“The point is…the point is how I feel. I don’t care what gets done. I just don’t want to die feeling that I never tried. I don’t believe in Heaven, or anything. But I want to be the kind of person who qualifies an entry anyway. Do you understand?
Of course I understand. I’m a doctor.
Nick Hornby’s new book, How To Be Good, raises many interesting points about the meaning of being good, marriage, family life, charity and cynicism. Although it’s not directly related, the exchange above made me realize why I don’t like some of the ideas that have become linked with Heaven and Hell.
My personal beliefs on the existence of Heaven and Hell aside, I don’t like the implication that someone should “do good” so they can be allowed in Heaven. To me that sounds just as conniving as lying to get your way.
You should never do anything because you expect something in return. I’ve always believed that doing something because you want to or like to is the only acceptable reason. Anything besides that is guaranteed to leave you, and the other people involved, displeased.
Life is so very short and it makes no sense to waste your precious moments on something that makes you unhappy. I understand that people work so they can earn money so they can go on vacations or afford other things that make them happy. And, while I have another rant saved just for that case, that’s not the scenario I’m talking about here. I’m talking about doing something because someone guilted you into thinking that’s what you should do.
What’s the point of doing something out of guilt? How much satisfaction do you feel after you’ve completed an act that someone else thought to be “important that you do”? How much energy do you put into doing something that someone else deems necessary? Do you think people are so stupid that they don’t notice your heart’s not in it?
What’s the point?
Are you trying to cheat people, or God in the case of heaven, into thinking that just cause you go through the motions of doing something that someone else ‘strongly urged’ you into doing, that they suddenly will think you’re this amazing and dedicated person? No one, but you, loses in the end. You’re the one who gave up the time to do something that you didn’t care to and you’re the one who doesn’t truly feel rewarded since deep-down you know you never wanted to do it anyway.
Talk about a sell-out.
I think you should help the homeless if it means something to you. Six mentioned a while back about reducing your guilt and how you should call your old grandma Jane only if you actually want to talk to her. There are no guarantees in this life and real and honest people, their emotions and God can not be bribed. Guilt is nothing but manipulation and doing something in the hopes of getting something in return is awfully close to bribery.
Stop fooling yourself.
Previously? Crush Me.
I’ve always had bad luck with crushes.
At 11, I had a crush on one of the guys in my group. I guess over here, it would be called my “circle”. Anyhow this guy was two years older than I and we were friends. He was always nice to me but never in the way I actually wanted him to be. I never really knew whether he was aware of my crush or not.
Until one summer day, we were chatting in the disco at the club in Burgaz. (the island where we live in the summer) He asks me who my crush is.
I, very coyly, say, “I’m not telling you.”
“Well is he in our group?” he hollers over the music.
“Yep.” I say softly, snuggling closer so he can hear me. Any excuse to be physically close to him.
“Is he my age or older?”
“Yep.”
He smirks. “I’m the only guy in our group who fits in that category.”
DOH!
Talk about stupid. Amazingly, even after my totally moronic give away we never dated. A few years later, I got the impression that he might have been interested in me, but it was way too late.
At fifteen, I moved on to concentrate all my efforts on another completely unreachable goal. This one wouldn’t even talk to me unless it was for a cordial greeting. Sadly, we never moved beyond that and eventually my interest waned. To this day, no one knows that I had a crush on this guy. Our mothers were good friends and after the previous disaster, I’d sworn that I wasn’t telling anyone. Twelve years later, it’s still my little secret. It’s going to the grave with me.
At eighteen, it took me all of ten days to construct a huge crush on a classmate in Calculus. A quarterback nonetheless. He and I were good friends for a while. We did the math assignments together and it seemed to work well and it gave me a reason to see him regularly. The football program I mentioned a few days ago was purchased due to this crush.
My best friend and I ran all around campus trying to buy one of these game brochures once we discovered that this guy’s picture was in it. But the game had already started and the school wasn’t selling them anymore. So we walked around the benches and my friend flips out a ten-dollar bill and says that she will give it to the first person who gives her the program (which had been worth only five). Three people rushed in at once and one very happy man gave us the coveted booklet. Which I still have.
