I imagine an octopus. This metaphorical octopus I picture likely has more tentacles than anatomically correct, which by my knowledge of Latin, I understand should only be 8. I see my octopus and at the end of each tentacle is a representation of self. The tentacles symbolize, for example, interests and hobbies, intelligence, philosophies, religion, relationships, family, dreams, sense of humor, attractiveness, spirituality and so on.
This octopus, a host of other octopi and all their subsequent tentacles are floating around in the ocean. The octopi are sizing up one another’s tentacles, examining all possibilities of a potential match. Love for independent films? A match. Chess fanatics? Another match. Dogs? Certainly not. A mismatch. I daresay it seems quite often most octopi believe one or two matches suffice for the formation of a relationship.
I would argue that upon experiencing stormy weather, choppy seas, changes in the tide, and swells of the ocean, most “formations” or relationships cannot withstand so few matches of their tentacles. If only one or two tentacles hold together these octopi pairs, most assuredly the pressure of the ocean will force them apart. Certainly, the more tentacle matches, the firmer the connection between an octopi pair. Might I not assert that the idea of soul mate comes from the feeling that all tentacles are perfectly matched, with nary a wandering arm?
Upon pondering the challenge in finding a match for all of my tentacles in one person, the need for xanax speedily sets in. For a perfect coupling, must all tentacles match perfectly? Because if so, I fear I shall never find, “true love.”
As one would have it, further reflection on the analogy graciously appeased my desire for solace.
In the broader sense, if I have 20 tentacles, then I’d be happy to tell you that my darling friend Lindsey and I have at least 5 arms connected. I have a tentacle that solely represents my love for Christmas tree decorations, which is connected to Desi. Of course, there is my other friend Kelly whose tentacle of practicality I connect to, and when I need someone to tell it to me straight, Kim’s the first person I go to. I have a few vocabulary tentacles too, and some octopi that fulfill my need to eat really good food. And though I have a few wandering tentacles still looking for a partner, I’m happy to cherish so many matchings.
And the more I began to think about this silly Octopus metaphor, the more horrific and limited my first idea seemed and the more beautiful and promising and hopeful my expanded concept looks. I pictured all of these octopi swimming in the sea and realized: I do not want to be alone. Nor do I want to limit my tentacles to just one person. How hopeful to see us all, swimming in this vast sea of existence, holding onto one another at our points of connection and keeping ourselves from the throes of stormy weather. You see, connecting is more the point than finding the perfect octopus. How lucky one ought to feel when a match between tentacles takes place. It is rather poetic to imagine us all, intertwined and connected deeply because of these tentacles. We are one big tangled mess of linked arms and that very loveliness is how we keep from drowning in the vastness of life.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
The Credibility of Bread and Cheese
I read an article in the New Yorker today about cooking, food, and recipes that sometimes, somehow, find their way into the folds of fiction. And it made me think of the following.
I like the taste of bread with cheese, which you might say is a rather natural inclination: the two are seemingly made for one another. But I’ll tell you the truth: when I was young, I was in love with a series of books about an intrepid girl who traipsed around Europe solving mysteries. Upon preparation for her daring pursuits of secretive sleuthing, she always packed bread and cheese. I thought to myself, bread and cheese sounds like it might be delightful. And so it was that Mandi, my beloved protagonist, prompted me to marry the two. I discovered I felt just as my esteemed heroine did about the unassuming snack: the pair is quite worth adding to the list of things to remember packing before whisking away on a journey of invariably curious adventure.
Furthermore, I discovered my author knew quite well, at least some small element about the truth of food. For me, the joyous discovery of bread and cheese was significant because from it I began to see the world of writing in a whole new light. Fiction suddenly took on a beautifully new air of relevance because surprisingly, my author became strikingly credible.
And thus begins the intersection of fiction and reality.
Ineffably, this supposed “story” broke down the boundary between what was real and what was not. Though bread and cheese seems an irreverent example in light of the weighty topic of fiction as truth, it stands to symbolize the ability that story, authors, and protagonists have to mobilize the reader.
Ah, the common misconception: fiction is not true. How untrue.
