On the afterwards, the presence of fear, and the ugliness of birth
Apparently August has come and gone. The traffic on the bridge can only be explained by the influx of students and parents back to the daily grind. I've noticed myself looking back a lot these last few days, trying to assimlate new information, new faces, and new feelings into my daily doings.
I believe one of my greatest strengths is in analysis. Also, as an introvert, my natural tendency is to look back and assess my and others' behaviors and words (read: obsess). Both of these personality traits combined makes for an anxious aftermath to social events, and I often feel that I severely mirepresented myself, wish I would have not said ___, wish I would have done ___, etc...and suddently, that swift and severe axe of self-judgement comes swinging down upon my head. Now, I'm bleeding and blind. I wonder if other people do this?
It reminds me of a year or so ago after a particularly grueling ladies' night. Lots of wine had us loosed-lipped and unabashedly weepy. I remember waking up the next morning not only nursing a nasty headache, but feeling particularly sheepish about my vulnerable behavior and spent a few hours replaying everything I said just in case I needed to apologize to someone. I desperately wished to go back in time and regain the composure and control I then seemed so eager to rid myself of. I comforted myself with the notion that the other girls were probably feeling the same way and wrote one of them a letter to that effect, encouraging her not to succumb to false insecurities, to not berate herself for something she may have said, and to take all parts of the others into her being with willing acceptance, gracious forgiveness, and fierce loyalty.
In the end, there is nothing to do with my analysis of people other than to love them. This includes myself. I am human. You are human. We can be decidedly virtuous and altruistic. We can be atrociously maleficent and grotesque. Even the most composed of people have hurt someone else with a flippant, impulsive comment. Lord knows every single one of us has been hurt by the same. We can spout off so much of our bull shit and soapbox about our arbitrary opinions that can crush others around us at worst, or (at best) keeps them from sharing their own opinions. We do not listen well, we do not speak carefully. We intimidate and dominate and in our eagerness to be known, bulldoze those in our company.
All of this to say that I feel this great need to analyze and obsess and ultimately forgive. I also feel the need to assure myself of people's affections for me. But in the end, my acceptance of Candace is what is really in decline. I could easily demand assurances from others, but I know, oh dears, HOW I KNOW - this is my battle. It is no one's job but my own to be confident and to trustingly accept people's words at face value without criticism or manipulative self-deprecation.
Speaking of insecurities, I have recently been stopped short by fear. Many of you know I am working on a humble collection of poems for self-publishing. I am in the editing stages, and I have to tell someone - the poems are total shit. They are simply not good enough to put out into the world; a world I love, a world of Plath and Rilke and Shakespeare and Donne. I do not think the world needs another mediocre poet. For the most part, I am a confident writer and care little about how my work is received (coming from someone who has received only positive feedback, so I realize I am lacking in the character formed by artistic rejection). Now that I am really looking to put myself out there, fear is taking hold of my throat. I feel it very physcially.
One one hand, the fear makes me pissed and frustrated. On the other, I see it as a necessary birth pang. What mother wasn't afraid to give birth? What artist wasn't terrified to put their canvas on display? Fear is a right of passage, and I'm beginning to trust its presence and leave it alone.
"Oh hello Fear. I forgot you were there. You may go now."
(a small adaptation of Doc Holliday in Tombstone)
I am sick of the portayal of artists and designers and stylists online who chose to convey an overly-white, overly-simple, overly-amiable, overly-clear, and annoyingly overly-painless process to creating. Even if it sometimes gets muddy for them, it seems they are unable to express the sheer disgusting ugliness that comes from birth. Have you ever seen a woman deliver a baby? It's completely violent and gross. It's also the most naturally beautiful occurance.
What I am saying here is that creating is ugly. I am prepared to work hard on these poems and puke them up and be doubled over in labor pains and fight like holy hell to bring forth that which has been placed inside of me. I am on the verge of something wanting out and it's gagging me and tearing me and I am not sure I will survive it.
I hope you'll like the poems. I hope you'll like me.
But more so, I hope against ALL HOPE that I like them, that I will like me.
