It's strange, how while driving I'm full of things to discuss and anxious to write, and then I make it here in front of the computer, and the desire fades. My mind goes blank. Sometimes I wish I could attach something to my brain to record its thoughts when it's active. Unfortunately, it seems to be most active when my hands are occupied, and I'm unable to record what it's doing.
I reunited with an old friend last month. I hadn't seen him since 2001, when I was quite a different person--lost, aimless, uncertain about my future. At the time, he was presenting his fantastic senior project, a theater/circus/dance piece, which reminded me of our time in Paris, back in 1999. I responded most to a part of the performance which was about breaking out of routine to embrace freedom and childlike play. He seemed so powerful, so brilliant, so "together." I felt small, like a failure, in comparison.
So we met at the airport. We began talking, and talked through the next few days, into the wee hours of the mourning until we collapsed with fatigue. We spoke about the purpose of art. He was struggling with not knowing whether his art was just an indulgent intellectual exercise, or whether it truly affected, inspired, and touched other people. Whether his music could change someone else's life for the better. He wasn't happy with his job, and felt it was limiting, but he wasn't sure if he could take the step of leaving town, pursuing his uncertain dreams. In contrast, I seemed fulfilled and grounded and peaceful about my future. The next 3 years have been planned out, anyway. Sometimes a little voice whispers that I'm playing things too safe, that I've elaborately fooled myself into being happy with my current path, when I'm just setting myself up for regret later on. But then, my path gives my life meaning and purpose. If nothing else, I can be assured that I am doing something which will help other people, and will make the world better in a small way. I won't have the struggle about whether my work is worthwhile. It offers opportunity for travel and loads of experiences which can be funneled into art later on. The only things which might be missing if I pursue art in my later years are perhaps the zest for life, the wild experimentation, the self-importance of youth. I heard on NPR a few days ago that Einstein did pretty much all of his brilliant work in his early years, from his 20's-40's. I worry that my creative light will burn out before I can even make use of it. I'm reading Truman Capote's "Other Voices, Other Rooms" which he published when he was 24. I'm already falling behind! Sure, I'm filling my time with school and accumulating degrees and skills, but where's my book, my painting, my comic? Why haven't I done more with myself?
Oops. Tangent. So yes, hanging out with this old friend, I was struck by how easy it was to talk with him, and understand him. And he seemed to get me, or at least get me as much as anyone can. We were similarly frustrated with college, with all those people who seemed more concerned with grades and careers than with learning and creating. We have high standards that are constantly disappointed. I've lowered my standards--in fact, I don't expect much from anyone anymore, but he's urged me to reestablish them. Heh. We are "intense" because we push people to reveal themselves as much as they can, and reveal too much of our own selves as well. We're painfully vulnerable, but respond to this differently. I vigilantly protect myself from harm, but he leaves himself open, and uses pain to fuel his work. I described how I used to be in high school and college--obnoxiously challenging people, pushing them past their comfort levels, all because I arrogantly considered myself their liberator, the source of their enlightenment. I wanted to break open their colorless veneers, to reveal the ugliness and truth and authentic beauty which were lodged deep inside. But, not surprisingly, most people are not interested in revealing themselves to this extent. My friend expressed sorrow that I was no longer that person, and I wonder if I've compromised too much over the years. It was an inevitable loss while being groomed for a service profession, where I have to make others feel comfortable in order to take care of them, which means toning down my more abrasive and controversial qualities. There are some benefits to "selling out" in this way--I've been able to forge connections with people from so many different walks of life, which would have been much more difficult if not impossible if I behaved the way I did back in high school and college.
He reveres love almost with a sort of religious fervor. His heart has been broken, but I'm certain that he will love again, if only because he wants love so desperately. He truly believes that another person will make him whole. I, on the other hand, usually think that romantic love is hopelessly overrated. I'm sick of hearing about women who sacrifice their accomplishments for love, particularly since most of the guys turn out to be tools anyway. Why the hell do we always have to give up our dreams in order to sustain a relationship, while men get to pursue theirs unencumbered, whether he's with a partner or not? I'm not going to be one of them. I want to have adventures, to see the world, to have a long list of incredible memories to run like a film reel through my head when I'm an old woman with bad arthritis who spends most of the day in bed (until dementia takes those memories away). If I can finally become disciplined enough to accomplish something fantastic, I will do so. I'm tired of men taking credit for most of the discoveries and advances in virtually all fields. I'm tired of my own inherent sexism, in part fueled by the compromises that other womyn have made.
Even though I'm a feminist, and have been for years, I admit that I have internalized sexism. Almost all the writers and artists and thinkers whom I admire are male. Almost all the people I respect and want to emulate are male. I'm female. Science seems to show that there are inherent differences between men and womyn, as loathe as I am to admit. Does this mean that I can't emulate those whom I admire? Am I as capable as they are? Should I fight to accomplish as much as I possibly can, to prove that someone with my sex can? Or should I just focus on myself and my desires, without worrying so much about being a representative of the female sex? In the past, I believed fully in the ability of a person to create themselves and their reality, even though I knew that I was at least partly wrong. I treasured freedom of all else, and perhaps worshipped it with the near-religious fervor that my old friend worships love. I needed to believe that I was free from my biology, free from my own limitations, in order to avoid despair. I think that people need to believe in the impossible, or the near impossible, in order to accomplish great things...without being completely deluded or crazy, of course.
So yes, I thought that love was overrated, silly. I wouldn't be like all those other girls who relentlessly pursued it, who felt their lives were empty without it. And then I saw Ang Lee's Brokeback Mountain , and felt like I had been punched in the stomach. Afterwards, in the rain, I wandered around Chelsea in a daze. John Donne's love poems have the same effect (which I think I mentioned in the very first post of this blog). Somehow, over the past few years, I had decided that love was possible, but could only occur through a very controlled process--kind of like some sort of chemical experiment, which would require specific reagents and conditions. It needed to take at least a year, and I needed to see how the guy would react in times of stress, and our conversations needed to be of a particular caliber, and so on. All these gradual steps were required for me to feel comfortable opening myself up, and allowing for love to happen. Granted, it's a movie, but Brokeback Mountain made me wonder if I'm completely wrong. The two lovers in that movie don't have fascinating conversations, don't challenge each other intellectually, don't go through a long process of deciding whether to risk love. They're just together, and very quickly, just love each other. It mystifies me. What causes people to fall in love? Is it a totally irrational process? Have I never been in love because I just haven't met the right person, someone with whom I connect in a simple happy coexisting sort of way? Or have I been so convinced that love can only happen in certain controlled conditions, that I don't even open myself up to its possibility when those conditions aren't present? Perhaps I pass by people on the street whom I can love, but don't even notice, because love isn't supposed to happen on the street? I don't know. But I do love that movie, and feel so deeply for the characters in it. (It's a definite triumph for Ang Lee after his shitty Hulk movie.) Although homophobia has not disappeared entirely, thank God men can now love each other, at least in some parts of the country, without so much social and physical backlash.
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