Fiction, History, and a Blank Line for Thought

|| The "Fiction"

"Do you ever feel like you're a failure?"
"Most always."
I sighed. I suppose deep down somewhere I knew this had to be the answer, but I had hoped that there was another life which I had forgotten about.
"What about expectations?" I asked, hoping that there was, indeed, such a thing as hope.
"They suck. What do you mean?"
"Well," I stammered, "I can't ever decide whether I want people to overestimate me or underestimate me. Like, I like to think that I do a lot to play myself down so that people just celebrate the little things I do right. But at the same time, I can totally see the posturing that goes on behind the curtain," which was an allusion to "The Wizard of Oz." "I'd like to think that I don't care what other people think of me, or that I set them up to have such low expectations of me that I seem amazing; of course, all that that really means is that their expectations of me have just gone way up and out of control. Does this make any sense?"
"Not really," I replied, "but I'm not entirely surprised, given the context."
There was a long pause. I knew I had just done it again--there was some posturing, some I'm-a-college-student-so-I-now-need-to-use-semicolons- everywhere-and-words-like-context-or-zeitgeist-or-absurdist- or-whatever, and I hated it. Or at least I thought I did.
"I guess I just feel trapped by people's expectations."

|| The "History" (otherwise known by such names as 'Fact,' 'Non-Fiction,' and 'Truth;' unfortunately, all but one of those monikers fail to apply here)

from The Old Blog (which really now feels like I'm an impoverished immigrant telling a story about life in the Old Lands)

2/24/06

What in the name of Emily Dickinson does this have to do with Silence? I'm in love with the concept of silence, but the practice thereof is certainly lacking. (A great parallel to this is found in my love of girls.) I would love to spend days at a time silent.

Here's the problem. As much as I love silence, I know I can't do it.

Look, some people are statues. You keep them around cause they look nice. Some people are bullet proof vests. They make you feel safe and protected whenever they're around. Some people--these are the lucky ones, and we, who've known a few, are lucky by association--some people are your blanket...you know, the one you grew up with and would throw a fit if you couldn't have. These people--they're more than people, really, they're divine comforters ((which is a play on words))--they make you feel like you're somewhere warm and familiar, somewhere you're loved and protected, safe and hidden away--mine was yellow. After my parents took it away, I didn't take another nap for 15 years.

On my best days, I'm a radio. I sit in the corner, maybe not the prettiest package, but I occasionally make interesting noises--a funny comment here, a story there, a political theological philosophical discussion every now and then.

On my desk in front of me are two clock radios. One of them has no casing, it's contents just randomly strewn about my desk. I never listen to either of them. They're pointless. They're useless. They just gather dust.

Nobody needs a silent radio. Nobody wants a silent radio.

|| The "Blank Line for Thought"



________________reflect here_________________



Peace, love and joy to you all.