Reading critical essays of the essay form has been a little uncomfortable to me in some ways. It seems the notion is a little bit ironic, especially since we have placed particular emphasis on personal essays rather than on formal essays, to write an almost academic paper about the theory, structure and history of the essay. R. Lane Kauffmann claims that theessay itself is an "unmethodical method," and to a certain extent I think he's right. It's quite a task to define what makes an essay an essay, especially as methods and structures have become more and more experimental.
For Montaigne, Kauffmann claims, "the purpose of method was to facilitate knowledge by reducing all subjects to the bare essentials...." He wrote with one eye looking outward, the other inwarrd, to apply his observations to himself and enlightenment. Supposedly, the modern essayist has progressed to a method that is less personal, that is more critical and based in commentary. While this idea absolutely does not apply to all modern essayists-- I think it cannot-- Kauffmann says the method of contemporary essayists "is no longer 'co-extensive with life.' He needs other works, other lives, to give meaning to his own." This is an opinion to which I take serious umbrage, even in the critical sense.
It's rather an offensive idea to me as a fledgling writer to be faces with the implication that my attempts at essaying, or my academic papers for school for that matter, are infused with meaning only because the lives of others. I think that there is much to be learned from other writers, particularly reputable ones who have apparently stood the proverbial "test of time." To me, this is not to say my methods, even as a student still learning, are less credible because they are not purposefully influenced by the works of others.
Kauffmann goes on to site Auden's opinion that,
Today tastes have changed. We can no longer derive any pleasure from the kind of essay which is a fantasia upon whatever chance thoughts may come into the essayists head.
I'm not sure that this is actually true. In fact, it confuses me. While some of our class members have shown obvious distaste for "old fashioned" writers and styles, the fact that essays continue to be studied, and continue to be written, though the tribe is small, should be an indication that someone derives pleasure from "chance thoughts." I fail to see what a personal essay is except the result of chanced thought. On an even more basic level, doesn't blogging tend to reflect the "chanced thoughts" of its blogger (since I am of the opinion that blogs are a contemporary forum for widespread essaying, though bloggers are mostly unaware-- but that is somewhat unrelated to this point). I would argue, not only does pleasure continue to be derived from essays of chanced thought, "chance thought essays" are a method in their own right.
But who am I to argue, since I'm apparently only giving meaning to my own work through Kauffmann's.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
The plight of the long-winded essayist and the questioning of his right to be such
In class once, we had a somewhat passionate discussion questioning the detail to which essayists do and should delve into the subjects of their essays. While the "point" of the debate was not exactly whether an essayist has the right so speak with such thorough authority to support their claims, the exhaustive exploration of a theme was the coren--responses with varying levels of agreement were expressed.
While I can sympathize with the idea that an essayist may sometimes prove self-indulgent, I am incline to argue that such potentially comprehensive examination is inherent to the genre; it is to be expected, and while personal preferences certainly contribute to the enjoyment of an essay, lengthy discourse and even redundancy does not negate the validity of an essay, nor the skill of the essayist. If given the same topic, an essayist and an academic writer will approach the deconstruction of the subject completely differently, from an informal and a formal view respectively. Should they each produce a produce a paper 15 pages long, eyebrows might be raised that the academic's paper was not, in fact, lengthier, while the essayist (according, apparently, to some in our class) may be regarded as long-winded and perhaps egocentric.
Since we have agreed that an essay is something personal and conversational, it would seem natural that essays can, and will, be as long as the essayist cares to continue talking about a thing. As Arthur Benson notes in his The Art of the Essayist,
Frankly, though an essayist should aspire to write for an audience of some kind, why shouldn't he write on and on about a meditation as long as he has something new to say? OF course we would hope that a good essayist would show some signs of self-restraint, lest his reflection become an obvious platform merely to hear his own thoughts, but if he continues to discover new and interesting facets of a subject, why restrict him from continued enlightenment for the sake of a few less pages? Benson also wrote that
In order to do so, a few extra paragraphs may be required--and so what? All too often I think we demand a kind of instant gratification, rather than letting ourselves meander through the thoughts of someone else, happy to take in all the twists and turns and contemplations that may lead to deeper meaning.
I don't know about anyone else, but I'm sure my unbridled thoughts are not so neatly conveyed as even a lengthy essay may present, and I am more than happy to let an essayist talk on, as long as he has something valuable to say.
