That Girl? That's Not Me.

Who is this impostor? And why is she wearing my clothes?

Alright, fine, that is me: the absent-minded I'm-staring-at-trees expression is a dead giveaway. Or maybe I'm contemplating murder. Who knows. But I didn't quite recognize myself the first time I saw this photograph, even though it was taken less than a year ago, even though one would think, given the frequency with which I gaze lovingly at my reflection, that I would immediately identify with anything approximating my own likeness. 

But that girl, she isn't me. She aspires to become me, perhaps, or more correctly we share a desire to become the same person, someone better. She'll have to go through me to get there, just as I'll have to go through someone else, the next in the line of continuous drafts. That girl and I happen to share a collection of memories, memories  that diverge the moment this photo was taken. Our futures look radically different. Our expectations, even more so. 

I mentioned I recently went through my writings and my notebooks, looking for a common thread to the years, stable curiosities that might prove I'm not at as willy-nilly about my interests as I've come to believe. Those common threads are there, the same questions popping up throughout the pages, my attempts at answers in various stages of development. It's reassuring and disheartening at the same time: reassuring in that I will probably spend my entire life in the same pursuits, disheartening that I will surely never have a satisfying answer.

Perhaps resolving the questions isn't the goal, just as my own personal evolution will never produce the perfect, final draft. Whatever perfection may look like, I can never hope to reach it. I can only hope to improve.

Will I recognize myself one year from now? In many ways, I hope so. I hope I can see my current blessings and my shortcomings with the objectivity that is never presently available. I hope I will cherish the memories of these days, and smirk at my impatience for their ending. Mostly, I hope that I'll appreciate how much I've grown in only one year, and be able, by looking back, to see how each of these errors, these brief moments of discovery, and all of these tiny, seemingly inconsequential seeds of ideas have, together, formulated precisely the draft that I'm living then.

The Bad Boyfriend

Some of you may be familiar with the frequency with which I use this analogy. Anything unpleasant, irritating, or pain-inducing can be likened to the bad boyfriend. Car not starting on that frigid winter morning? Bad boyfriend. Disgruntled professor gives you a B? Very bad boyfriend.* Is your writing not pouring onto the page as quickly as you would like? Awful, terrible, horrible boyfriend. How dare he.

But to qualify for the upper tiers of bad boyfriendhood, the act or thing in question must be something you would otherwise adore or is somehow instrumental to your plans. Being at once utterly desirable and infuriating, it must leave you in an agonized limbo of indecision in which you wax nostalgic for the good times but yearn to break free of its tyrannical dominion over your life. Most especially it must disappoint you the moment you decide to "work things out", but, then, strengthened with your new-found resolve to end it, the bad boyfriend will regain its charm and worm its way back into your cold, dark little heart.

See? I have it all worked out.

The original inspiration for the bad boyfriend analogy was, of course, my puppy Sirus (pictured above). He was the worst but cutest of boyfriends, and had the unfortunate habit of not only driving me insane, but of trying to bite people. Of scaling fences, just so he could BITE PEOPLE. It was a problem, naturally one with a very expensive fix. Or, I should say, a very expensive possibility of a fix. For only a hundred and fifty dollars an hour, I could have a trainer look at my dog and tell me whether we would be giving her a lot more money, or, you know, putting him to sleep.  

Bad boyfriend indeed. I didn't want to know whether we should put him to sleep, so I would constantly reschedule the appointment and cry, clutching Sirus's confused and soggy head in my lap. I hated that dog for being such an asshole. But I certainly didn't want him to die.

I'll just ruin the ending and tell you straight out that Sirus met his soulmate, aka my father, and they are now living their happily-ever-after complete with overflowing food bowls, squirrels, and the white picket fence. This was a miraculous last-minute save, and all of us (not least the various victims of his chompings) were very happy.