One of my friends in high school had told me about how she used the codename 143 to say I love you. So I figured it might be a good idea to embarrass myself thoroughly once more, cause it had been a while since the last time I did that. So, I wrote a letter to this guy. I can’t even remember what it said, but it wasn’t a declaration of love or anything. All I did was put a “P.S.” on the bottom that simply said 143.
Wasn’t I clever?
Well, not really. He figured it out. And yet once more, surprisingly, he stayed friends with me so much so that he confided in me about his crush on my roommate. And then proceeded to date her best friend.
After him, I swore off crushes.
Previously? The Right Moment.
Here’s what’s been on my mind for a few days:
What’s a good time to let go?
When do you know that you’re in over your head?
There is such a thing as caring too much. There are people who suck your emotions and sacrifices out of you, enough to wipe you clean. Enough to drag you down with them. Enough for you to lose control of your life and not even notice it.
I’ve had loved ones with severe problems. People with substance abuse issues. Anyone who’s been on either side of that kind of a relationship will tell you that there is almost nothing you can do for someone who’s using and abusing unless they’re ready to face the truth.
Talking doesn’t do any good. It might appear as if you’re getting through to someone, and at times the person might even start understanding what you mean, but in the end, the power lies within him. And only him. (or her)
There is a fine line between being there for support and giving up your life for someone.
Let’s take the following scenario. Let’s assume you’re female (Cause I am and it’s a pain in the ass to have to write she or he each time.) You’ve been with your boyfriend Alex for two years. You like him and you’ve even thought of making long-term plans at times. In the last few weeks, Alex has started hanging out with his work friends and drinking. I don’t mean every now and then, but each evening. He always calls and says he won’t be home till late. You’ve tried talking to him a few times, but he gives you good excuses. He says that he needs to go out so that he can fit in at his job.
You can put up with it for a few weeks but after a month or two? You’ll probably eventually decide that it’s simply not going to work out. Hopefully, you’ll have talked to him about this and tried to resolve it before you packed up and left. Either way, no one will blame you for leaving him. You might be sad, but you won’t feel like you deserted him.
Now, imagine the same scenario, but Alex is an abuser. He is hooked on alcohol, drugs, he joined a movement, or he’s gotten fired. In short, his world has twirled out of control and he’s dragging you down with him. He’s depressed, he yells at you, he pushes you away. You know that he’s not doing it purposefully, he’s in pain. He’s not thinking straight. How can you leave him now? When he loves you so much and he’s fallen so low. What an awful creature must you be to even consider leaving.
That’s the thin line. There will never really be a good time to leave.
So you make a decision. Do you say, I’ll stay with him and risk going down the black hole or do you walk away and be the bitch? I’d assume the answer might depend on the nature of your relationship. If you and Alex are married you might have a different answer than if you’ve been dating a while but have no official attachments. Then again, sometimes love is the tightest bond.
Either way, it’s a tough decision and there are no right answers.
Anyone who says that there are hasn’t really been there.
Previously? Four Years.
A random stranger walking up to me and handing me his number while my dad and I are opening a bank account.
A phone conversation where he keeps saying “cool” which simply means between cold and warm to me.
Buying a football game magazine which cost five dollars for ten.
Watching my best friend kiss the freshman picture book.
Bouncing my first check ever. Groveling to the bank to not charge me.
The tray of constipation.
Having my portrait drawn by an art student.
A terrible eighteenth birthday where I find out my crush has a crush on my roommate. And then ten people spending the night in our room.
First time I earn money.
My roommate hollering to me that my alarm is going off.
Our first answering machine recording, made up from parts of songs.
Dammit! I will fuck you!
Painting the fence. Movie nights in DH2210.
Dropping out of sorority rush on day two.
First time I kiss a boy whom I’m not dating and don’t get called the next day.
My first Halloween.
Waking my friend up at three A.M. to start studying for our history final. And non-stop studying for the next two days.
A summer living in Theta Xi.
A night spent sleeping in the hospital’s waiting room.
All nighters. Mountain Dew. Diet Coke.
Spending ten hours in the cafeteria talking. Yuk yuk.
Talking someone out of a depressed suicidal mood.