And that the scars won't be too bad.
15 comments:
"I believe one of my greatest strengths is in analysis."
It is.
I actually just wrote this to you in a letter, believe it or not.
There's truth ringing here.
Loud and clear.
You don't come across as introvert to me but no matter.
Not intending to take your emotions lightly but the opening paragraph had me smiling a bit, a bit funny but not laughing at you.
In my field miss melancholic we get critiqued left and right and straight to our face brutally, no one tries to be nice, the intention is to kick out butts. I once submitted a paper to a journal that came with a review that was longer than the paper itself. The reviewers took the time to insult everything. After the shock wore off I learned to strive for perfection, the best I could of course.
I think it is good that you expect a lot of yourself, to feel anxiety, puky, etc...it really is. : )
"and I often feel that I severely mirepresented myself, wish I would have not said ___, wish I would have done ___, etc...and suddently, that swift and severe axe of self-judgement comes swinging down upon my head. Now, I'm bleeding and blind. I wonder if other people do this?"
I do this constantly.
"I also feel the need to assure myself of people's affections for me."
Sometimes you so perfectly put into words how I feel.
I can't think of a quote from any author I like or respect that states anything about the process being easy, simple, or convenient. Most say that it's hard work and can be a shitty process. The "overly" assholes you describe sound like idiotic pretenders on the level of the girl I met a few years ago who introduced herself as a writer; "What do you read?" was my first question. "Oh, I don't really read." was her response. I had no followup questions.
I have a strange thought game I play with myself from time to time: Someone writes the most beautiful poem humanity has ever known and then destroys it and refuses to let anybody know what it said. I like thinking of perfection existing and not existing like that.
It's not much of a useful or fun game but I did once spend a summer playing a game called 'Jump off the roof while your friends throw cats at you.' Maybe I shouldn't invent games anymore. My point though, is: feel free to delete the poems and shred the evidence. Tell everyone that you wrote the most beautiful book of poetry that ever existed and someone is bound to believe you.
You could also finish your book. Some of your friends will like it, some strangers too, and a bunch of people will hate it. You might take some of that negative criticism to heart because it will confirm your insecurities and fears. Then again, you might wear some of that negative criticism like battle scars that better equip you for your second book. That and when some asshat who's too busy criticizing to write anything himself gets up in your business you can show him the scars and say "At least I'm fucking trying, you goddamned chickenshit." Or whatever it is you would want to say.
I'd like to take this moment to second what Kooy said.
Here! Here! Gavel gavel gavel
Oh and can I please have you over for a cup of tea? Thanks.
Kooy. Preach.
Kooy, I think I like you. I especially love the cat game.
a big high five to Kooy.
Candace I say go for it, sharing what i write (especially if I care deeply about it, or the person reading it) has always been the hardest part for me. But you are braver then you think.
If you do go ahead and publish, save me a copy!!
xo
Why are we once again hundreds of miles apart when I have at least two bottles of wine worth of words to talk you about?
Overtly white is as false and mundane and MEDIOCRE as it gets. You are passionate, messy, bloody even, and I wouldn't have it any other way. You are true. Your words are solid.
And seriously, when can I preorder?
Alright alright, let's here it for the Kooy. Andrew, you have quite a fan base you crazy genius.
I plan to publish these no matter what. It's not a question of the doing, but of the process. I am forming my own process for the first time as writer publishing something other than a blog or book review, and it feels so bad and so good and everything in between.
Also, Andrew. Thank you. Seriously. You made these thoughts worth blogging about. And you made me laugh.
yes.
continual self discoveries-whom we know, don't know, and still getting to know.
you have pure gumption, so what is there to loose?
add a tick-mark for Lu! xo
I'm a grateful reader of your blog and poetry. I salute you! Cheers!
No grand words today but my quiet heart is WITH you.
i for one will hold dear the moments i spent with you while you spent moments on those poems, in the kind slant of western sunlight in a front yard filled with vines, OPI, and a tree-climbing kittenbody.
i love you more
than before.
as if such a thing was possible. pfah.
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