In erudite fashion, discreetly concealed between plot, character, setting, and the like—these scrupulous black jots on blank pages—are constructed worlds within which the creators ruminate on much more than tempting edibles. Writers aim to enact thought, philosophy, politics, theory, even social commentary into their worlds, thereby tracking and perhaps progressing the shape of humanity’s consciousness. Fiction is representative. It is metaphor and analogy. And by that definition, it can explore the depths of deeper truths more than any “non-fiction” will ever have the privileged capacity to do.
I like the taste of bread with cheese, which you might say is a rather natural inclination: the two are seemingly made for one another. But I’ll tell you the truth: when I was young, I was in love with a series of books about an intrepid girl who traipsed around Europe solving mysteries. Upon preparation for her daring pursuits of secretive sleuthing, she always packed bread and cheese. I thought to myself, bread and cheese sounds like it might be delightful. And so it was that Mandi, my beloved protagonist, prompted me to marry the two. I discovered I felt just as my esteemed heroine did about the unassuming snack: the pair is quite worth adding to the list of things to remember packing before whisking away on a journey of invariably curious adventure.
Furthermore, I discovered my author knew quite well, at least some small element about the truth of food. For me, the joyous discovery of bread and cheese was significant because from it I began to see the world of writing in a whole new light. Fiction suddenly took on a beautifully new air of relevance because surprisingly, my author became strikingly credible.
And thus begins the intersection of fiction and reality.
Ineffably, this supposed “story” broke down the boundary between what was real and what was not. Though bread and cheese seems an irreverent example in light of the weighty topic of fiction as truth, it stands to symbolize the ability that story, authors, and protagonists have to mobilize the reader.
Ah, the common misconception: fiction is not true. How untrue.
In erudite fashion, discreetly concealed between plot, character, setting, and the like—these scrupulous black jots on blank pages—are constructed worlds within which the creators ruminate on much more than tempting edibles. Writers aim to enact thought, philosophy, politics, theory, even social commentary into their worlds, thereby tracking and perhaps progressing the shape of humanity’s consciousness. Fiction is representative. It is metaphor and analogy. And by that definition, it can explore the depths of deeper truths more than any “non-fiction” will ever have the privileged capacity to do.
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Fiction-ish
A first attempt at fiction—or perhaps, more appropriately, third person.
She lay in bed awake. The gnawing sensation in her lower abdomen had been persistent all day; albeit a brief relief achieved by what she feared was an over-dose of Midol. She had done that before—over-dosed—but never on a real drug. Once, just a month earlier in fact, because it was the middle of the night, and because she was in no way thinking clearly, she took several Tylenol. An hour later, when the Tylenol hadn’t killed the incessant throbbing, it made sense to take even more. She swallowed three more little white capsules, this time with the tiny name IB Profin imprinted on the side. The recommended dosage was an afterthought.
When the drugs finally took effect, she felt woozy, which made going back to sleep scary. In her daze, she suffered from an altered mental capacity and became what one might call a hypochondriac. Her leg throbbed, and immediately, via a clearly logical medical deduction, the pain was attributed to a blood clot. Further still, she presumed that this being the case, only moments remained before the clot reached her heart, thereby inevitably causing an untimely and unfortunate death. She really began to fear that she was dying, and began to consider her "last dying thoughts." The introspection and self-awareness was odd to consider. Do most people who are dying know they are thinking their "last thoughts"? In haste, she opted for what she feared were her last thoughts to be of her family and what she might say to them, given such a small lapse of time. She slowly slipped in and out of what she thought was consciousness or, dreadfully, the threshold of death (but what was more than likely just sleep), making every effort to remain mentally stable.
She’s been scared of over-dosing ever since.
Today, however, writhing in pain was not conducive to a productive work environment. In her cluttered cubicle this afternoon, the searing ache clouded logical thought again and she took four capsules of Midol. Only after swallowing did she consider that the dosage was too high. Driving home from work, she felt the throbbing again in her leg. There was a suspicious chest pain, too, along with dizziness, nausea, and a short-lived hot flash. It was probably nothing: a few minor coincidences that in light of fear somehow eerily related to the pills. But she started thinking again about the end of her life and what she might like to get straight if she were leaving the world.