Taking more than twice as many classes as acceptable. A dean, offering to pay for my class, if only I agree to drop one.
Getting drunk and discovering that I take off my clothes when I get drunk. Never getting drunk again.
Interviewing.
Bell Labs. First real job.
Email. Tons and tons of email.
Friends. Lots and lots of friends.
Teaching. Learning. Crying. Laughing. Growing.
I loved college.
Previously? Happie News.
“The grief channel, the woman at breakfast had said, but the deliberate stimulation of public mourning was hardly unique to the network where Wallingford worked. The overattention to death had become as commonplace on television as the coverage of bad weather; death and bad weather were what TV did best.” – John Irving in The Fourth Hand
It’s amazing how sometimes when you have a thought, everywhere you turn, you see examples of it. Earlier this morning, I was thinking of how the news always consists or tragedies and terror. Bad news is far more sensational than good news.
With the exception of rare outliers, all news organizations tend to place the negative news above the positive ones.
I am not saying that the bad news isn’t important. By no means do I encourage avoidance of the sorrow in the world. Information, of all kinds, is necessary for each person. No matter which country you live in or are a citizen of, we all live in the same world and belong to the “highly-evolved” animal class of human. Miseries suffered in other parts of the world than our own are relevant to our lives. And it is partially our duty to do our part, however small it might be, in lowering the world’s suffering.
Everything starts with awareness. If you don’t know the news, you can’t do anything about it.
Having said all of that, I’ve decided that there are many papers that highlight the bad news and to tip the scales a bit more even, we also need to read some good news. This is coming from the previously mentioned idea of celebrating successes.
Yes, there are terrible things going on in the world. Yes, there is too much suffering. Yes, we have much work to do. Yes, it’s important to recognize the atrocities that are going on in the world.
But it’s also important to be aware of the good news. The inspirational people. The movements towards making the world a better place, whether they’re small steps or huge ones. The stories that fill us with hope, amazement, and happiness.
If we only look at the bad, we will feel defeated and frustrated. We won’t notice that while many parts of the world are falling apart and millions of people are letting us down, there are quite a few who are fighting to keep things in place. A few who’re striving to make positive changes.
So I decided I want to show people the good news. The stories that are often at the bottom of a web page or in the inside pages of a newspaper. So that after several hours of reading disaster news, you can spend a few minutes reading about the people who’ve chosen to do something about it. Or something that’s simply going to lift you up. Or make you laugh.
In an effort to celebrate the good and be aware that it’s out there, I present, happie news.
Previously? Cults.
People do not knowingly join “cults” that will ultimately destroy and kill them. People join self-help groups, churches, political movements, college campus dinner socials, and the like, in an effort to be a part of something larger than themselves. It is mostly the innocent and naive who find themselves entrapped. In their openhearted endeavor to find meaning in their lives, they walk blindly into the promise of ultimate answers and a higher purpose. It is usually only gradually that a group turns into or reveals itself as a cult, becomes malignant, but by then it is often too late. -Deborah Layton in Seductive Poison
Until recently, I hadn’t spent longer than three seconds of thinking time on the topic of cults. I had no reason to; I had never known anyone who had ever had any involvement, to any degree, with cults.
To me, cults had always been something weak people joined. People who lacked the capacity to think for themselves. People who wanted others to make the decisions in their life. People who could easily be deceived. I knew I would never join a cult. I even remember the Hale-Bopp incident and how we laughed at the stupidity of the people. I never stopped to think what had caused these people to become non-individuals that acted like lemmings. I assumed they had always been so.
A few weeks ago, I got in touch with an old college friend. A good friend who had asked me to call him a few months prior but between my vacation and usual hectic state, I’d put off calling him. When I finally got around to dialing his number, it didn’t take me long to ask about his girlfriend and get the shocking news. This girl that he’d dated for quite some time, a computer scientist, had left him to join a cult. Of course, she denied its being a cult, but it was quite obvious to him and I knew him to be rational and felt confident taking his word.
I must admit that “joining a cult” would not have been in my top-500-reasons-why-couples-break-up list. As I plunged into my diatribe of how I would never join a cult, he asked me to read Seductive Poison and said we would chat afterwards. I read the novel and decided the above quote drove home the point my friend was trying to make.
