Here’s today’s walking-home-from-the-corner-of-the-highway-five-minute reverie: If I were invisible I would stalk my life’s movers and shakers.
I’d skulk around in the bedrooms of the beautiful and powerful. I’d read over the shoulder of that-boy-I-haven’t-quite-gotten-over-yet. I’d sit in my former professors’ living rooms and see what soaps they watch.
I’d watch them clip their toenails, come home drunk and bleary-eyed, floss, and pick their noses. Not necessarily in that order.
Maybe then I would stop using them as measuring sticks for my physical attractiveness/intelligence/aptitude for greatness/and all that crap. Maybe then I’d let you see me and maybe then I wouldn’t care about what you’re thinking instead of pretending not to care, like I always, always do.
A long, long time ago, back in the days of Pogs and Tamagochi, I used to run around pretending to be the Pink Ranger/Sailor Venus/A Horse/Little Foot.
Now that I’m older and equipped with more sophisticated make-believe equipment, I pretend to be Cool/A Grown-Up/Good/Together/Someone You Would Be Friends With.
Oh, I don’t wanna know, oh, I don’t need to know
Everything about you…
And you don’t need to know that much about me.
- You and I, Wilco
Something to think about: do you think it’s possible for someone to truly know another person?
My sister, on one of her more introspective moods – products of what I suspect is PMS and too much emo music - asked me this question sometime last week. She thinks that it’s impossible, and I kind of agree, because hey, we-the-people-of-this-earth are hella messed-up. But I also think that people have different degrees of knowability [that's not a word but I'm sticking to that term for the sake of this discussion-slash-monologue]; for example, you only need to spend a few days with Ms. X to feel that you’ve known her your whole life, while Mr. Y remains a mystery even after spending a lifetime with him.
[BGmusic: Keep The Car Running by The Arcade Fire]
The break I took from this blog took a lot longer than I had anticipated, and for that, dear readers – if you are still out there – I apologize.
Life looks a lot different from what it was like when I last updated, but I’m pretty much the same old dork who left this blog in September. An 8-hour desk job [now referred to as The Job] hasn’t made a corporate clone out of this one… yet.
The Job has taught me to formulate battle plans for the daily rush hour commute, and to savor the company of a good book on those twenty+-minute train rides. The Job has taught me to love fifteen minute breaks; how to sleep at 10 and wake up at 6; how to laugh at the face of office drama [and how to hold back your laughter]; the importance of having an every-flavor group of friends; the art of finding novelty in routine. Most notably, The Job has taught me a little about the value of time, especially time of the free breed – now a rarity, and the primary excuse why I “couldn’t blog”.
So if I were to blame anything for prolonging the hiatus, the obvious thing to point at would be The Job. But you don’t want a scapegoat. If you’re here it just means you want more of me. [If you don't, I seriously don't know what it is you're doing here. You're either lost or in dire need of a hobby.]
“Growing up is never easy. You hold on to things that were. You wonder what’s to come. But that night, I think we knew it was time to let go of what had been, and look ahead to what would be. Other days. New days. Days to come. The thing is, we didn’t have to hate each other for getting older. We just had to forgive ourselves… for growing up.”
- The Wonder Years
I have a bit of a Peter Pan complex.
Let me illustrate.
I am twelve years old. My best friend and I are washing our faces at a sleepover, and I notice that she’s wiping off this green sparkly gunk off her eyelids. I am shocked, because (a) I’m with this girl all the time and I didn’t notice anything, and (b) this is grown-up stuff;I am still [secretly] hosting bedroom tea parties with my stuffed animals. Feeling stunted and a little betrayed at the revelation that my best friend is ready to grow up before I am, I try putting on make-up the next day. Some classmates notice, and ask me if I am wearing eyeshadow. I am mortified. I scoff at their faces, avoid eye contact, and before the first class, run to the bathroom to wash it all off.
I apologize for the last three posts, I’ve been spending a lot of time away from my laptop [hooray], and when I get home I’m all tired and too sabaw to function. Tomorrow I’ll actually give writing a go.