Given a week (because even in this weird hypothetical situation, a mere hour or day would be spent in more obligatory and traditional scenarios) she immediately thought of the one guy that she hadn’t really made sense of yet. He had walked away from what she thought was great. She had idealized him, and realized that now, but something still bothered her. She decided that, upon her imminent death, given this hypothetical week, she would tell him out right how ridiculous he was and how she had hoped for more from him.
The hypothetical conversation reminded her again of what she had finally decided about him—which, by the way, was really the only thing keeping her thoughts on the matter corralled in a fictional death scenario rather than already divulged to the heartless blob. She finally convinced her heart to get over the man her mind had created--something truly intangible. In the end, in regards to his heart, she came to believe it was him who couldn’t give it away and not her who couldn’t earn it.
Her mind made a lurch. The hypothetical conversation never fully developed and for this, she was thankful. The falsely idealized man usually persisted in bothering her thoughts, but something, or more precisely someone, had been drawing away her attention—finally. It was refreshing at first. But now this new interest lurked in the corners of her daily thought life and his presence there bugged her. She was irritated because he made her feel insecure—insecure because she didn’t understand him and insecure because she didn’t understand herself. How had he snuck into this place of her mind already? She dreaded facing the question.
He had disrupted the flow of things in life lately. His entrance into her world was surprising. And he had exceeded her expectations—more than anything though, he was scary. She was afraid of hurting him. And that very fear scared her because it meant she already cared a little. Being hurt by care is always a dangerous thing. But there was more to it. The possibility of hurting him meant that something about him was challenging. He pushed some button…something deep inside of her that had been waiting to be triggered.
They say, “It is like fitting a square peg into a round hole.”
It had something to do with how well he fit, and how much that surprised her. She had changed. She was changing. And that fear was more overwhelming than the rest. Forces beyond her control had defined her for so long. Finally, she stumbled upon a dreadful yet liberating desire to wipe everything away and start over. For some very uncanny reason, he represented her yearning for a fresh start. He set her in motion and, purely by accident, abruptly invaded her inner workings. So in the midst of losing, erasing and redefining self, her world was slowly unraveling. On the other side of the wall existed a man who had as much fear and as many issues as her. And the insecurity and uncertainty over everything around her finally seemed to be catching up to her.
Sleep, at this point, had become the ideal escape. If it wasn’t attainable, television was the next best option. It filled the void until her mind wearied enough to let her pass through the gate of consciousness into a world free of anxiety. He shouldered part of the blame for her weary mind and recent pursuit of sleep, but she’d never tell him that: it would give him an unbearable amount of power. She hated even admitting it to herself, but when she would face this ugly truth, she would turn on herself, and fuel the flame of self-contempt. Worse still, the small simple thing she hated to admit even more is that she still had hope. She still believed in finding love, someday. Though the pursuit of it, so far, had proven that the search was like fumbling through a tangled labyrinth without design, or end or meaning or structure.
Her voyage seemed as though it would never end or find resolve.
At the end of every day, she could not face the swirling sickness of her mind’s contemplations. Her thoughts offered no safe haven of escape. Beyond hypothetical death conversations, a blossoming romance that feels unfairly and unreasonably doomed from the start (perhaps because it was so lovely or as they say, “too good to be true”), and her new search for identity, other layers of anxiety lay beneath the surface.
If she were to pause, she might count the number of things on her to do list (wedding gifts to buy, an oil change, traffic school, the drycleaners), calculate the number of bills she had to pay, or worse yet, the cumulative amount of debt she had as a whole. Her list of phone calls to make grows exponentially, and all the while her tiny little apartment, seemingly just like her world, is collecting dust, as it sits neglected and un-maintained. She runs and hides and hates herself for the inability to face these seemingly insignificant and conquerable little demons. Rather than fight, she does nothing and lets the pile grow and grow and grow. She had lost the will to fight and was in no mood to conquer any world—not even her own. Survival mode had taken over as she wrestled to stay afloat, using what little strength remained to keep from a complete demise.
Drugs, this evening, were no longer an option. In light of her afternoon’s brush with death, she had had enough. Her cramps persisted and kept her from what she really wanted: that sweet escape of sleep. With a mind and body intent on keeping her awake, she set to ease her sleeplessness and turned to writing, zealously tapping on her keyboard and emoting furiously onto a blank page.