While I can sympathize with the idea that an essayist may sometimes prove self-indulgent, I am incline to argue that such potentially comprehensive examination is inherent to the genre; it is to be expected, and while personal preferences certainly contribute to the enjoyment of an essay, lengthy discourse and even redundancy does not negate the validity of an essay, nor the skill of the essayist. If given the same topic, an essayist and an academic writer will approach the deconstruction of the subject completely differently, from an informal and a formal view respectively. Should they each produce a produce a paper 15 pages long, eyebrows might be raised that the academic's paper was not, in fact, lengthier, while the essayist (according, apparently, to some in our class) may be regarded as long-winded and perhaps egocentric.
Since we have agreed that an essay is something personal and conversational, it would seem natural that essays can, and will, be as long as the essayist cares to continue talking about a thing. As Arthur Benson notes in his The Art of the Essayist,
The essay is the reverie, the frame of mind in which a man says,...'Says I to myself, says I.'
Frankly, though an essayist should aspire to write for an audience of some kind, why shouldn't he write on and on about a meditation as long as he has something new to say? OF course we would hope that a good essayist would show some signs of self-restraint, lest his reflection become an obvious platform merely to hear his own thoughts, but if he continues to discover new and interesting facets of a subject, why restrict him from continued enlightenment for the sake of a few less pages? Benson also wrote that
the appeal of the essayist to the world at large will depend upon the extent to which he experiences some common emotion, sees it in all its bearings, catches the salient features of the scene, and records it in vivid and impressive speech.
In order to do so, a few extra paragraphs may be required--and so what? All too often I think we demand a kind of instant gratification, rather than letting ourselves meander through the thoughts of someone else, happy to take in all the twists and turns and contemplations that may lead to deeper meaning.
The good essayist is the man who makes the reader say: 'Well, I have often thought all those things, but I never discerned before any connection between them, nor got so far as to put them into words.'
I don't know about anyone else, but I'm sure my unbridled thoughts are not so neatly conveyed as even a lengthy essay may present, and I am more than happy to let an essayist talk on, as long as he has something valuable to say.
Monday, August 31, 2009
In pursuit of a personal essay
I am happy with my own lesser thing, because it is mine.
I had an experience recently which conversely shook my confidence and stiffened my spine in regards to my writing ability. I had a friend read an entry on my blog-- an entry that I had been working on here and there for a few months, since I like to use my blog as a place to practice essay writing in hopes to receive some kind of feedback-- of which I was particularly proud. Though aware that it was not without fault, I was annoyed by his short response: "A pretty good entry," said he. "Conversational, but witty."
Clearly this irked me, not only because of his condescending tone, but also for his uneducated idea that this blog-- this essay of mine-- should be anything but conversation, to say nothing of being witty. I tried to put his criticism aside in favor of remaining appropriately proud of my little personal essay, but it has got me wondering about the validity of being proud of something that is my own doing. I took a look at it again and wondered if I love it because it's mine, or because it's good and well-written and worth the time to read it, since--
There is a joy in discovery quite apart from the quality of the thing discovered.
I determined that it could certainly improve with continued revision (but then, a writer can always find ways to revise, and knowing this, can he ever be fully satisfied?) but that it wasn't a bad little piece in its own right. The greatest writers throughout history had to begin small and eventually rose to greatness. Why shouldn't this blog serve the same purpose? Why should this essay, conversational but witty as it may be (that infuriating but!), be any indication that I might not be as Great as they someday?
It has been somewhat comforting to study "Forgotten Essayists," who confirm the great talent of more common folk who have not achieved the status of Montaigne, Bacon, or Lamb. These famous writers are certainly among the Greats but--
There is something cloying about the continual contemplation of unquestioned greatness, especially if the experience has to be shared with the crowd.
There is something kind of intimidating and almost off-putting in the pursuit of achieving smiilar goals as Dr. Johnson; Elizabeth Woodbridge Morris is far more approachable, and I defy anyone to accuse A.A. Milne to be anything less than conversational. The Forgottens, or at least the less-widely studied, are easier to identify with, easier to try to emulate. Of course,
If we spend all oru time on the second-best we shall lose something out of our intellectual and aesthetic equipment--
but since a personal essay should remain precisely so, it is with these humble friends I'll keep company. They are not so "forgotten" anyway. Our small class has pulled out their work to study and critique, so I believe they have achieve some kind of greatness after all. Compared to Stevenson, Barbellion might err more on the side of "conversational but witty," but what is wrong with that?
At this point, I've decided to aim for conversational and witty, using my personal blog to post my personal little ditties in the hope that I might continue to improve and beomce Great someday. Who knwos-- maybe in a hundred years, a dozen undergraduates will debate the value and "essayness" of my essays. My hope is they'll have more to call those exercices than anything as uncritical as conversational or witty.
Morris, Elisabeth Woodbridge. "The cult of the second-best." 1917. Quotidiana. Ed. Patrick Madden. 8 October 2009. 12 October 2008.