While I still think it takes a certain mindset to join a group that evolves to be a cult, I can recognize that it’s a lot more likely for a regular human to temporarily enter such a mindset than I would have originally thought. There are times in most people’s lives where we feel like we’re ready to give up. It might be because you lost a loved one, a job, a lot of money or many other reasons. But almost all of us go through a phase, however short or long it might be, where we feel alone, misunderstood and under-appreciated. Many of us lack self-esteem and want to make our loved ones proud.
The cult-leaders strike during those moments. They take the person who feels at the bottom and lift him up. They give him a purpose. They make him feel proud and important. Since most cults start as an encouragement or salvation tactic, they don’t cause alarm flags to rise in the person’s mind. By the time, the movement becomes a full-fledged cult, the people on the inside have long stopped questioning.
And that’s the crucial point.
You must never stop questioning. It’s necessary to reevaluate life constantly. Once you stop questioning, you never notice anything, you are now no different than a sheep in a herd. We display this behavior consistently. We think a lot before we make a decision but once it’s made, we don’t feel the need to reconsider it.
A common pitfall in long-term relationships is not realizing that you’ve long stopped loving your partner. You’re still together only cause it’s practical and that’s how it’s always been. Same goes for a long-term job. You don’t ponder whether you still like it. You just do it day in and day out until you get to the next level and then you keep doing what you need to to get to the next level, and so on. You never stop and think about whether you are happy.
The only time we stop to rethink is if something major goes wrong. A partner cheats or you don’t get an expected promotion. At that point, you’ve hit another low.
I’ll buy that if you’re depressed enough, you may be out of your mind enough to get involved in a cultish movement, but once you’ve recovered a bit of your sense of self, it’s best to rethink every decision before being forced to do so.
It’s the necessary tool for you to be in control of your own life.
Previously? Choke.
The odor of alcohol mixed with the rotten food stuck onto the dishes in the sink. It kept attacking my nostrils, forcing my stomach to do flips. My brain yelled at my body for not concentrating on the issue at hand. With his fingers around my neck, was bad smell really my primary concern?
His fingers curled around my neck. Not tight enough to holler for the police, but too tight for comfort. Too tight for me to gulp. His eyes started directly into mine, overcome with anger. Spiteful words sprung from his mouth.
“You’re a piece of garbage.”
“You’re worthless.”
Tears filled up my eyes but didn’t dare to fall down. I knew crying was a bad idea. It would only serve to infuriate him further in his intoxicated state. He was so large, and his arms so strong, that all he needed to do was lift his hands slightly and my body would follow. He could easily pick me off of my feet. He hadn’t even bothered to lift his other hand; one was enough to cover the area necessary to grab.
I didn’t like his fingers around my neck. In fact, I worried I might throw up, which would be much worse than crying. But I didn’t panic. I didn’t yell. I didn’t blabber, like I usually did. I whispered softly. There were people in the living room and I wasn’t about to make a scene. I wanted this to end as quickly as possible. I didn’t even disagree.
“You’re no better than the scum in the trashcan,” didn’t sound so far-fetched to me. I really had provoked him, although for the life of me, I couldn’t remember how this particular fight had started. He might have been right. He probably was right.
All I wanted was for this to stop. As the tears started pouring down my cheeks, I apologized. I told him he was right. I’d fix it, whatever it was. I’d make it better. We could work it out. We would work it out. At that moment, nothing mattered besides his happiness. He was right and I was wrong. I needed him to forgive me.
The stench of vodka burned my eyes. The heat in the room made his palm sweat. His voice was getting louder and I worried his friends would overhear. I whispered more, as if to overcompensate for his lack of quiet. I tried to reason with him. I told him that I loved him and that I would fix it. I was there for him. I’d always been there for him. We’d make it work. My mind buzzed, like an overzealous student, trying to find the right words. The magic words.
Anything.
I wasn’t angry. I didn’t doubt him. Nor hate him. All that would come later. For now, I was desperate. Desperate for him to understand. Desperate for him to love me again. For the anger to dissipate. For the hatred to end. I begged. I groveled. I cried.