After some time, a bubble popped up on the screen. “Go to sleep,” it said. Her sister had sent a message. They “chatted” for a while. God bless those instant message geniuses. “I almost over-dosed today,” she told her sister, “on Midol…I could have died.” “Wow. That is dangerous.” They joked back and forth, but the conversation secretly found its way into the depths of her. “If I ever die,” she typed to her sister, “please carry peonies at your wedding.” She knew if she were alive for the event, she would have been there to make sure this happened: fresh and light in a simple dress, striding down the aisle…and definitely carrying peonies. Her sister had to know: “big white ones” and she could see them—soft and exaggerated airy petals that looked like her sister’s personality. And then she began to cry. The need to share the thought made her cry. Something in her hurt.
The thought of dying was sad. And it always is, one might suppose. But today, for her, it was sad because she was exploring and changing and therefore distancing herself from an intimate family circle that defined her. In an attempt to start over and find a new self, she was pulling away.
They say, “It is like fitting a square peg in a round hole.”
Which was she? The concerted effort to discover this, and god forbid, begin to change, made her feel like a traitor. If the Midol had taken her, she didn’t want them to feel betrayed. Can a square peg still be loved by a round hole? This was the saddest thought. “I’m glad you didn’t die,” her sister said, both in jest and truth. “I’m glad you are glad,” she typed back. And then she cried again. And it finally struck her.
It was not about dying physically; she certainly wasn’t in need of an epitaph yet. But she was decidedly putting her own self to death—the self both she and her family knew. And that was a thing to mourn. And though she couldn’t explain to her family what was really going on, something in her connected with the fear of dying, losing herself and even more, putting to death the woman that they loved. What if this newly defined self was unrecognizable? Or worse yet, unlovable?
And finally, having articulated a clear thought, she began to conclude. Writing had faired her well. At least that was her initial supposition. After filling in gaps and editing, she finally faced the clock: the top of the screen predicted a dreadful morning. She would soon curse the late night ruminations for their seductive magnetism. A book might have been easier to abandon. If only she hated writing—swindler of sleep.
She lay in bed awake. The gnawing sensation in her lower abdomen had been persistent all day; albeit a brief relief achieved by what she feared was an over-dose of Midol. She had done that before—over-dosed—but never on a real drug. Once, just a month earlier in fact, because it was the middle of the night, and because she was in no way thinking clearly, she took several Tylenol. An hour later, when the Tylenol hadn’t killed the incessant throbbing, it made sense to take even more. She swallowed three more little white capsules, this time with the tiny name IB Profin imprinted on the side. The recommended dosage was an afterthought.
When the drugs finally took effect, she felt woozy, which made going back to sleep scary. In her daze, she suffered from an altered mental capacity and became what one might call a hypochondriac. Her leg throbbed, and immediately, via a clearly logical medical deduction, the pain was attributed to a blood clot. Further still, she presumed that this being the case, only moments remained before the clot reached her heart, thereby inevitably causing an untimely and unfortunate death. She really began to fear that she was dying, and began to consider her "last dying thoughts." The introspection and self-awareness was odd to consider. Do most people who are dying know they are thinking their "last thoughts"? In haste, she opted for what she feared were her last thoughts to be of her family and what she might say to them, given such a small lapse of time. She slowly slipped in and out of what she thought was consciousness or, dreadfully, the threshold of death (but what was more than likely just sleep), making every effort to remain mentally stable.
She’s been scared of over-dosing ever since.
Today, however, writhing in pain was not conducive to a productive work environment. In her cluttered cubicle this afternoon, the searing ache clouded logical thought again and she took four capsules of Midol. Only after swallowing did she consider that the dosage was too high. Driving home from work, she felt the throbbing again in her leg. There was a suspicious chest pain, too, along with dizziness, nausea, and a short-lived hot flash. It was probably nothing: a few minor coincidences that in light of fear somehow eerily related to the pills. But she started thinking again about the end of her life and what she might like to get straight if she were leaving the world.
