Read this immediately.
You won't regret it.
Showing posts with label wordswordswords. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wordswordswords. Show all posts
Monday, April 13, 2009
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Once more, with feeling
PER·SEV·ER·ATE (pər sev'ə rât'), V.I., –at·ed, –at·ing. 1. to repeat a word, gesture, or act insistently or redundantly 2. to obsess over a particular word or phrase, often in an attempt to come to terms with it; see "cervix" and "heart" 3. again, obsessing, this time in an attempt to convince yourself that things will be okay 4. and, finally, obsessing because you realize they probably won't and talking about it doesn't seem to help —per·sev'er·tion, N.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Going Home Again
For the past few weeks, I've been thinking about a quote from Giovanni's Room. Paraphrased here: perhaps home isn't a place, but an irrevocable condition.
Fine.
The problem is, this seems to be the only thing about the book that I remember. This is particularly frustrating for me as I generally pride myself on my recall of literature.
Out of context, it's just, well, out of context. A reread is clearly in order.
At any rate, I think that it's safe to say that these words have been on my mind simply because of my recent trip back home.
Home.
What does that even mean? To be back in a place that's at once as familiar as it is foreign.
A few years ago, my parents were getting frustrated with the house and its cluttered rooms, and I suggested they move. Now, as I pad through the halls, I'm glad they decided against it. Each time I'm back, I remember something different—perhaps I'm getting sentimental as I age. This time, cleaning out the smaller closet in my childhood bedroom, with its raised floor and sloping walls, I'm suddenly transported to the age of 7, hiding in there with a flashlight and a Roald Dahl book, quietly reading, savoring the fact that I had my own private place. I was just that kind of kid, I guess.
I still love the idea of those private spaces. But, I also love having those spaces where you're known. This occurs to me as we're out to dinner for my father's birthday. We're at a place that we've gone for years, where R., the owner knows my family quite well, even gave my sister a job at once point. Nothing's fancy, just perfectly familiar. We'll order the same things, R. will come over, say hello and make a fuss over my parents.
And, he does. It's good for them—it's been awhile since they've been here. Anywhere, for that matter, as they were trying to process the current state of things.
Right. The current state of things. Soon enough the conversation turns in that direction. They're a well-oiled machine. Clearly, they've done this before.
I watch intently, as she looks on, lets him spin his tale. How he thrives in some ways on the telling. How the telling helps him make sense of it all.
After R. leaves, there's a silence, we're all deep in our own thoughts—it's natural, I suppose—there's also a lot of the meal left to get through. So, I do what I always do. Namely, attempt to use self-deprecation as a way to get the conversation going.
The discussion before turned to their friends' children. One's getting married; one's trying to buy a house; another, still finding himself. I ask them now what they say about me when these conversations happen with their friends. There's the start of a laugh in the back of my throat, forced, but then again I'm trying to bring back a sense of levity. This is a birthday dinner, after all.
My father laughs a little, jokes. Exactly the response for which I had hoped. Then, the conversation turns serious. You're the success story. The fiercely independent one. I find myself wishing that we were back to joking about how I was going to go through the hassle of getting a hotel room for a friend's wedding just so that I could have some drinks. Anything but this.
Partially, I think, it's because I see myself as anything but a success; I'm scared most of the time—that my stubborness has prevented me from doing things that I could've loved, that the choices I've made have all been wrong, you name it. I'm sure that I'm not alone in this. I'm also sure that I could write volumes on it, if I was willing to delve deeper into this particular neurosis of mine.
There's also this: I think we see ourselves reflected in others. He tells me I'm a success because if that's the case, I'll be okay, no matter what and, by extension, he will. That if the worst happens, I'm a capable woman, able to take care of myself. Able to manage because of what he's taught me.
Mostly, I think, that I believe him.
Mostly.
Fine.
The problem is, this seems to be the only thing about the book that I remember. This is particularly frustrating for me as I generally pride myself on my recall of literature.
Out of context, it's just, well, out of context. A reread is clearly in order.
At any rate, I think that it's safe to say that these words have been on my mind simply because of my recent trip back home.
Home.
