Self discovery

"Meet in on the equinox
Meet me half-way
When the sun is perched
at its highest peak
in the middle of the day" -Death Cab for Cutie

Adrian Blevins tells of how she never knows what her arguments will be or where her poems are going until she (or it) gets there. The writing itself is a journey consisting of a list of questions that will lead to that final 'self discovery.' She is my professor, prodigy of Gerald Stern (whom I had the great great great honor to meet today) and a renowned poet herself but she is oh so human. She's one of those people you look at and say, "she laughs, she hurts, she's introspective, she cusses, her flesh is real, her Virginian accent is thick, there is no wall- there is a chance at vulnerability."

And so this blog, along with my journals, and everything that causes me to think is creating questions and guiding me to me. The oldest advice in the books is to "be yourself" but who is yourself and what does it consist of?

For example: the discovery of being reserved. As mentioned previously, I know that I'm reserved and I've been for most, if not all, of my life. Why else would I be a writer, right? But, in a sense, what part of practicing being reserved and making that a norm disables the ability to express and lead to inarticulation? (People who know me know this.) Sometimes, the words, the movements and the emotions to express myself simply don't come up, as though they're either lethargic or can't define and fetch themselves. When my brain reaches for that word that I'm feeling so powerfully at that moment, it's not there. It's almost like the old old files in the old old archives has been deleted because they were never utilized.

It's an idea I've expressed for several years now where, even if I wanted to push the wall down, the brain will persistently keep it up.

It leads to a prospect (or I suppose reality) of being distant, unapproachable, dry, very unlike Adrian Blevins. Either that or I go through waves where I mellow down-- like I don't give effort to things that mean something to me, even though within my mind, the thing that's unable to articulate itself really wishes to, and wishes to have at least a say in how I run my life. There's me that goes wild at a party then there's me at editorial meetings and in classrooms, the me that I think is the real me-- the day to day me-- I don't know her at all. The reason she can't articulate herself to others is because she has to first pull down the wall for herself and allow self understanding before she lets anyone else in. The dots don't always connect, others notice it, but I notice it first.

For instance, my redefinition of femininity, race, worth, and beauty over the last few years. The college is full of everything beautiful- magazine beautiful. White, thin, intelligent, blonde, multi-tasking, well dressed, always happy, quick witted perfection. Some take it as a facade. If I or anyone like me were to speak, dress, think, be great at everything and disgustingly kind all the time, the question would arise, "ok so, who are you really?" Where's the "realness"? Say "umm" once in a while, fall once in a while, get a B once in a while, cry once in a while, cuss once in a while, forget the organic bullshit and eat a cheeseburger every once in a while. But then who's to dictate what's real and what's fake? What if this culture that seems so artificial to a maddening point is actually these peoples' real culture.

So I could be mad, and I am saying that I am upset, that these fake women with their fake femininity and bureacracy, and standard language and who seem to always be branding themselves, are winning the war and taking away the quality men because they don't pick up on the facade.... (everyone knows what I mean) from women like me who don't really have the effort to be all that and who for the mere purpose of existence is more imperfect and thus authentic than that. I have flaws aplenty and it makes me feel inadequate to the standards aplenty-- an inadequacy with stories that are real and tangible compared to a branding so perfect that you can barely see fine print-- with a standard and robotic coverage.

But if that, in their world growing up, was authentic, and if that is all they've known then... I don't know. It's like living for competition but not enjoying it. At the same time that they're being presumably real and true to themselves while having casual conversations with acquaintances (aka ME!), I'm being reserved to keep up with this very artificial, polite, small talk.

So to recap, if any of this made since whatsoever at 2 a.m., in a really fake-formal setting where fake-formal things happen, where a wall is up, and imperfection doesn't quite exist-- maybe it's just me and my 'reserved' manner that's being fake. But then, I can't help it.

Some crazy fruit for thought.