There is something poetic about potential, about an empty canvas, about a cry for transformation.
There is nothing poetic about a bathroom that floods, about a ceiling that falls, about the ever-present odor of wet dog and tavern. Well, poetic, perhaps, but not romantic and certainly not beautiful.
Months ago I got goosebumps (the good kind) at the thought of living in a drafty loft above a bakery that required a few coats of paint and the occasional mantwist of a wrench. It struck me as an environment of infinite possibilities in which I could play out my delusions of being insatiable or impossible, of having moxy. But every time I set my director's chair in the audience and sit back with a microphone in one hand and a box of popcorn in the other, reality rears its ugly head (which looks much more like Bette Davis on her deathbed than anything ever should). Today, I moved 3/4 of my life (that is, all of me that fits into a car) into the dust bunny where dreams go to die. A brief conversation with hell's current tenant, and I realize this picture will be less Neil Simon and more David Lynch. I can't say I'm really up for taking the time to relay the dirty laundry list, but I will tell you it ends with a door to the street that locks its tenants in rather than keeping strangers out.
So, with my new home, I'm compromising, much like I have been trying to do this past month. Ms. Plath's sentiment that "you cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time" could never ring truer. I am trying to accept that fact that I am not writing myself onto any stage or into any classic. Someone out there is making a documentary, and it's cold and honest and I don't have as much say in it as I'd like to; the best I can do is remember that other people are just as real as I am and that I am just as real as everyone else. No more trying new things just because they're interesting (that is, they must also be in my best interest); no more picking fights with my friends just because it amuses me.* Most people take life seriously and personally; perhaps I should join the human race.
This is not to say that I'm giving up on cinema or denying myself the pleasure of fantasy and escapism. I'm just going to recognize that the consequences of my decisions and my actions aren't the 2nd act of some awfully-written play; they affect me and others, flesh-and-blood folk, deeply and truly. And the next time I start playing some game with my friends, I'll make sure that we all understand its a game that we're playing.
I've been working on reality a lot lately., accepting that this summer might mean more sweat and discomfort than amusement and transformation and that not everyone sees most human interaction through the same scope I do. It's so strange that I'm willing to fight and work against the wicked "reality" that I see those being deprived of human rights are facing, but when it comes to my friends, I sometimes fail to forget they're not viewing life through my silver-screen eyes..that they think there's more to life than being captivated and captivating.
Ay- I bet Jane Fonda didn't have to deal with this shit.
*It's not just that arguing amuses me, but I feel that one must be in good practice in case they should ever find themselves in a "real" argument. Plus, I've watched people fight my whole life and never gotten much of a chance to do it myself. Now, since I've finally accepted my identity as one who breaks social norms, I feel like I need to make up for lost time and get my in-your-face-ness on.... I suppose I have a tendency to get over zealous. So Jo and Molly- I know this often amounts to me being needlessly catty with you some times. I'm very sorry! Love you dears:)
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