Metaphorically Speaking
I am fascinated by metaphors. I am fascinated by the comparisons people draw, so often between two seemingly dissimilar things and suddenly, by that comparison, those things are made alike, deeper meaning is drawn. Annie Dillard's essay Seeing beautifully discusses the ability to see and conveys the process in such vivid language and images-- obviously, the words are as important as the vision in metaphors. She says, "Seeing is of course very much a matter of verbalization." If you are unable to convey what you see in words, what is the point of writing down an image of experience?
My friend Julie and I will sometimes send each other little metaphorical gems that we find in our various readings because they delight us and enrich our soul somehow. I'm not sure exactly how I create metaphors or pretty, strange imagery, but she certainly encourages me to stretch and aim to craft images that are unusual and fresh. I recently began an essay that discusses my inability to "get" modern art--
True, any creativity was probably influenced by the fact that I was literally falling asleep with my fingers on the keyboard, and severe sleep deprivation seems to have provided me a similar aesthetic experience perhaps as opium-influenced writers of the past. But it is rather thrilling to be able to craft something artistic and an arguably beautiful picture using words and images that may not have anything immediately to do with the subject at hand.
There is a certain amount of care that goes into drawing successful comparisons, however. It is difficult to force a metaphor, though it is very easy for a metaphor to sound forced. Mostly I try to "keep my eyes open" and let the inspiration wash over me when least expected, when the metaphor is not intended.
The word metaphor derives from the Greek, meta + pherein, which is "to bear." It is a lovely image in itself, picturing the weight placed on words as they carry a meaning beyond their given definitions. They groan and creak under the task, uncomfortable and suspicious, but wink with understanding, and a secret smile threatens to break.
My friend Julie and I will sometimes send each other little metaphorical gems that we find in our various readings because they delight us and enrich our soul somehow. I'm not sure exactly how I create metaphors or pretty, strange imagery, but she certainly encourages me to stretch and aim to craft images that are unusual and fresh. I recently began an essay that discusses my inability to "get" modern art--
I think I'm the canvas modern art is painted on, and [those who understand it] are the trendy silk curtains hanging in the gallery-- the curtains who hang there and study modern art all day, but I can't see the painting since it's painted on me, painted over my eyes.
True, any creativity was probably influenced by the fact that I was literally falling asleep with my fingers on the keyboard, and severe sleep deprivation seems to have provided me a similar aesthetic experience perhaps as opium-influenced writers of the past. But it is rather thrilling to be able to craft something artistic and an arguably beautiful picture using words and images that may not have anything immediately to do with the subject at hand.
The secret of seeing is to sail on solar wind. Hone and spread your spirit till you yourself are a sail, whetted, translucent, broadside to the merest puff. --Dillard
There is a certain amount of care that goes into drawing successful comparisons, however. It is difficult to force a metaphor, though it is very easy for a metaphor to sound forced. Mostly I try to "keep my eyes open" and let the inspiration wash over me when least expected, when the metaphor is not intended.
The vision comes and goes, mostly goes, but I live for it, for the moment when the mountains open and a new light roars in spate through the crack, and the mountains slam.
The word metaphor derives from the Greek, meta + pherein, which is "to bear." It is a lovely image in itself, picturing the weight placed on words as they carry a meaning beyond their given definitions. They groan and creak under the task, uncomfortable and suspicious, but wink with understanding, and a secret smile threatens to break.
Inner Monologue
I cme ito work this morning and discverd my computerkeybard wont typle all the letters I press, no matter how sloly I go. I mean, I know I'm a quick typer and all--approximately 90 words-perminute, which is comfortbly above the 40-70 wpm average--but Iv'e never had a problem with this keyboard before. There doesn't seem to be a consistant way to anticipate which letter wi fail me, and I'm fidig the bakspace button is faulty too. Of course this comes as a concern since I hoped to finish a pile of homework today, usuing this very computer. Asisgnmnets have relly started to stack up now that it's almst the end of the smsteer and everything seems to be due, all at once, for all my classes. I'm sure most college students can relate--probly professors too, since theyr the ones who have to grade everythign we turn in.
It's awkward to be without the use of letters adn kyboard functions. It makes me feel unesy and ncomplete, as well as most readers, I dare say. Sure, the words are still moreor less ditinguishable, but the absence of leers, especialy consonants, forces readers to be more engaged in a piece. They can't just ski right over the pge because sometimes they have to really decide if I actually meant to say ski, or skim, or maybe skip, with a p. Ski makes for an interesting and vivivde expression I guess.