He let go.
Previously? Competition.
I’ve never been a competitive person.
A month after Jake and I started dating, we ended up taking a class together. Many people assumed that the class would put a strain on our relationship. That our differing grades might give birth to feelings of animosity between us.
But it didn’t.
On the contrary, Jake and I chose to be in the same group and we encouraged each other and studied together. Even at that point, I cared enough about him that his getting a good grade made me happy and not jealous.
I tend not to define my life and successes by others.
I don’t mean that to sound standoffish. It doesn’t imply that I think I’m too good to compare myself to others. It just means that knowing that I’m more successful than so-and-so doesn’t make me feel accomplished.
I don’t want anyone else to be unsuccessful, unhappy or unaccomplished. There’s enough room in the world for all of us to be happy and accomplished in our own ways.
I simply want to be the best that I can be.
This is where things get a bit sticky. It seems my personal requirements for becoming happy and successful are overwhelmingly high. Each time I reach one level of success, I set the next one without spending too much time doting on having accomplished the previous goal. I keep pressing and pushing, determined to see how far I can take it. How much before I break down.
Recently, Jake and I were talking about a success in his family. It was a situation that had done a 180 from the previous year. Last time, we’d wallowed on the sorrow and misfortune for quite some time and the spirits were very low. I was telling Jake that it’s only fair that, this time “We should celebrate.”
I said, “I think life should be all about under-emphasizing failures and over-celebrating successes.”
After the words came out of my mouth, I was surprised at how rarely I listen to my own advice. It’s crucial to learn from your mistakes but wallowing in them only makes you depressed. And it’s important to celebrate the good moments in life. It’s necessary to note having reached a goal. Otherwise, all the work I’ve done to get here doesn’t seem so difficult. Yet it is. Each tiny step that gets one closer to happiness or self-satisfaction is a major accomplishment and requires due attention.
I’ve decided to take some of my own advice. I’ll keep setting personal goals. I’ll keep aiming higher and higher. But I’ll also stop ignoring the importance of small successes. I’m moving from only jumping a series of hurdles to throwing many parties.
And you’re invited.
Previously? Judging.
You are so judgmental.
If you mutter the words “Not me,” you simply fall into the majority of people who don’t admit to doing the very things of which they accuse others.
There are certain fundamental characteristics that are a part of every human being. While I don’t believe we’re necessarily born judgmental, we certainly develop this discriminatory outlook on life at one point or another.
The same way we discover lying.
I tend to be weary of anyone who claims to never lie. That’s such an obvious lie that either the person is blatantly taking me to be a fool, or, worse, they are not willing to admit the truth to their own selves. We all lie. It’s human nature. Some of us do it more compulsively. Some of us do it only under the pretense that they’re sparing the other person’s feelings. Some people have been doing it for so long that they don’t even notice it anymore.
But everybody lies.
I have never met an adult who has never lied.
Neither have I met one who doesn’t judge.
You think you are open-minded? Think back to the last time you saw someone with seven piercings on her face? How about the girl in pink tight leather pants with high heels and a low-cut blouse? The guy who wears big silver chains around his neck and no t-shirts? The fifty-year-old man who drives a Porsche convertible? The girl in a three-piece suit with a pearl necklace talking on her cell phone? Two men holding hands? A teenager kissing a seventy year old?
No matter how open minded you are, at least one of the above scenarios will make you jump to conclusions about a person. You make judgement calls on how much money she has or whether she works or not. You assume she must be after his money or that he must be not well educated. She must be a bitch and he must be fun to be around.
You might not hate any of the people. Judgmental doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re bigoted. It just means that you judge people on a certain set of criteria. We all have categories that we like to place people in and we use certain cues when we meet them to figure out in which category they best fit.
The most common cues are visual. If you want to test this out, give the same picture to a few friends and ask them to tell you about the person in the picture. How old is she? What does she to for a living? Would you like this person? Why?
I guarantee you that they will have answers. Most likely different ones (unless you have a really homogenous circle) but none of them will say that they cannot answer until they meet the person.
