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.
No comments:
Post a Comment