I think sometimes readers don't give writers enough credit for choosing specific words and placing them exactly where they mean to go. I've had more comments like "I don't know if you meant to do this..." from peers on pieces I've written than I know what to do with. I would never insult someone by wondering if, in the careful construction of their work, they "meant to" write something. Typically, whenever I've had that comment, yes, I've "meant to." I don't know what that really says about me as a writer-- maybe my word choice needs to be even more clear. The point is that maybe sometimes I "mean to" write ski insteand of skim or skip, and that "means" I probably want particular attention paid to my point. Assume I did "mean to" say They can't just ski right over the page. I kind of like the image of eyes skiing across the page, graceful on the slope as they cascade downward through my essay toward the end of the piece where they ski to a stop, a spray of linguistic snow punctuating a successful run. It's a pretty metaphore. I might keep it in mind for later, when my keyboard is working properly again.
In my soap-boxing, it seems I failed to notice that my keyboard is working properly again, miraculously.
I think it would be interesting if our verbal keyboards stalled every once in a while. What if my tongue stopped pronouncing the letter E for a while? I think my sppech would probably sound like it had a lot of static interference if my cranial keyboard broke, only there wouldn't be any static-- just my voice going in and out, destroying old words and creating new ones with the remains. Maybe if I smacked myself across the fact it might knock the Es back into me, like hitting a TV set which screen is skipping and rolling.
I don't think the loss of my thumbs would inhibit typing very much. It certainly makes things a little less comfortable since I'm so used to keeping my fingers on their assigned keys, but I've typed this whole paragraph without using my thumbs, so there's proff that it's do-able and relatively plainless, if not annoying.
To me, there are few more frustrating situations than the times I feel like I'm not communicating well, whether it's due to a faulty keyboard, or the inability to think of a specific word, or I'v estayed up all night talking to my best friend watching video clips on youtube.com because we had too much Diet Coke at 1am. The days following those unintentional all-nighters are the worst kind for me because I don't anticipate being so foggy. At least when I plan an all-nighter I can plan on feeling like a zombie the next day and take appropriate measures to compensate, like securing ample amounts of Sobe No Fear energy drinks (the only kind that doesn't taste like mashed up and liquified Skittles to me). But really, grappling for the exact phrasing and having it just out of grasp causes such grief-- knowing the direction you want to take in a paper but not knowing how to get there; verbal miscommunication because of language barriers, mental blocks, etc. Clear phraseology could determine getting correct directions to a destination, or a serous medical diagnosis, not to mention the fulfillment of expressing yourself to your satisfaction. What if a pharmacist's computer keyboard broke and he didn't notice? A bottle of medicine might direct a patient to Take 100 mg daily when it really meant to say Take 10 mg daily. Pretty soon you'd land yourself in the hospital-- or worse-- having seriously overmedicated yourself, all because of a communicative mistake.
It's a good thing this keyboard has fixed itself in time for me to get cracking on my German homework. I shudder to think about German assignments with missing and mixed up letters. I can hardly get the umlauts right as it is.
It's awkward to be without the use of letters adn kyboard functions. It makes me feel unesy and ncomplete, as well as most readers, I dare say. Sure, the words are still moreor less ditinguishable, but the absence of leers, especialy consonants, forces readers to be more engaged in a piece. They can't just ski right over the pge because sometimes they have to really decide if I actually meant to say ski, or skim, or maybe skip, with a p. Ski makes for an interesting and vivivde expression I guess.
I think sometimes readers don't give writers enough credit for choosing specific words and placing them exactly where they mean to go. I've had more comments like "I don't know if you meant to do this..." from peers on pieces I've written than I know what to do with. I would never insult someone by wondering if, in the careful construction of their work, they "meant to" write something. Typically, whenever I've had that comment, yes, I've "meant to." I don't know what that really says about me as a writer-- maybe my word choice needs to be even more clear. The point is that maybe sometimes I "mean to" write ski insteand of skim or skip, and that "means" I probably want particular attention paid to my point. Assume I did "mean to" say They can't just ski right over the page. I kind of like the image of eyes skiing across the page, graceful on the slope as they cascade downward through my essay toward the end of the piece where they ski to a stop, a spray of linguistic snow punctuating a successful run. It's a pretty metaphore. I might keep it in mind for later, when my keyboard is working properly again.
In my soap-boxing, it seems I failed to notice that my keyboard is working properly again, miraculously.
I think it would be interesting if our verbal keyboards stalled every once in a while. What if my tongue stopped pronouncing the letter E for a while? I think my sppech would probably sound like it had a lot of static interference if my cranial keyboard broke, only there wouldn't be any static-- just my voice going in and out, destroying old words and creating new ones with the remains. Maybe if I smacked myself across the fact it might knock the Es back into me, like hitting a TV set which screen is skipping and rolling.
