So... It is my turn to blog again. I have to be honest and say that I have not thought about what to write until the moment I sat down at the desk and opened my scratched and beaten Toshiba laptop a few minutes ago. I then proceeded to think of the ridiculously self centered things that I could tell you about. I do not dillude myself with the idea that anyone out there actually cares what I ate for breaskfast, whether or not I am getting good grades, or my opinion on political or local events.
I do not think there is someone reading write now who actually cares that I was up until three this morning watching an opera with subtitles on TV-or that I was both intrigued by and mocking of the magnificent costumes, giant stage, and lady in her late forties who was playing the lead (male) role, kissing a woman in her mid forties who was the lead soprano (female) role. You are not interested in the fact that I was up to three, wondering about the history of cross dressing in theatre, because I have insomnia, or that I have insomnia as part of a condition called post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).
Your life would be fine without knowing that in my Creative Non-Fiction Writing class a guy named Mountain ripped a page out of a brand new book to write a question to the author of said book, and thought nothing of it. Why would you care that I think Mountain is an amzaing name, even if that makes me a little hippie-ish, or that this action disturbed me. You have no way of knowing that when I was a child I stayed up until three in the morning most nights, sitting under the window in my bedroom for starlight, or hiding under the bed with a flashlight I stole out of the emergency kit, to read, or that this reading was the way I escaped the c
auses of my PTSD. There is no point in telling you that my hardest assignment this year was to rip, tear, cut, glue and reinvent a perfectly good book as an art project, because most people would not see why this is difficult, why this felt like I was destroying a best friend. I can not explain to you that the only way for me to spend four hours doing this was to create a piece about my Fiance and I, and I can not explain why this made it acceptable to me because I was turning it into another testament of hope and a witness of the protection and safety that Jack represents for me. You might laugh if I tell you that I cried when Jack placed it next to a picture of us as the second decorative piece of "us" in his bachelor pad living room. It is almost as cool as his pink flamingo neon light. It would be foolish to think that you, my fellow reader, have an interest in my life, and I would be surprised if you are not reading this because you are in my english class.
But maybe you do care that I watch opera in the early hours. Perhaps you are reading this because this is the way you express the basic human need of connecting with another human. It is possible that there is universality in each person's experiences and you know exactly what it is to stay awake until three because you will not-you can not-fall asleep. It is possible that you know what it is to love books and all that they represent in the form of safety and escape and hope and stability-that they represent something missing from other parts of your life. It is possible that you care, but it is more likely you are getting graded on this. If that is the case, I more than understand. I wouldn't want to read what I have to say.
Love the second person and the progression of this post, Megan. It evokes a sense of fear of the void--that no one's out there, no one hears us, no one cares--that really shifts into hope at the end, a sense that there *must* be, or at least might be. Powerful stuff.
ReplyDeletei'm not in your english class, yet i still read this :). the fact that there *are* seemingly unconnected people interacting and identifying with one another through an unlikely (impersonal?) means speaks to the interesting idea you bring up about universality and human connectedness. our global society is shifting from community-centered to a more isolated focus on the individual; as that happens, how do we (as intrinsically social beings) reconcile this decline of face-to-face human interaction? can blogging, tweeting, facebooking, linked-in-ing, cut it? thanks for the thought-provoking post...
ReplyDeleteCool Beans! Someone outside our class reads this thing! Nifty.
ReplyDeletei feel the same way about books. i used to bring a lamp and a pillow into my closet when i was a kid and read books in there. it felt quiet and safe. and when people ask me how i became the person i am today i say: books.
ReplyDeleteI am struck by one fear that Anna kind of touches on: the artists fear of her work being sent into a void where it isn't seen by anyone even though a main purpose of the art is to communicate, to reach out, to others.
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