Our categories are defined by our surroundings. Possibly at the beginning by the values of our family, and then school, friends, work, etc. With each new environment and year, we might define the categories more specifically and we might realize that most people can’t be classified easily.
But we do it anyway.
Previously? Fuck.
I curse a lot.
And I mean a lot. My favorite curse word is fuck. I love the way the air gets built up behind my lips before it slowly escapes through my teeth. It’s a word that encourages forward body movement. It gives me a sense of liberty each time it springs from my mouth.
It started in college, but I can’t think of the particular reason or instance. It may have been an imitation of my surroundings. Or not. All I can remember is my first Christmas vacation in college. I returned back to Istanbul and I was in the midst of a heated conversation with my father. We switched to English, as we tended to do when emotions heightened, and the next thing I know my dad’s face turned beet red.
My father has always been a perfect gentleman and I don’t think I’ve ever heard him utter a curse word. He’s the sort of person who knocks on an open door, just to make sure he doesn’t disturb your privacy. He looked at me and said, “I would appreciate if you wouldn’t use that language with me, Karen.”
Now it was my turn to feel embarrassed. I hadn’t even noticed the curse words.
During Junior year, when I was a Resident Assistant for fifty-nine women, the other RAs and our supervisor tried to come up with a replacement word so that I could feel the emotional release without offending any students. The best advice was “fire truck” but even that doesn’t come close. That year, I made an extra effort, at least in front of the girls, as I figured it was my responsibility.
Upon graduation, I started working at the investment bank that still employs me. If you know anything about investment banking, it should be that there aren’t many women in the industry. Same goes for technology. So as a coder in the bank, my cube was surrounded by the cubes of six men. A few weeks into the job, one of the guys walked up to me and asked me if I could lay off on the cursing for a while.
I hadn’t even noticed.
I don’t want to give you the impression that I’m not well mannered. I never curse in front of Jake’s parents and neither with mine. I behave perfectly appropriately in situations that call for it. I would lie if I said I’m ladylike and dainty, but I’m not coarse. I don’t curse at strangers or my clients. I try not to be offensive, but I don’t enjoy people tiptoeing around me because of my gender. There are women who mind curse words and women who don’t. Same goes for men. It doesn’t directly correlate to your gender.
I try to respect the values of the people around me. But when my program craps out with a segmentation fault and the debugger won’t tell me why, I feel a strong urge to abuse my computer.
It might not help me find the problem, but it really makes me feel better.
Previously? Biographies.
“Artists’ lives, in those days, were brief. Often in the living, always in the writing. A painter’s life was as long as a who’s who entry or a note in a tourist guidebook. This was what artists’ recorded lives mostly were, chronological lists of works with a note on technique or the odd illustrative anecdote thrown in. the most intelligent and ambitious of these assemblages – Vasari’s in the mid sixteenth century and Bellori’s a hundred years later – elaborated an idea of painting that each artist’s career was used to illustrate. Neither the individual artist’s inner life nor the minutiae of his social existence – the staples of modern biography – was felt worth retailing to anyone interested in the work.” – Peter Robb in M: The Man Who Became Caravaggio
I can’t claim to be a biography expert. I haven’t even read many biographies, let alone studied the differences among sixteenth century biographies and twenty-first century ones. But the above paragraph made me think of how much attention we direct towards the personal lives of public figures.
The categorization of a public figure may vary widely from person to person. While we would all probably agree that the President of the United States qualifies as one, we might have heated arguments on the inclusion of specific painters, writers, actors, etc. This discrepancy will depend on our definition of public, our familiarity with the specific artist and his or her work, and how reclusive he or she is. For example, I’m quite confident that we could all agree that JD Salinger is not a figure whose name is plastered on the gossip columns weekly, yet he may easily qualify as a public figure because as the writer of a famous novel, his work is read by many and his name is familiar to the public.
I don’t know if this has historically always been so, but what a public figure does during his or her private time is considered to be sought-after information today. A quick glance at the tabloids would suffice to prove my statement. There consistently is at least one headline in reference to a well-known actor. Stories range from distasteful to absurd. But anyone who’s studied economics will tell you that the articles would never have been printed unless the readers found them interesting, or at least worthy. Obviously if no one cared about who Meg Ryan’s current boyfriend is, no one would read the tabloid that prints stories on that subject matter and the paper would soon go out of business.