I don't think the loss of my thumbs would inhibit typing very much. It certainly makes things a little less comfortable since I'm so used to keeping my fingers on their assigned keys, but I've typed this whole paragraph without using my thumbs, so there's proff that it's do-able and relatively plainless, if not annoying.
To me, there are few more frustrating situations than the times I feel like I'm not communicating well, whether it's due to a faulty keyboard, or the inability to think of a specific word, or I'v estayed up all night talking to my best friend watching video clips on youtube.com because we had too much Diet Coke at 1am. The days following those unintentional all-nighters are the worst kind for me because I don't anticipate being so foggy. At least when I plan an all-nighter I can plan on feeling like a zombie the next day and take appropriate measures to compensate, like securing ample amounts of Sobe No Fear energy drinks (the only kind that doesn't taste like mashed up and liquified Skittles to me). But really, grappling for the exact phrasing and having it just out of grasp causes such grief-- knowing the direction you want to take in a paper but not knowing how to get there; verbal miscommunication because of language barriers, mental blocks, etc. Clear phraseology could determine getting correct directions to a destination, or a serous medical diagnosis, not to mention the fulfillment of expressing yourself to your satisfaction. What if a pharmacist's computer keyboard broke and he didn't notice? A bottle of medicine might direct a patient to Take 100 mg daily when it really meant to say Take 10 mg daily. Pretty soon you'd land yourself in the hospital-- or worse-- having seriously overmedicated yourself, all because of a communicative mistake.
It's a good thing this keyboard has fixed itself in time for me to get cracking on my German homework. I shudder to think about German assignments with missing and mixed up letters. I can hardly get the umlauts right as it is.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
A Kiss is Not a Contract
Prediction: tonight will be an unnecessary all-nighter. Why? I'd rather go to Denny's for three hours and watch Flight of the Conchords and write essays about sandwiches. Like I said, unnecessary, but at least I have time to prepare for the worst (or the best, depending on how you look at it).
I'm really good at writing disjointed blogs/essays-- you know, the ones that are basically a cognative dump and each thought doesn't really have anything to with the next thought, but somehow they do all make sense because it's everything I'm thinking about all at once together. Maybe this will become my Signature Style someday. Tyra's got her Victoria's Secret walk and her smile-behind-the-eyes, and I've got my fractional essays. Back up-- let's appreciate the fact that I've got essays.
And while we're on the subject, let's just make one thing clear, okay?
Essay: an analytic or interpretative literary composition usually dealing with its subject from a limited or personal point of view.
Paper: a formal written composition often designed for publication and often intended to be read aloud.
(works cited: http://merriam-webster.com)
I had 3.5 Diet Cokes at Denny's tonight-- after midnight, mind you-- as well as my usual club sandwich (tomatoes picked off), and then I had to go to the bathroom 3 times. It got me thinking about bathrooms and how I have favorite bathrooms. I mean, let's get a teensy bit intimate here and just admit flat-out that there's a certain, universal satisfaction in going to the bathroom. I'm sorry, but there is. You go in feeling uncomfortable, and you walk out feeling much better. Win win. But equally honestly, there are various places that are nicer to visit than others. For example, I love the bathrooms in the JFSB, especially the ones in the south-west corner on the ground floor. I like my bathroom at home, and I like my parent's bathroom even better. I don't use that one very often, so I'm sure part of the thrill is the unknown. The bathroom on the 3rd floor of the Wilk is fun too, and I do like the ones on the 2nd floor of the Provo Library. I don't so much care for the bathrooms:
-here, at my apartment
-in any grocery store
-at any boy's apartment, only because it means I'm using the bathroom at a boy's apartment
-on airplanes or buses-- especially buses
-at HCTO, because there is zero water pressure and you have to hold the flusher down for a long time
-at Denny's, which is ironic given the frequency with which I visited it tonight
I don't like Coldplay. I'm sorry, I know that at least 2 of the 6 people who read this LJ are big big fans of Coldplay and I appreciate that. But I personally don't understand the appeal, and I think Viva La Vida is like the only good song on that album. I've tried to like Coldplay, I've tried to like songs beyond Viva La Vida (other than Clocks, because I do like Clocks, but I think that's partly because it makes me think of Alex for some reason and not because I actually like the song), but I don't like Coldplay, everything sounds the same to me, and I have a sneaking suspicion that a large percentage of Coldplay fans only pretend to like Coldplay because it's trendy and super awesome to like Coldplay, inexplicably.
