This has turned into something of a tumble blog lately, so I thought I'd take this moment to get a little more personal. Part of my reluctance as of late has been the result of a deepening appreciation for the virtues of discretion and the benefits of allowing the little movements and turmoils of my inner life to incubate a little before I spew them into the public sphere. Another reason for my silence has been the decidedly unpleasant "what" of my life lately, despite the mildly encouraging signs of change in how I have been able to deal with them. Among the whats: my car died, I have fallen dangerously behind in my academic work, and my once beautiful relationship with an exciting new man exploded in an immensely painful fireball of destruction and betrayal. As it turns out, even this last one is passing through my system with surprising ease. I don't know if it's a result of my emerging maturity or a broadening of my perspective, but the downs -- indeed the bottoms -- are starting to recontextualize themselves even as they're happening. I've shortened the distance and the time it takes to put the pain and anxiety away and act on my better judgment. I'm not immobilized anymore, my panic just folds itself into motivation, and I forge ahead.
On the one hand, I can recognize in this the potential danger that Terrence Howard talked about in the interview I posted below. As an actor, he fears that he is experiencing life as an observer, that everything becomes a study in how to reproduce emotions, and that he will lose the ability to experience his own life as unique and irrepeatable. I have that sense sometimes, that I view all the ups and downs as passing scenes, grist for the mill of that great combine that will someday spill enough ink that I can bind all these experiences between the covers of a book, laced with ameliorating fantasy and tweaked to perfection. I wrote on my mirror when I was a teenager that I was "struggling to gain immortality against the human language," but now I think I see the folly of this melodramatic aspiration. The immortality of art is after all not the immortality of the artist. As an artist, I will not get to enjoy the full life of my art, especially if I am one of those who defy the odds and are remembered. I would like to enjoy my life as I live it, for as long as it lasts, and not perhaps to move so quickly from defeat to action to triumph and back again.
On the other hand, survival is a must. My survival is perhaps predicated on too many unlikely successes: a career that I enjoy, a loving family, material comfort and bodily security. These would constitute much more than survival, and yet the everyday getting up, feeding myself and providing for my dependents has seemed difficult or nearly impossible when I've been roundly defeated. In such moments the ability to put it all into perspective, to take a certain observing distance from my pain and anxiety has been absolutely necessary to my being able to move past my misfortunes.
I suppose the answer, as always, is the golden mean between the two. Walking some fine line of interpretation that allows me to experience the pain and anxiety even as I'm packing them away. It used to be writing that made this motion for me, but now it's becoming visceral, a certain sigh that burns my lungs and throat even as it allows the poison to escape. It's not something I consciously do, and in many ways it's a sign of a resignation I never thought I'd feel, but at the moment I guess I'm inclined to accept it as a progression, a personal evolution. If nothing else, my reaction time is streamlined, so I can pack more in! I'm not too busy searching for the magic words to notice that something else is already happening. I'm not so wrapped up in my transformative incantations that I forget all the good that's already within my reach, and sometimes, with a herculean effort, I can drop the bad shit where it is and let it work itself out, for better or worse. Sometimes you have to pass the buck, especially if you were wrong to accept it in the first place. I'm learning to accept it all, bit by bite.
I'm going out now. I'm going to be out in the world, practising my controlled roll. I hope you are all well.
On the one hand, I can recognize in this the potential danger that Terrence Howard talked about in the interview I posted below. As an actor, he fears that he is experiencing life as an observer, that everything becomes a study in how to reproduce emotions, and that he will lose the ability to experience his own life as unique and irrepeatable. I have that sense sometimes, that I view all the ups and downs as passing scenes, grist for the mill of that great combine that will someday spill enough ink that I can bind all these experiences between the covers of a book, laced with ameliorating fantasy and tweaked to perfection. I wrote on my mirror when I was a teenager that I was "struggling to gain immortality against the human language," but now I think I see the folly of this melodramatic aspiration. The immortality of art is after all not the immortality of the artist. As an artist, I will not get to enjoy the full life of my art, especially if I am one of those who defy the odds and are remembered. I would like to enjoy my life as I live it, for as long as it lasts, and not perhaps to move so quickly from defeat to action to triumph and back again.
On the other hand, survival is a must. My survival is perhaps predicated on too many unlikely successes: a career that I enjoy, a loving family, material comfort and bodily security. These would constitute much more than survival, and yet the everyday getting up, feeding myself and providing for my dependents has seemed difficult or nearly impossible when I've been roundly defeated. In such moments the ability to put it all into perspective, to take a certain observing distance from my pain and anxiety has been absolutely necessary to my being able to move past my misfortunes.
I suppose the answer, as always, is the golden mean between the two. Walking some fine line of interpretation that allows me to experience the pain and anxiety even as I'm packing them away. It used to be writing that made this motion for me, but now it's becoming visceral, a certain sigh that burns my lungs and throat even as it allows the poison to escape. It's not something I consciously do, and in many ways it's a sign of a resignation I never thought I'd feel, but at the moment I guess I'm inclined to accept it as a progression, a personal evolution. If nothing else, my reaction time is streamlined, so I can pack more in! I'm not too busy searching for the magic words to notice that something else is already happening. I'm not so wrapped up in my transformative incantations that I forget all the good that's already within my reach, and sometimes, with a herculean effort, I can drop the bad shit where it is and let it work itself out, for better or worse. Sometimes you have to pass the buck, especially if you were wrong to accept it in the first place. I'm learning to accept it all, bit by bite.
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