C a r o l y n ' s D i a r y diary.carolyn.org
|be warned: this is my diary... clb||page 45|
I should get up. Instead of typing. I have an invitation to breakfast in half an hour. But I've been reading all morning instead of getting ready. Sleepy me.
Still my empty brain knows of nothing to discuss any longer. Perhaps this space is only for therapeutic rumblings. No longer a more concerted contribution to the world's thought collection.
Decades later.. Netly News Interview with Simon Eskow.
In consideration of the changes in my life, I think I must start putting an effort into what I produce once more. Through thick and thin, I've done stuff that hopefully leads to more stuff... and on and on. Richard said a curious thing yeterday to me. he said that on my own the things I do do not accumulate.
Now I must say right up front that so many things around me have been cummulative. He meant that the things I do solo do not do so. I hazard a brief thought to this space, and see the effects on my life. They sure have accumulated. But he means something more.
Many things I do create contacts in the world. I find that so easily these contacts stay there if I do the least bit of something to continue them. Often I like to hand them off to someone else who can move beyond the nurturing stage into the the evaluating and utilising stage. I have an aversion really to many of the things I used to do or see done on a regular basis. the aversion comes in part from the repetition which I do not tolerate well, and in part from the failure rate for most of these things. I would guess that when something fails, it looks less attractive a second time. Even strategies tend to mildew in their seeming value.
What I see you doing: Meeting people and building sliver relatinships - acquaintanceships. Cataloguing them into usefull categories for future reference. Just assuming that the basic human stuff is there, and never mentioning it. Not even consciously noticing this stuff actually, but just doing it, using it. Only ever mentioning such things when something is awkward about another. Then the tools of mental criticism come out: "That person is sooo frustrating. Why doesn't she just do it the normal way? Couldn't we just forget to invite her along. It would be easier since she really doesn't know how to behave noramlly there." serious grin
OK... so my own interests seem not varied or in-depth enough to hold a conversation on. I have not accumulated either hobby knowledge of anything, not even web page development. Not on the car and raising of cats. Not on professioal philosophical consideration. Not on piano playing or french horn playing. Not on yearbook editting. Not on any of the thousand things I've tried, thought about or studied. Why not?
These things never seemed to be important to accumulate. And yet if all of you are the types who collect up and file who you meet into the things they know well, then I am pretty much a dud find. I don't know anything really. Perhaps the exception is diary writing. But being an expert in anything has not appealed. it makes me feel like a prostitute, rather than like a person. cont'd.
So what is this feeling like a person thing? A feeling of being loved. Fitting in when it is comfortable or fun to do so. Sharing experiences and laughing about them afterwards - not during (my preference).
I just don't get a sense that another likes me if they aren't saying it. What a typical girl I am in this. "Tell me how you feel... please." I guess with being away from Peter, the Feedback King, I am learning to deal with this. I didn't believe people would really hide their true selves from everyone always. I must drive them nuts. Ooops.
Collector of new details in an ever growing circle of exploration. Conversations with other experts to compare knowledge and exchange unknown tidbits. Humanity as a great encyclopedia. Each of us a holographic sliver page, knowing more or else a lot about a few things, and in a few cases everything about some one thing.
Eeery. Why don't I like this?
I have this belief that we humans can do so much. Can we? Is there anything we can do that our machineries and mechanisms cannot? Or are these things a refelction always of what we can do? They do for us what yesterday we did for ourselves. What is essentially beyond these things? Probably nothing as we are the inventors. Whenthey start inventing new things to satisfy even this small human niche, thenwe will relax into oblivion, the knowledge that tomorrow will breed progress safely tucked away in breast pocket beside a shiny brass cigarette case.
So what is unique?
Even if I narrowed this down though... why am I asking the question... Do I intend to pursue only those things whoch are uniquely human? That is silly. Do I intend to excel in those things only? No. SO what is this question doing in my brain?
It makes me feel special to have a pursuit of my own. Used to be having a diary did. Times before that, it was having skipped two grades in public school, or having gone on to Systems Design Engineering at the University of Waterloo, or ... continue ego booster list here. So what is it now? Nothing of that sort exists for me any longer. Knowing Reiner has deleted the possibility.
What makes me special? What makes me feel special? What make smy life worth living - to me of course?
No people I know have satisfied this need. I suspect another person couldn't unless we were both deeply in love. With each other. I don't think this will ever happen to me again. C'est la vie. I'll wander alone with great friends and a memory that it can be different.
Wish I had a mantra about now for this one.
So if the crystals do not dissolve in the water, is it too old outside today? Chilling. Winter. LA is looking very good right now. I missed yesterday's staff meeting, and apparently the staff who were there all decided to go off to Jamaica together. One of our clients has a great place to stay for awhile! That should be fun.
Another day in which my compromised self cannot write. The compromises add up, and the truth is hidden inside layers of artifice. And the knowledge that this is a public place finally brings to a halt what was once an honest outpouring. Shall I leave this off? I wish I had a space to write freely, and publically. Those around me who seem incapable of an honest conversation shall probably wince even further if I wrote the truth out. Why should I bullshit anyway? The reasons are obvious. The question really is about what I care about more, and why they are in conflict with each other.