***NOTE: This is my opinion, you can try to convince me otherwise but it won't happen I'm sorry so don't even try okay thanks bye***
I think I'd like to date a New Zealander who looks like Bret or Jemaine. Either one, I'm not picky. Their accents are basically the same, which is the most important trait, obviously. But Bret looks like a hobbit a little bit, which is kind of endearing.
I bought new boots yesterday that I'm IN LOVE with. They're burgundy and knitted and slouchy with buttons on the ankles. They were approximately $15 more than I intended to spend on them, but so far, worth every single penny, particularly because they're a little bit like slippers only I can wear them outside. Also, I can tuck skinny jeans into them which is, I admit, not a style to everyone's taste, but I think if that's not to someone's taste, clearly that person HAS NO TASTE.
What does it say about you if you've had a really cool present sitting on your shelf to give to someone for two months? Does it mean you care about them any less? Or does it mean you care about them more because if you keep putting off giving it to them it means you'll keep having an excuse to hang out with them?
I really like having a blogspot and a livejournal, separate and secret from each other. For some reason, I feel really lame about myself posting on blogspot every single day, and I feel even lamer about the thought of posting more than one entry on blogspot per day. I can post on LJ whenever I want, as many times as I want, and never have a care about it. For better or worse, this is probably the kind of entry I would put on blogspot, but I've posted too many times already in the last few days. I'm nearing my blogspot quota for the week and it makes me a little anxious. A lot of people read my blogspot though... Not a lot of people actually comment, but a lot of people read it. I get between 15-50 hits/day or so, which is not really that awesome compared to someone who gets a couple thousand every day, but it's nothing to sneeze at. I'd secretly love it if I got thousands of hits on my blog per day.
Do I want to be an actress, or do I want to be a writer?
Cue 4:45am nausea.
I'm really good at writing disjointed blogs/essays-- you know, the ones that are basically a cognative dump and each thought doesn't really have anything to with the next thought, but somehow they do all make sense because it's everything I'm thinking about all at once together. Maybe this will become my Signature Style someday. Tyra's got her Victoria's Secret walk and her smile-behind-the-eyes, and I've got my fractional essays. Back up-- let's appreciate the fact that I've got essays.
And while we're on the subject, let's just make one thing clear, okay?
Essay: an analytic or interpretative literary composition usually dealing with its subject from a limited or personal point of view.
Paper: a formal written composition often designed for publication and often intended to be read aloud.
(works cited: http://merriam-webster.com)
I had 3.5 Diet Cokes at Denny's tonight-- after midnight, mind you-- as well as my usual club sandwich (tomatoes picked off), and then I had to go to the bathroom 3 times. It got me thinking about bathrooms and how I have favorite bathrooms. I mean, let's get a teensy bit intimate here and just admit flat-out that there's a certain, universal satisfaction in going to the bathroom. I'm sorry, but there is. You go in feeling uncomfortable, and you walk out feeling much better. Win win. But equally honestly, there are various places that are nicer to visit than others. For example, I love the bathrooms in the JFSB, especially the ones in the south-west corner on the ground floor. I like my bathroom at home, and I like my parent's bathroom even better. I don't use that one very often, so I'm sure part of the thrill is the unknown. The bathroom on the 3rd floor of the Wilk is fun too, and I do like the ones on the 2nd floor of the Provo Library. I don't so much care for the bathrooms:
-here, at my apartment
-in any grocery store
-at any boy's apartment, only because it means I'm using the bathroom at a boy's apartment
-on airplanes or buses-- especially buses
-at HCTO, because there is zero water pressure and you have to hold the flusher down for a long time
-at Denny's, which is ironic given the frequency with which I visited it tonight
I don't like Coldplay. I'm sorry, I know that at least 2 of the 6 people who read this LJ are big big fans of Coldplay and I appreciate that. But I personally don't understand the appeal, and I think Viva La Vida is like the only good song on that album. I've tried to like Coldplay, I've tried to like songs beyond Viva La Vida (other than Clocks, because I do like Clocks, but I think that's partly because it makes me think of Alex for some reason and not because I actually like the song), but I don't like Coldplay, everything sounds the same to me, and I have a sneaking suspicion that a large percentage of Coldplay fans only pretend to like Coldplay because it's trendy and super awesome to like Coldplay, inexplicably.
***NOTE: This is my opinion, you can try to convince me otherwise but it won't happen I'm sorry so don't even try okay thanks bye***
I think I'd like to date a New Zealander who looks like Bret or Jemaine. Either one, I'm not picky. Their accents are basically the same, which is the most important trait, obviously. But Bret looks like a hobbit a little bit, which is kind of endearing.