Given a week (because even in this weird hypothetical situation, a mere hour or day would be spent in more obligatory and traditional scenarios) she immediately thought of the one guy that she hadn’t really made sense of yet. He had walked away from what she thought was great. She had idealized him, and realized that now, but something still bothered her. She decided that, upon her imminent death, given this hypothetical week, she would tell him out right how ridiculous he was and how she had hoped for more from him.
The hypothetical conversation reminded her again of what she had finally decided about him—which, by the way, was really the only thing keeping her thoughts on the matter corralled in a fictional death scenario rather than already divulged to the heartless blob. She finally convinced her heart to get over the man her mind had created--something truly intangible. In the end, in regards to his heart, she came to believe it was him who couldn’t give it away and not her who couldn’t earn it.
Her mind made a lurch. The hypothetical conversation never fully developed and for this, she was thankful. The falsely idealized man usually persisted in bothering her thoughts, but something, or more precisely someone, had been drawing away her attention—finally. It was refreshing at first. But now this new interest lurked in the corners of her daily thought life and his presence there bugged her. She was irritated because he made her feel insecure—insecure because she didn’t understand him and insecure because she didn’t understand herself. How had he snuck into this place of her mind already? She dreaded facing the question.
He had disrupted the flow of things in life lately. His entrance into her world was surprising. And he had exceeded her expectations—more than anything though, he was scary. She was afraid of hurting him. And that very fear scared her because it meant she already cared a little. Being hurt by care is always a dangerous thing. But there was more to it. The possibility of hurting him meant that something about him was challenging. He pushed some button…something deep inside of her that had been waiting to be triggered.
They say, “It is like fitting a square peg into a round hole.”
It had something to do with how well he fit, and how much that surprised her. She had changed. She was changing. And that fear was more overwhelming than the rest. Forces beyond her control had defined her for so long. Finally, she stumbled upon a dreadful yet liberating desire to wipe everything away and start over. For some very uncanny reason, he represented her yearning for a fresh start. He set her in motion and, purely by accident, abruptly invaded her inner workings. So in the midst of losing, erasing and redefining self, her world was slowly unraveling. On the other side of the wall existed a man who had as much fear and as many issues as her. And the insecurity and uncertainty over everything around her finally seemed to be catching up to her.
Sleep, at this point, had become the ideal escape. If it wasn’t attainable, television was the next best option. It filled the void until her mind wearied enough to let her pass through the gate of consciousness into a world free of anxiety. He shouldered part of the blame for her weary mind and recent pursuit of sleep, but she’d never tell him that: it would give him an unbearable amount of power. She hated even admitting it to herself, but when she would face this ugly truth, she would turn on herself, and fuel the flame of self-contempt. Worse still, the small simple thing she hated to admit even more is that she still had hope. She still believed in finding love, someday. Though the pursuit of it, so far, had proven that the search was like fumbling through a tangled labyrinth without design, or end or meaning or structure.
Her voyage seemed as though it would never end or find resolve.
At the end of every day, she could not face the swirling sickness of her mind’s contemplations. Her thoughts offered no safe haven of escape. Beyond hypothetical death conversations, a blossoming romance that feels unfairly and unreasonably doomed from the start (perhaps because it was so lovely or as they say, “too good to be true”), and her new search for identity, other layers of anxiety lay beneath the surface.
If she were to pause, she might count the number of things on her to do list (wedding gifts to buy, an oil change, traffic school, the drycleaners), calculate the number of bills she had to pay, or worse yet, the cumulative amount of debt she had as a whole. Her list of phone calls to make grows exponentially, and all the while her tiny little apartment, seemingly just like her world, is collecting dust, as it sits neglected and un-maintained. She runs and hides and hates herself for the inability to face these seemingly insignificant and conquerable little demons. Rather than fight, she does nothing and lets the pile grow and grow and grow. She had lost the will to fight and was in no mood to conquer any world—not even her own. Survival mode had taken over as she wrestled to stay afloat, using what little strength remained to keep from a complete demise.
Drugs, this evening, were no longer an option. In light of her afternoon’s brush with death, she had had enough. Her cramps persisted and kept her from what she really wanted: that sweet escape of sleep. With a mind and body intent on keeping her awake, she set to ease her sleeplessness and turned to writing, zealously tapping on her keyboard and emoting furiously onto a blank page.