What does that even mean? To be back in a place that's at once as familiar as it is foreign.
A few years ago, my parents were getting frustrated with the house and its cluttered rooms, and I suggested they move. Now, as I pad through the halls, I'm glad they decided against it. Each time I'm back, I remember something different—perhaps I'm getting sentimental as I age. This time, cleaning out the smaller closet in my childhood bedroom, with its raised floor and sloping walls, I'm suddenly transported to the age of 7, hiding in there with a flashlight and a Roald Dahl book, quietly reading, savoring the fact that I had my own private place. I was just that kind of kid, I guess.
I still love the idea of those private spaces. But, I also love having those spaces where you're known. This occurs to me as we're out to dinner for my father's birthday. We're at a place that we've gone for years, where R., the owner knows my family quite well, even gave my sister a job at once point. Nothing's fancy, just perfectly familiar. We'll order the same things, R. will come over, say hello and make a fuss over my parents.
And, he does. It's good for them—it's been awhile since they've been here. Anywhere, for that matter, as they were trying to process the current state of things.
Right. The current state of things. Soon enough the conversation turns in that direction. They're a well-oiled machine. Clearly, they've done this before.
I watch intently, as she looks on, lets him spin his tale. How he thrives in some ways on the telling. How the telling helps him make sense of it all.
After R. leaves, there's a silence, we're all deep in our own thoughts—it's natural, I suppose—there's also a lot of the meal left to get through. So, I do what I always do. Namely, attempt to use self-deprecation as a way to get the conversation going.
The discussion before turned to their friends' children. One's getting married; one's trying to buy a house; another, still finding himself. I ask them now what they say about me when these conversations happen with their friends. There's the start of a laugh in the back of my throat, forced, but then again I'm trying to bring back a sense of levity. This is a birthday dinner, after all.
My father laughs a little, jokes. Exactly the response for which I had hoped. Then, the conversation turns serious. You're the success story. The fiercely independent one. I find myself wishing that we were back to joking about how I was going to go through the hassle of getting a hotel room for a friend's wedding just so that I could have some drinks. Anything but this.
Partially, I think, it's because I see myself as anything but a success; I'm scared most of the time—that my stubborness has prevented me from doing things that I could've loved, that the choices I've made have all been wrong, you name it. I'm sure that I'm not alone in this. I'm also sure that I could write volumes on it, if I was willing to delve deeper into this particular neurosis of mine.
There's also this: I think we see ourselves reflected in others. He tells me I'm a success because if that's the case, I'll be okay, no matter what and, by extension, he will. That if the worst happens, I'm a capable woman, able to take care of myself. Able to manage because of what he's taught me.
Mostly, I think, that I believe him.
Mostly.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
This Shape of Things We're In
sur·re·al (sə rē'əl, –rēl'), adj.
1. having the disorienting, hallucinatory quality of a dream; unreal; fantastic 2. the period spanning from July 2008 through January 2009, with particular focus on mid-October through early December; see also the days surrounding Christmas and the new year 3. being not-quite-sober and telling your not-quite-boyfriend that your best friend and his best friend's husband are having an affair, then watching the subsequent events unfold, not knowing what to do; finding yourself using phrases like "moral compass" in complete earnestness; finding yourself dealing with fall-out many months later and still being unsure what you should do and/or say 4. having repeated circular conversations about subjects including, but not limited to, red suitcases, the status of a relationship that has long since ended but that you are perpetuating in some ways because you are simply too raw about all of the other things going on in your life to enact the decisions you know that you need to and that would be healthier for both of you, and seats assigned at a kitchen table 5. hearing the phrase "8 to 12 months" and trying to picture what your life will be like at that point, hoping that it will be much the same. well, perhaps with more positive things thrown in for good measure 6. watching your job get parceled out before your eyes and being forced to attend meeting after meeting to weigh in 7. realizing that there's a lot more that you could add to this list, but that you don't have time because you need to work since your dead-end job hasn't been parceled out quite yet 8. realizing that you made this list in the first place sur·re'al·ly, adv. —sur·re·al'i·ty (–al'i tē), n.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