But it doesn’t.
On the contrary, tabloids thrive. The paparazzi are well paid and keep their jobs without many struggles. They both continue making money even after the lawsuits and the badmouthing.
We don’t care about Julia Roberts’ acting career (well, acting students possibly do but not the regular population) we care about her relationships, her family, her misery. We feel that since she’s chosen a career that’s in the public eye, she owes it to us to make her life public. We feel that we already know her.
Yet we don’t.
What the public sees of an actor is his or her character, scripted by someone else and simply acted by that individual. We read the stories invented by a writer (in the case of fiction). These public sides don’t necessarily (or even often) correlate to the person behind the face or name. Just because I like John Irving’s stories it doesn’t mean we can be buddies or even that I would like him as a person. While each of his stories might contain some of him, they don’t tell me who he is.
Also, these are one-sided experiences. I might have read all of Irving’s books or watched every Julia Roberts movie, but they’ve never heard of me. They have never been inspired by me. And they don’t necessarily care to welcome me into their lives. While they chose to have careers that affect the public, they didn’t opt to not have any private life. And I believe it’s unfair of us to assume otherwise. I can easily relate to the drive to want to get to know the person whose work inspires the reader and I can see the value of documenting the inner life of a person who’s had a unique outlook on life. But lately, it seems we’ve become much more interested in the person, even to the point of obsession.
Peter Robb’s words are not judging. They are merely a statement on the differences in styles of writing biographies between the past and now. However, to me, his words highlight a crucial difference in the society and its views on artists. They show how attention shifted from the work to the person behind it.
And I’m not confident that’s a positive change.
Previously? New Day.
The radio pierces through my dreams.
Or maybe it’s my nightmares, I never seem to remember anymore. We’ve come a long way from the days when my college roommate, Holley, used to holler “Karen, it’s your fucking alarm!” Now, Jake turns from one side of the bed to the other and I’m wide awake. I don’t dream anymore. I don’t really sleep anymore.
The radio is yelling. The dial is in between stations, but close to one so that the music mixes with static. The volume is turned up so high that it makes me jump out of my skin. I pound the tabletop savagely until the room is once again silenced. If I keep my eyes tightly closed, I can postpone the inevitable.
At least for another seven minutes.
The radio comes alive once more and I show it who’s boss. But it’s not whipped into shape, it takes only another seven minutes for it to commence its nagging. I pound it twice more before I give up. At this point, I have eight minutes to make it out the door. But I don’t jump off the bed. I lie there with my eyes open, staring at the patterns on the ceiling.
As a child I always envied the kids with stars on their ceilings. With my less than stellar eyesight, I was unable to see my own hands at night, let alone a pair of florescent constellations. After my eye operation, I went out and bought a set of my own. Now I can stare at star whenever I wish to, even in New York City.
Even at nine A.M.
I finally drag myself into the bathroom, eyelids shut. Reaching for the bubble gum toothpaste, I move my arm up and down and side to side, like a well trained robot. I take my time because I know that I will need to open my eyes to brush my hair and I’m not ready just yet. I can hear the minutes ticking. The fear that I might have a 9:30 meeting grips me and I drop the toothbrush, wash out my mouth and comb my hair within a split second.
I race back to the bedroom and thank my lucky stars that I shaved last night. The long black skirt picks me and I throw on a white shirt and dig into my black shoes, I grab my bag, throwing in the keys on the way out. I yell back to the birdie, “See you tonight, Cupcik.”
Hailing a cab, I check my wallet and the time simultaneously. 9:15, I’ll make it in on time.
I dig into my bag and pull out my second most precious electronic item. I press play and turn the volume to twenty. The music takes over my soul.
This might be a good day after all.
Previously? The Need for Speed.
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projects for twenty twenty-six
projects for twenty twenty-five
projects for twenty twenty-four
projects for twenty twenty-three
projects for twenty twenty-two
projects for twenty twenty-one
projects for twenty nineteen
projects for twenty eighteen
projects from twenty seventeen
monthly projects from previous years
some of my previous projects
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