I bought new boots yesterday that I'm IN LOVE with. They're burgundy and knitted and slouchy with buttons on the ankles. They were approximately $15 more than I intended to spend on them, but so far, worth every single penny, particularly because they're a little bit like slippers only I can wear them outside. Also, I can tuck skinny jeans into them which is, I admit, not a style to everyone's taste, but I think if that's not to someone's taste, clearly that person HAS NO TASTE.
What does it say about you if you've had a really cool present sitting on your shelf to give to someone for two months? Does it mean you care about them any less? Or does it mean you care about them more because if you keep putting off giving it to them it means you'll keep having an excuse to hang out with them?
I really like having a blogspot and a livejournal, separate and secret from each other. For some reason, I feel really lame about myself posting on blogspot every single day, and I feel even lamer about the thought of posting more than one entry on blogspot per day. I can post on LJ whenever I want, as many times as I want, and never have a care about it. For better or worse, this is probably the kind of entry I would put on blogspot, but I've posted too many times already in the last few days. I'm nearing my blogspot quota for the week and it makes me a little anxious. A lot of people read my blogspot though... Not a lot of people actually comment, but a lot of people read it. I get between 15-50 hits/day or so, which is not really that awesome compared to someone who gets a couple thousand every day, but it's nothing to sneeze at. I'd secretly love it if I got thousands of hits on my blog per day.
Do I want to be an actress, or do I want to be a writer?
Cue 4:45am nausea.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Talking a lot, not saying anything
I’m lying on the loveseat in my apartment, legs hanging on the oversized armrest. My neck is uncomfortable and hardly supported by on little, unfeeling throw pillow. The loveseat reminds me a little bit of Steve’s Thinking Chair on Blue’s Clues—though I guess Steve “went off to college” a while back, so now it’s Joe’s Thinking Chair. The loveseat is My Thinking Chair.
I’m trying to concentrate on this book, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. I really like it so far and highly recommend it, but for whatever reason, I can’t seem to pull myself away from the computer. I’m checking my usual round of websites every, what? seven minutes, as if anyone will have something new to say.
So far, no one has had anything new to say on Facebook, Gmail, Myspace, Blogspot, AIM, or MSN Messenger. I hear the fait sound of proverbial crickets singing when I check my instant messenger buddy lists—it’s fine that I have so many programs running at the same time. Also kind of sad and pathetic. Nothing has changed in the last hour, but there’s always that hope that something might. It’s a shallow hope, and the internet is an even more shallow way to talk to someone, but it’s something—better than nothing. That’s why I have this ridiculous machine sitting on my lap—so I don’t have to adjust very much when I finish six pages of this book and decide it’s time to make my rounds again, as if anyone will have something new to say.
Eff eff eff eff effity eff eff eff. Fuh until eternity! I probably won’t make it to Eternity for saying fuh, even though fuh is just an arbitrary syllable with no real meaning in and of itself. In this case, fuh is a tamed version of that particular word that will give a movie an R rating if used more than once. What if I said, fuh fuh fuh fuh fuhfiffity fuh fuh fuh? Would that change the moral rating of this essay?
Sometimes I wish swearing came more naturally to me. I have a hard time even typing them, caught in limbo on a morality scale because I didn’t say it but I know those letters typed out came from my fingers. I think there’s probably nothing like a perfectly placed curse word now and then, but apparently, I don’t really know. Evidently the first syllable of a curse word is the best I can do, no matter how frustrated or listless or frustratingly listless I feel. This book swears a great deal, and I think some of the uses are effective. For example, on page 190:
You will die, and when you die, you will know a profound lack of it. It’s never dignified, always brutal. What’s dignified about dying? It’s never dignified. And in obscurity? Offensive. Dignity is an affection, cute but eccentric, like learning French or collecting scarves. And it’s fleeting and incredibly mercurial. And subjective. So ---- it.
Even now, as I go to type out someone else’s swear, I can’t do it. I don’t have the courage to shock or potentially offend, even when using someone else’s words. I think it’s partially due to the fact that people don’t take me seriously when I venture to swear a little—they usually laugh and say something about how they can’t believe I just said that. My swears are comical, at least to others, regardless of how much fury or discontentment is behind them. I have a lot of discontentment behind that first syllable tonight. Not much fury. I have nothing to be furious over. But oh, I’m impassioned.
