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May. 17th, 2011 10:52 pmPeople are really awesome. Anyway, some people. But when I get that 'people are awesome' feeling, I feel like extending it to all people. So yeah, I was rereading my guestbook(!) from like, more than 10 years ago on my silly page, and it made me all <3<3<3, 'cause the webpage I had back then was really personal and I didn't really cut corners, and people still Got It! And this makes me really happy. Just like, if even one person gets it-- a piece of writing I didn't intend for any particular audience but myself-- I really feel overwhelmingly validated, and it gives me a reason to keep writing what I want to write.
In some ways I guess it's cheating, a little, since in real life you don't get to present (only) your best and most creative sides to people, and so people don't either get impressed with you or say nothing. But I still don't feel the person who randomly says mundane things to people in 'reality' is somehow more real. It's also ironic 'cause all that stuff I wrote that touched people was always the product of the deepest solitude, and while it's nice that people feel a connection, all those twenty-or-so folks over 5 years who were touched by my work, it's not like it was a 'real' connection. That is, it was real, but they were my readers and I was a writer. Even my autobiographical stuff-- still the same relationship. It was so beautiful, and still is, and I feel so blessed, but all those relationships would be totally different if I knew these people-- so many 'ordinary' layers would pile up, and the fact that I write these cool things would just be one fact, just like how I'm late to appointments is one fact, and I don't like to wear socks is another fact.
I tell myself this because a part of me really wants to believe my kindred are out there, people whose minds I can love and understand, or love because I understand, and vice versa, and it's just that I don't know them. But no, I know real relationships of any sort are intrinsically different than liking someone of whom you form an impression from reading. I've always been so impatient and unfair-- impatient because I wanted to go deep, and then deeper, and then deeper yet, and unfair because I didn't want that to take years and years to bear fruit. I once tried to have a relationship with a guy who said mystery was part of the spice of relationships-- and I didn't know how to argue or if I should. But I guess what I like is deepest knowledge, not mystery. It's like I have a kink for understanding, haha. More! More! Never enough!
If you asked me what I wanted to do in life, I'd say I want to make a difference in the world, of course, and I want to write, of course, but I want to do it in the company of My People. That's partly why I can't 'just write', or not unless I found a community, a congregation for inspiration. Fandom's like that, but also the relationship between Shelley and Byron, Wordsworth and Coleridge, Lennon and McCartney. I've always thought being understood and accepted was the most miraculous thing ever, the greatest gift, one I wanted to give as much as I wanted to receive. Ok I'm being really sentimental now.
I've also had people tell me that they thought mind-melding (ala Spock) would be too much, too intrusive, and they'd never want to share that much of themselves. More than one person has told me this. And I think of myself as very self-enclosed, anti-social even. Again, cheating. I could do without chatting with people or saying hi, but ohhhh complete grokking, a shared journey, no need for words. I think when I started really growing up, I compromised by deciding that I think the journey to that grokking can be itself delicious, especially if it involved fun bantery conversations and humor. I guess I think there is nothing that should not be shared, in theory, nothing that is intrinsically dirty/private/shameful/ineffable in one's mind that *should* have to be. I get that feeling that we are all always yearning for each other, and it's not that Platonic primordial 'soul-couple' that got sundered in two, but dozens of us, hundreds of us, us kindred. We can only really talk one or two at a time, but that's a hardware limitation, while our hearts always yearn for more all-encompassing, broader things. '...and you, and you, and you...'
It's funny to say this as a certified soulmate romanticist, but I just really have a deep curiosity about people, those people who left such short and promising missives once upon a time. A., who said he liked me and wanted to get me smashed. And J., who always told stories about my stories. I've been lucky to know them, and you, and you, and you.
In some ways I guess it's cheating, a little, since in real life you don't get to present (only) your best and most creative sides to people, and so people don't either get impressed with you or say nothing. But I still don't feel the person who randomly says mundane things to people in 'reality' is somehow more real. It's also ironic 'cause all that stuff I wrote that touched people was always the product of the deepest solitude, and while it's nice that people feel a connection, all those twenty-or-so folks over 5 years who were touched by my work, it's not like it was a 'real' connection. That is, it was real, but they were my readers and I was a writer. Even my autobiographical stuff-- still the same relationship. It was so beautiful, and still is, and I feel so blessed, but all those relationships would be totally different if I knew these people-- so many 'ordinary' layers would pile up, and the fact that I write these cool things would just be one fact, just like how I'm late to appointments is one fact, and I don't like to wear socks is another fact.
I tell myself this because a part of me really wants to believe my kindred are out there, people whose minds I can love and understand, or love because I understand, and vice versa, and it's just that I don't know them. But no, I know real relationships of any sort are intrinsically different than liking someone of whom you form an impression from reading. I've always been so impatient and unfair-- impatient because I wanted to go deep, and then deeper, and then deeper yet, and unfair because I didn't want that to take years and years to bear fruit. I once tried to have a relationship with a guy who said mystery was part of the spice of relationships-- and I didn't know how to argue or if I should. But I guess what I like is deepest knowledge, not mystery. It's like I have a kink for understanding, haha. More! More! Never enough!
If you asked me what I wanted to do in life, I'd say I want to make a difference in the world, of course, and I want to write, of course, but I want to do it in the company of My People. That's partly why I can't 'just write', or not unless I found a community, a congregation for inspiration. Fandom's like that, but also the relationship between Shelley and Byron, Wordsworth and Coleridge, Lennon and McCartney. I've always thought being understood and accepted was the most miraculous thing ever, the greatest gift, one I wanted to give as much as I wanted to receive. Ok I'm being really sentimental now.
I've also had people tell me that they thought mind-melding (ala Spock) would be too much, too intrusive, and they'd never want to share that much of themselves. More than one person has told me this. And I think of myself as very self-enclosed, anti-social even. Again, cheating. I could do without chatting with people or saying hi, but ohhhh complete grokking, a shared journey, no need for words. I think when I started really growing up, I compromised by deciding that I think the journey to that grokking can be itself delicious, especially if it involved fun bantery conversations and humor. I guess I think there is nothing that should not be shared, in theory, nothing that is intrinsically dirty/private/shameful/ineffable in one's mind that *should* have to be. I get that feeling that we are all always yearning for each other, and it's not that Platonic primordial 'soul-couple' that got sundered in two, but dozens of us, hundreds of us, us kindred. We can only really talk one or two at a time, but that's a hardware limitation, while our hearts always yearn for more all-encompassing, broader things. '...and you, and you, and you...'
It's funny to say this as a certified soulmate romanticist, but I just really have a deep curiosity about people, those people who left such short and promising missives once upon a time. A., who said he liked me and wanted to get me smashed. And J., who always told stories about my stories. I've been lucky to know them, and you, and you, and you.