If I were one of those fake happy chirpy beings, the issue would not exist. I'd write endless lists of happenings here and there. I wouldn't feel a need to discuss negativity for it wouldn't be in me. Compression. The compression of being forced to the pretense of liking only one thing, where that one thing is the epitome of dull. Dull. And then I am forcefed the insult that the only alternative is deep metaphysical conversation. What a lark. Perhaps that dullness makes everything else look like seam tearing.
One thing is for sure. Lying outwards even while I need to write out my thoughts will not endure for ever. Could not for life would be a farce. A finite farce at that. No thanks. I'll work on being more true to me for awhile. In a more delicate fashion.
It would be nice to have several different outlets for this stuff. A fine tuning of who I portray could result. Tracey was good for this. Good old Tracey, on one end of the librarian continuum, organizing and tidying for no greater goal than her own comfort.
Who am I? Who am I today?
When I was growing up, we lived in the same neighbourhood, the same house, the whole time. I went thorugh several friends, people who would move into the neighbourhood, and then whent heir parents fortunes changed, would move away again. I never saw any of them again. I came away believing this was normal, and regular.
There were so many of these people that must have moved on or up, Susan Nanskerville, Lorraine Beaumont, Alesandra Galasso. I wonder what happened to each of them? And what of all the kids of then who went to school with me.
I remember planning out a movie while walking home from school. The idea was to borrow a movie camera from a parent, and to script out and then act out this movie. Wonder why that sticks? I think it was such a group activity, so beyond our normal bounds. It sticks for its extreme adventurousness.
What would be so adventurous now?
I saw a quite amusing film last night, Something about the Golds, with Peter. His cheery demeanor was a pleasant change. Is all the world happy? Is this our great lesson in life? He reminded me of the changes I noted from the periphery in my dad after he had re-married. Cheerier wihtout a substanive change elsewhere. Quite an admirable accomplishment. Metaphysical bootstrapping.
I decided last night to end writing here. I don't feel in any way open to expose myself any longer, and I find that I don't find things to write about.
I see myself as a lingering energy drain on others. There is this sense in me that I don't want to contribute my own energies to the happenings in the world - they will be redistributed by others into ends I do not want to support. How can I get through this loop without losing me?
This morning I received a beautiful letter, a fan letter if you will. Several hours of another person's life spent reading my thoughts. This letter touched me more than most. What will I do? Can I simply stop now? Of course. If this is not the outlet Ineed to live sincerely then I should move on.
I'm regularly called arrogant and and sometimes pretensious. I don't pull the punch or let others discover who I am, my accomplishments. I simply put them out there. I was told long ago that I didn't bluster and brag enough, that I simply let people see me as some girl. So what did I do? I took the loud and obnoxious blustering of persons close to me and emulated that. I think I missed something, and now I'll go happily back to where I'm more comfortable.
I'll stay quieter about who I am and what I can do. It isn't such a big secret anyhow. I just need a vacation. Goal. Clarity. Focus.
In life we find out that certain things hurt. Usually that is then the end of that certain thing. And even as often, we decide to avoid engagin that thing again. Loving another. Raising a kitten. [Moppins just kissed my nose.] I think I need to learn to do these things again sometimes anyway.
Yesterday I sat in on an interview, and the fellow mentioned that he had read my website. Upside down and toppsy turvey. I used to fantaisize that I need never hide who I was, nor expect others to find me enigmatic. Now I wonder.
My metaphor has always been that online diarying is like having telepathy for others. The concern people have always had about telepahy, beyond the psicops, is of the selection of what one reveals. Do we reveal the same to everyone? I am concluding that we don't.
It goes beyond mere gossip or telling tales. Privacy is about the careful sculpturing of one's own environment to certain ends. Personal opinion and social strategies are often inconflict unless they are held privately. And I say nothing original. And yet, to me this comes as a surprise. Another brick of innocence crumbles from the assumptive walls.
If you saw me these days, you'd see a compressed and silent replicant, not human. Wings tucked tightly down to simulate mammalian fur along my sides. Compressed and sad. Quietly sad. My own self is not considered beautiful enough. I am supposed not to be outside of the patterns.
I have been working from home and playing with different people more and more. I am establishing the pattern that I am not a part of these antics, even as I laugh along. And of course writing this out defeats my purposes. Ambiguity hides the identities of everyone to everyone witht he exception usually of those actually discussed. They too can recognize the patterns.
And so with my own brand of anonymizing my expressiveness, I trundle along the digital pathways seeking answers.
Pretensious, no? And It grows later, and I should consider working on other things besides who I am... for today is the blah blah blah.
|...continue into the future...|
All non-daughter writings of Carolyn's Diary are not copyright © Carolyn L Burke, 1995, 1996, 1997, 1998, 1999, and may not be copied with permission except for non-commercial gain. See what your lawyers can't make of that.