I know there is nothing wrong with the fact that I use this blog to ramble on about my thoughts and feelings about life. But reading back through my recent posts (most of which aren't particularly recent, but I digress), I don't think this little corner of the blogosphere represents me fully. Yes, I spend a lot of time struggling with anxiety and depression, the disorders that so often rule my life with iron fists. Yes, the enjoyment of young adulthood and contemplation of growing up are a very intimate concerns of mine. Obviously I will be writing about these things. There is nothing wrong with nostalgia or musing about my life. But whenever I look at my blog I gag on my own self-indulgence.
While this blog is a testament to my thoughtful, sentimental inner life, it tends to under-represent another part of my inner life. The part that is deeply invested in politics, closely interacts with literary texts, seriously contemplates literary theory as well as philosophy and psychology, and spends quite a lot of time considering various other intellectual topics. I don't say this to sound intelligent or important or pretentious, although inevitably it will sound that way.
It's ok to say that you have graduated from university and it's nice if you are proud of your degree. To mention that you are proud to have graduated Summa Cum Laude, however, is pretentious. I hate that valuing intelligence is labelled as pretentious. I am really fucking proud of being smart and I don't want to be humorously self-deprecating about it. I'm a nerd and I don't mean that in any cutesy kind of way. I am beginning my post-graduate study in English specialising in the text and transmission of early modern literature and I'm planning to forsake financial security to devote my life to academia. The only part of my undergraduate experience that I enjoyed was my classes. I complained about the workload at Oxford, but the hours I spent reading in the Radcliffe Camera are now some of my fondest memories.
Most of my anxiety stems from the unreachable academic standards I set for myself - in my mind, it doesn't matter that I'm only 21, I expect myself to be writing essays as intellectually sophisticated as the articles written by tenured professors that I reference from scholarly journals. I am proud to say I went to Syracuse University, but I am applying to top tier universities for my PhD study (Harvard, Oxford, etc.) because I want to surround myself with the best literary thinkers in the world. I am committed to becoming a serious writer - in my creative writing I aspire to write meaningful works of art, and most of all, I wish to contribute something important to the reading and writing of literature. I pride myself on being intelligent, even if my mind is not the most impressive you will ever find*. The fact that I value intelligence and seriousness is a very important part of my identity. I don't care if it means I'm pretentious.
All of this is to say, that there's a seriousness to me that I wish I could share here. But for some reason I don't bring the serious side of my personality or interests to this blog. I find that I can't write about this article I read about American politics or this one about the state of American poetry today or this one about balancing the purposeful and the beautiful when writing sentences. Mainly because I don't want to sound pretentious.
I can't promise that this blog will suddenly become very intellectual and sophisticated. It probably won't. But this blog is a representation of me and at the moment I feel like it's full of Pip while lacking Rosalee**. So I guess what I'm trying to say is that I like to be serious sometimes and I don't think there's anything wrong with that***.
*I'm smart, I'm not a genius. I have no delusions of grandeur. I hold myself to standards that I know are well beyond my means. The title of this blog is massively ironic.
**Very convenient that I have two names, isn't it? My therapist says that I shouldn't treat my different names as separate identities...but I've always relied heavily on compartmentalising my life. England and America, school and home, internet and "real" life, my depression and the exterior I present to the outside world, etc.
***Yeah yeah yeah. Cue The Joker reference: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F_5dP_83O7o
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Monday, September 3, 2012
Coping with uncertainty
I have been reading poetry. And whilst reading poems such as this one, I found myself wanting to write. Yet, no matter how hard I try, I cannot make heads or tails of this mess I call my life. So here I am. Once again I have lines of poetry tumbling about in my head as I try to make sense of it all...
"I believe in the violence of not knowing."
In my experience it is very, very violent. And on nights such as this I almost cannot withstand the violence.
I spent the evening at a family reunion. Although I would suggest the title be changed to something more accurate such as "depressing reminder of how diminished family has become" because these events only serve to show us just how far removed we have become to each other. We are not united except in time and place and expense ($24 a person, check made out to Angela). And blood, I suppose. But family, it seems, has now become a reductionist concept. A family is now merely the sum of its individuals, gathered together at a family reunion, counted and catalogued, each check processed for membership. Most of all such events are a reminder of how a union of blood does not equate to a union of any other substance. Although this family reunion was also a reminder of just how much people change over the course of four years. And I suppose my cynicism regarding a reductionist concept of family is merely a response to this. We don't know each other. What a depressing reality.