I wonder what it would be like for that boy in my English class to kiss me? I wonder if he’s the type that doesn’t like mouth-kisses best. I’m not even sure I know what kind of kisses I like best. I like all kisses best, except when they’re during a Halo tournament when you’re 15. Those kinds of kisses are filled with a very awkward juxtaposing sense of nausea and nostalgia. My Halo Champion just leaned over and kissed me—in the dark, yes, but definitely right in front of six or seven people. His mouth tasted like Winterfresh gum. My stomach used to turn a little bit when I tasted Winterfresh in the weeks following that night. Sometimes it still does. Nostalgic nausea.
But something tells me English Class boy, with his carefree slouch and smart comments that borderline pretension, wouldn’t stoop so low as to take advantage of my vulnerability during a Halo tournament. He probably doesn’t even play Halo because he’s too busy reading Donne and Keats. I can almost feel his perfectly, carefully unshaven chin in that secret place in my neck and it gives me a little thrill. Of course it would be much more thrilling in person, if he were here on My Thinking Chair with me, to pull this silly computer off my lap so he could fold me into his arms and neck-kiss me, and ear-kiss me, and nose-kiss me—and mouth-kiss me, even though it’s not his favorite. And he wouldn’t taste like Winterfresh, which is really such a presumptuous flavor for a mouth to taste like. There might be a little sense of urgency because he literally doesn’t know what else to do with himself, doesn’t know how to convey our compatibility, and I become Keat’s Bright Star. There’s so much communicated between us, without words, exhilarating and powerful.
Yes, maybe I do know a little bit what it would be like for him to kiss me.
It’s not that I feel lonesome right now. I just feel isolated. I have plenty of dear friends. Facebook tells me I have exactly 702 friends, in fact, and that doesn’t count the ones who aren’t registered on the site. No, I’m definitely not wanting for relationships. I don’t even mind being alone sometimes. I think I just want to captivate someone’s attention for a moment. I want to talk and move and reach and confess, explore, exclaim, discover, dance, sing, study, and reveal every inch of me that’s just bursting to get out right now. It’s difficult to do all that without identifying the proper way to get it all out of me, because apparently Facebook, Gmail, Myspace, Blogspot, AIM, and MSN Messenger aren’t doing the trick.
The irony is that I actually do have an audience. Somewhere between my round of websites, this book, and daydreaming, I started a creative writing assignment. Fifteen people will be required, for class credit, to read anything I decide to tell them. In the vast world of my associations, I have the undivided attention of fifteen people. And they have to pay attention enough to respond and give me feedback. Now that I have an audience, it’s surprisingly difficult to decide what to say and how to say it. Maybe I’m afraid?
I have half a mind to just get up and start walking down the street, reciting Lady Macbeth’s soliloquies. Out damned spot! I will shriek as girls jog by with their trendy iPods, listening to their trendy music, wearing trendy workout clothes. I don’t have a problem shrieking lines of Shakespeare that contain swear words. Shakespeare is established—those swears have proved themselves. Unfortunately, any remaining shock value, at least on this campus, will be lost on trendy running iPod girls and the like. Around here, I’ve noticed that people don’t say much by way of embarrassing public performances. They just jog by with hardly a glance. There is a boy I’ve seen singing his way across campus a few times, always at the top of his lungs, always with his Discman securely in hand. He has Down Syndrome. His atonal singing echoes uncomfortably between buildings, but everyone just smiles and scurries by because it’s sweet, right? That’s partly how I know I could scream To bed! To bed! To bed! all I want and no one would bother me about it. After all, I’m one of those who just smiles and scurries by.
But I want to be bothered. It’s not that I’m a spotlight-seeking attention grabber. There are just so many ways to communicate, and I’d like to take advantage of them all. That’s hypocritical of me. Here I am, reading a sort of meta-memoir about someone’s life experiences, but I can’t even respect the author enough to put my computer and assignments away, to give him my full attention. I’m treating the ups and downs of his life as a way to pass the time until someone will give me what I perceive to be their full attention. If I manage to catch someone online, it will be because they’re checking their email or doing something else important, probably—their explicit purpose likely won’t be to talk to me. I think I’ll ignore that reality, though. I’m feeling selfish.
I wonder if my arm tossed carelessly over my face makes me look pathetic? No. Just tired. It won’t spark any curiosity to inquire after my well-being, or my ill-being for that matter. It’s a pity when forced pathos is wasted on unappreciative and unobservant roommates.
For now, I guess it comes down to my need to be validated. I have all these unorganized things to say and only fifteen people to say them to. I’m not getting anywhere, not progressing if I say them to myself. It’s not a cry for sympathy or compassion, just a minute of perfect, uninterrupted communication between two people—between me and someone else, or maybe a few someone elses—to express every vulnerability and every concern and every joy and bewilderment and discovery. I don’t exactly know where to begin.
I have a small audience. Now what shall I tell?
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