Even though Sirus is no longer with us, the bad boyfriend analogy still lingers, manifesting itself in unwritten papers, petulant children, and the cat that occasionally relieves itself in your shoes. Naturally, there are actual bad boyfriends, of which I have little experience but am nevertheless quite convinced of their existence. These are the people who prompt their lovers to write in to advice columnists every day with opening sentences such as, "I am in love with the most wonderful, amazing, great, super, fantastic guy, but he cheats on me, like, all the time." Obviously, using the bad boyfriend analogy with these folks isn't very funny. Why? Because it isn't an analogy anymore. Keep up.

Anyway. I only brought this up because my laptop, my soul, my lifeline, has broken all previous records of bad boyfriendness to become the Greatest Bad Boyfriend that Ever Was. And I hate it. But I love it so.

*I am not in any way, shape, or form implying that any professor, living or dead, is, was, or ever has been,  disgruntled. 

Swing Swang Schmleh?

 And Chris said that was unpronouncable.

Sometimes I think I should change the title of this blog to "The Stupid Shit I Write", because if it isn't that already, it's about to turn into it. I made a pact with myself to write regardless of whether or not I have anything useful to say. It's part of my newfound stability.

Apparently, yes, I am like a child. My routine is my safety, so to speak. Fortunately, my routine includes singing many a rendition of "My Favorite Things" and of course the beloved "Taxi". This is nice for me. 

Lyra asked me tonight if I am good to her. She seemed genuinely curious, so I'm guessing she didn't think of this question on her own. I told her I hoped so, that I very much want to be. Does she think I'm nice? She kissed me on the cheek and replied that she loves me very much. 

I feel achy all of the time. Ache from not knowing where I stand with myself. Ache from missing Lyra. Ache from not knowing what the future holds. I know my life has gone through some bad feng shui recently, with the complete rearrangement of everything I know and letting go and settling into a new apartment, a new life, a new skin. I long for the days when "problem" was singular, not a tangled knot of many. And yet I don't regret a thing.

My sister gave a speech about regret once, at her high school graduation. I only know this because my mother paraphrases it often, meaning she says, "You know that thing your sister said about regret at her high school graduation? I think you should think about that." Except that I have no idea what she said. But I get the impression it was good. And, apparently, applicable.

So... that. Whatever she said.

Precipice

There comes a time when the only thing left to do is leap off the edge.

I gathered together everything I had written yesterday, everything I could find. I was seeking validation, I suppose, but also some hidden pattern, hoping to discern an interest of mine farther-reaching than what was immediately available to me through reflection. I didn't find anything new. I found ten papers about zombies that had little or nothing to do with zombies. I edged the zombies out early in the first paragraph so I could go on to write strange things about God. The correlations were tenuous at best but that didn't seem to matter; it was a writing class and the only thing the teacher cared about was whether or not we had words on a page. I had a lot of words.

I used to have a lot of words. I had words for everything, any time, any place, I had words. I wrote often, blogging even, allowing other eyes to see these words. The blogging was nonsense and I didn't really care; I've made a career out of getting praise for nonsense. For so little work.

It's a risky business, putting your heart on a page, even if you merely skirt around a deeper issue, cloak your life with cute phrases and fancy wordwork. It doesn't really matter, I suppose. People will read into you as they please, and there's little you can do about that, other than hide behind the thickness of the internet or say nothing at all. When I want to hide, I prefer to say nothing. When I don't want to fail, I prefer to not even try. At least then I can I claim to have chosen my failure.

But then there are times when failure isn't really an option, when you have to make that leap and hope that you'll fly even though the odds are good that you'll fall straight to the ground. It isn't the falling that makes one a failure, it's backing away slowly, it's refusing to participate. I can't refuse, I've barricaded myself with a collection of bullies and academic pushers who are staring at me, expectantly, wondering only why I'm not moving faster than I am. Why I haven't leapt yet. I tell them I'm frightened I'm not good enough, or that I'm not sure I'll enjoy the work, or that I like to take too many naps. None of these are true, but I try to convince myself of their truth in order to have an excuse to back away. In reality, I'm worried I'll be boxed in. I'm worried that once I take that leap, I'll never be able to get back again. I fear that my hesitancy is a sign of something deeper, that perhaps I should be looking elsewhere to get what I need. And to give back the best that I can.

Ultimately, I just want to be useful.