overdue. Everything in my life feels that way, and not just because I procrastinate.
Here are some things.
Note to self. Do not throw a fit because he "forgot" Valentine's Day. You feel pretty stupid when - surprise - he hands you a two-week itinerary to Spain. Paris, too. More on that later. Maybe someday.
I’ve been realizing lately that pursuing any type of art is perhaps the most difficult thing in the world, and I’m not sure I’d wish it upon anybody. Part of the realization is the same old sob story I’m tempted to tell – art doesn’t put food on the table, yeahyeah. But it’s the creative process I’m talking about, the painstaking, endless, solitary activity wracked with hair-pulling that pisses me off sometimes. It’s easy to love in the moment, which is the ironic thing, but in the end, all those caffeinated hours… all for what? For more caffeinated hours, because is a creative piece ever considered finished? Ever close to the elusive endpoint that is your personal best? It’s something that most people can’t empathize with, which just makes it more lonely. Writing especially. I never wondered why writers go mad. Like I said, I wouldn’t wish it upon anybody.
I've been celebrating with friends lately as they pass their bar exams and get matched for residency. I’m so envious of their future, which is so, so tangible – it has arrived, the light at the end of all the hard work. But it was always there, I suppose. “What will you do with that degree?” no one had to ask. “At least you’re doing what you love!” the same hypothetical people say to me. A consolation prize I’ve unwrapped myself a hundred times over. I nod. Next subject.
Once in a while I come across writers in the program who in all candidness, shouldn't be there. Like seriously sister, this may be your dream and all, but your run-on sentences will get you nowhere. And I really have to wonder if follow your dreams is good advice. I actually get angry critiquing such work - really? really? I say, circling the 7th time the word "ice" is used in two paragraphs. Then I remind myself that we're huddled in the same tunnel, and she must really want to be there too, 'cause...glamour? What glamour? That or she's one of those who are in it "for fun"; a misconception that the more serious, and consequently, better writers would quickly deconstruct.
I've had the best class I ever had last quarter, with a genius of a professor who gave me this awesome push. In his class, something just clicked, and everything that I'd been doing wrong in the craft suddenly came to light and I'm so grateful. A light, you'd think - now I get one too. But hold the celebration because dude I'm exhausted. Trouble, because I know - oh I know - I haven't even begun. If only I had been born understanding numbers. I would’ve gone into like, actuary or something, and by now I’d be able to afford my own boat.
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