This family reunion was also reminder of just how much I detest such events. A reminder of why I've always chosen to keep a distance between my family and myself. Because, of course, it was another a reminder of just how uncertain my life has become. So uncertain that I cannot adequately answer the questions required for the basic familial catch-up or catalogue. How many times this evening did I have to answer questions about my future? Too many times to count. $24 dollars for cole slaw, crab dip, cookies, strawberries, a dozen comments about how much I look like my sister/my mother/my aunt, and even more questions about what I plan on doing with my life. And, as always, all of my answers were unacceptable for my family.
I wish I could just quote a poem to all of my relatives instead of attempting any answers to the questions of my life. All I have to understand my life is poetry*. How am I supposed to explain it to an almost stranger who happens to share my blood and therefore a curiosity about my life?
What are you doing this year? What will you be studying? Where will you be living? How are you paying for it all? What about after school? - "I do not believe things are reborn in fire. I believe they're consumed by fire, and the fire has a life of its own."
Oh really? Are you sure? - No, goddamn it. Of course not.
The answers I could produce were met with sceptical looks. And I just wanted to tell them that, I'm sorry but I have no fucking clue what I am doing with my life. I can't sleep because I am kept awake by the nervousness carried in the wind. And this not knowing, this uncertainty, is so goddamn violent. I can only hope that this fire is cleansing as well as consuming. I just wish I were stronger, for whatever comes next.
And so I will continue to read poetry, because maybe I'll find a poem that will give me strength enough to withstand the not knowing. That's all I can do, all anyone can do - cope with the uncertainty.
-----------------------
*says the poor English graduate student as tears silently fall onto her Macbook while pouring her heart out on her pathetic little blog that she thinks is a worthwhile outlet for expressing her profound emotions, which are (of course) expressed in prose worthy of a Pulitzer Prize.
"I believe in the violence of not knowing."
In my experience it is very, very violent. And on nights such as this I almost cannot withstand the violence.
I spent the evening at a family reunion. Although I would suggest the title be changed to something more accurate such as "depressing reminder of how diminished family has become" because these events only serve to show us just how far removed we have become to each other. We are not united except in time and place and expense ($24 a person, check made out to Angela). And blood, I suppose. But family, it seems, has now become a reductionist concept. A family is now merely the sum of its individuals, gathered together at a family reunion, counted and catalogued, each check processed for membership. Most of all such events are a reminder of how a union of blood does not equate to a union of any other substance. Although this family reunion was also a reminder of just how much people change over the course of four years. And I suppose my cynicism regarding a reductionist concept of family is merely a response to this. We don't know each other. What a depressing reality.
This family reunion was also reminder of just how much I detest such events. A reminder of why I've always chosen to keep a distance between my family and myself. Because, of course, it was another a reminder of just how uncertain my life has become. So uncertain that I cannot adequately answer the questions required for the basic familial catch-up or catalogue. How many times this evening did I have to answer questions about my future? Too many times to count. $24 dollars for cole slaw, crab dip, cookies, strawberries, a dozen comments about how much I look like my sister/my mother/my aunt, and even more questions about what I plan on doing with my life. And, as always, all of my answers were unacceptable for my family.
I wish I could just quote a poem to all of my relatives instead of attempting any answers to the questions of my life. All I have to understand my life is poetry*. How am I supposed to explain it to an almost stranger who happens to share my blood and therefore a curiosity about my life?
What are you doing this year? What will you be studying? Where will you be living? How are you paying for it all? What about after school? - "I do not believe things are reborn in fire. I believe they're consumed by fire, and the fire has a life of its own."
Oh really? Are you sure? - No, goddamn it. Of course not.
The answers I could produce were met with sceptical looks. And I just wanted to tell them that, I'm sorry but I have no fucking clue what I am doing with my life. I can't sleep because I am kept awake by the nervousness carried in the wind. And this not knowing, this uncertainty, is so goddamn violent. I can only hope that this fire is cleansing as well as consuming. I just wish I were stronger, for whatever comes next.
And so I will continue to read poetry, because maybe I'll find a poem that will give me strength enough to withstand the not knowing. That's all I can do, all anyone can do - cope with the uncertainty.
-----------------------
*says the poor English graduate student as tears silently fall onto her Macbook while pouring her heart out on her pathetic little blog that she thinks is a worthwhile outlet for expressing her profound emotions, which are (of course) expressed in prose worthy of a Pulitzer Prize.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)