After some time, a bubble popped up on the screen. “Go to sleep,” it said. Her sister had sent a message. They “chatted” for a while. God bless those instant message geniuses. “I almost over-dosed today,” she told her sister, “on Midol…I could have died.” “Wow. That is dangerous.” They joked back and forth, but the conversation secretly found its way into the depths of her. “If I ever die,” she typed to her sister, “please carry peonies at your wedding.” She knew if she were alive for the event, she would have been there to make sure this happened: fresh and light in a simple dress, striding down the aisle…and definitely carrying peonies. Her sister had to know: “big white ones” and she could see them—soft and exaggerated airy petals that looked like her sister’s personality. And then she began to cry. The need to share the thought made her cry. Something in her hurt.
The thought of dying was sad. And it always is, one might suppose. But today, for her, it was sad because she was exploring and changing and therefore distancing herself from an intimate family circle that defined her. In an attempt to start over and find a new self, she was pulling away.
They say, “It is like fitting a square peg in a round hole.”
Which was she? The concerted effort to discover this, and god forbid, begin to change, made her feel like a traitor. If the Midol had taken her, she didn’t want them to feel betrayed. Can a square peg still be loved by a round hole? This was the saddest thought. “I’m glad you didn’t die,” her sister said, both in jest and truth. “I’m glad you are glad,” she typed back. And then she cried again. And it finally struck her.
It was not about dying physically; she certainly wasn’t in need of an epitaph yet. But she was decidedly putting her own self to death—the self both she and her family knew. And that was a thing to mourn. And though she couldn’t explain to her family what was really going on, something in her connected with the fear of dying, losing herself and even more, putting to death the woman that they loved. What if this newly defined self was unrecognizable? Or worse yet, unlovable?
And finally, having articulated a clear thought, she began to conclude. Writing had faired her well. At least that was her initial supposition. After filling in gaps and editing, she finally faced the clock: the top of the screen predicted a dreadful morning. She would soon curse the late night ruminations for their seductive magnetism. A book might have been easier to abandon. If only she hated writing—swindler of sleep.
The Pain of Hope
You always begin with the question: Again? Because it is so confusing and incomprehensible that love could be so elusive. But if it were that easy to find, I suppose it wouldn’t be as valuable as it really is. You see its value is inherent in the very thing that causes us to become naysayers and the very thing that builds the walls of pessimism and fear around the heart. I’m always wondering why I feel like the only one left on earth who it hasn’t happened for yet. So many close calls. Love’s inestimable simplicity betwixt complexity really kills me.
When you’re young, attraction is a bit more black and white. It is a matter of liking the other person. As you mature, you learn what you like and don’t like. And then you get a little older, and it changes. When you’re in your twenties, finding a relationship is both easier and harder at the same time. Easier because you’re experienced enough to know more about what you really do like and don’t like. But then harder, because all of a sudden, things surprise you, and you find out that so much more than just attraction stops us from finding love. Bad timing gets involved, along with the fear of anything that love has done to harm us. We keep ourselves from this very thing that we crave for.
I hate myself for being a romantic because I still believe in finding love and of course HOPE is always accompanied by PAIN. In an effort to protect myself, I make these vain attempts to become a cynic; a “glass is half empty” kind of person. But the romantic in me is also a loyalist and won’t let me take it too far. Ah, hope.
When you’re young, attraction is a bit more black and white. It is a matter of liking the other person. As you mature, you learn what you like and don’t like. And then you get a little older, and it changes. When you’re in your twenties, finding a relationship is both easier and harder at the same time. Easier because you’re experienced enough to know more about what you really do like and don’t like. But then harder, because all of a sudden, things surprise you, and you find out that so much more than just attraction stops us from finding love. Bad timing gets involved, along with the fear of anything that love has done to harm us. We keep ourselves from this very thing that we crave for.
I hate myself for being a romantic because I still believe in finding love and of course HOPE is always accompanied by PAIN. In an effort to protect myself, I make these vain attempts to become a cynic; a “glass is half empty” kind of person. But the romantic in me is also a loyalist and won’t let me take it too far. Ah, hope.
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