So, I am a wee bit annoyed right now because I came out here dead tired and all I wanted to do was pen a quick e-mail to a friend and hit the sack. Then my e-mail jigger was like "No way, girl, I'm too full to send your e-mail." So I spent about 45 minutes going through every folder trying to ferret out anything with anything that even resembled an attachment, and it still wouldn't work until *lightbulb* I remembered the junk e-mail folder, which had about 80 messages, all from carnival cruises. (For those of you who are veterans of my blog, you'll recall the summer's posts on how I feel about cruising in the first place)I don't know if that just tipped it over the edge, or if that was the source, but after that, no more problems.
I am at home now. I feel like everything is messy, and it makes me think of Maggie as I find that I too cannot exist freely in cluttered spaces.
Stonework Issue 3, our brain child is finally up. There are no biographies and I feel like it is on hold because of me. I have not sent mine in b/c I'm supposed to include a picture, and I can't get the internet to work to send the picture off of my computer. So I feel like a heel for gumming up the process.
I wish I was in Mexico drinking horchata in the shade in a plaza.
I have had two chances to send my work places to be considered for publication. The deadline is Dec. 31 and I will not be sending anything for either. Farewell, fame and fortune. I can't pull things off. I pray to God that I will not end up screwing up this Africa thing too. ("Help me, help me, help me, help me...")
I hope all of my Christmas presents make it to their intended destination in time. Fortunately, Christmas happens like 4 times for me, so that eases the strain.
If I was a truly great artist, I would come to a blank page half dead with fatigue and bleeding from the liver and in the midst of being chased by a swarm of killer bees, and still compose the beautiful and heartrending words. Alas. I have this vague notion that I came on here with a number of different things I was thinking of writing about. I don't remember what any of them were.
Goodnight, compadres. The next post ought to be a happy one, or at least thoughtful. Maybe we can yet pull it off.
S.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Insecurity
Tonight, I was at a Christmas party. It was a very lovely party, I borrowed a very beautiful dress from a friend and long, beaded earrings that jingle against my neck. A bunch of my friends were there and I enjoyed mixing and mingling with all of these people that are so obviously dear and wonderful, to see them decked out in their Christmas finery and admire them. It was good to talk and to joke and to eat tasty food.
And yet, at the end, I am left melancholy.
Parties for me are like getting drunk is for some people. You have a great time while it's happening, but afterwards you don't feel so hot. Because no matter how many people I talk to, how many compliments I get, no matter how much I potentially shine, I still feel that it was never enough. I, in fact, was not enough.
Don't you ever wonder if people really like you, or if everybody is just pretending and being nice so that Jesus will give them extra sprinkles on their cupcakes in heaven? Sure, people can say all the right things and act as if they want you around, but in the end, you can't do any more than guess about the authenticity of their love, the inscrutability of their guise. What if the world around you is full of great pretenders?
Because, in the end, you know yourself to well to believe that you are in fact the life of the party, or even a moderately acceptable wallflower. You are not funny enough, interesting enough, pretty enough, smart enough, witty enough, kind enough, thoughtful enough, generous enough, brave enough, empathetic enough, patient enough, wise enough, tactful enough...you're just not enough. People have brought their sandwiches and you aren't cutting the mustard. And everyone can see. And they hate you for your insufficiency.
They hate you because you are garish in the midst of the gaity, because you are awkward among the suave. You stick out like a sore thumb for your failed jokes and inability to make conversation. You are gangly like a puppet with twisted strings.
The hypotheticals go on for days. What if they talk badly about me behind my back? What if they're only my friend because of so-and-so? What if they totally disagree with what I've just said, but are too disgusted with my ignorance to say anything? What if they're just waiting for me to leave so they can have a good conversation, a good time? All of these questions blow away in the first passing breeze because the answers are just not available to us. More questions come and replace them, and the answers? We can't know. Does it even matter? I don't know about the cosmic sense, but it matters to me.
I want to be liked. I want to be cool, to be the life of the party, the one everyone wants to talk to. That's not so different from you, I think. And so, knowing that this is what is common to our human condition, I will give myself grace. I will wait until I can grow stronger; I will pour nourishment onto the out-branching roots I put into the soil of myself. I will drink in sun and water and wait for the day when I am strong to say "I am enough."
And yet, at the end, I am left melancholy.
Parties for me are like getting drunk is for some people. You have a great time while it's happening, but afterwards you don't feel so hot. Because no matter how many people I talk to, how many compliments I get, no matter how much I potentially shine, I still feel that it was never enough. I, in fact, was not enough.
Don't you ever wonder if people really like you, or if everybody is just pretending and being nice so that Jesus will give them extra sprinkles on their cupcakes in heaven? Sure, people can say all the right things and act as if they want you around, but in the end, you can't do any more than guess about the authenticity of their love, the inscrutability of their guise. What if the world around you is full of great pretenders?
Because, in the end, you know yourself to well to believe that you are in fact the life of the party, or even a moderately acceptable wallflower. You are not funny enough, interesting enough, pretty enough, smart enough, witty enough, kind enough, thoughtful enough, generous enough, brave enough, empathetic enough, patient enough, wise enough, tactful enough...you're just not enough. People have brought their sandwiches and you aren't cutting the mustard. And everyone can see. And they hate you for your insufficiency.
They hate you because you are garish in the midst of the gaity, because you are awkward among the suave. You stick out like a sore thumb for your failed jokes and inability to make conversation. You are gangly like a puppet with twisted strings.
The hypotheticals go on for days. What if they talk badly about me behind my back? What if they're only my friend because of so-and-so? What if they totally disagree with what I've just said, but are too disgusted with my ignorance to say anything? What if they're just waiting for me to leave so they can have a good conversation, a good time? All of these questions blow away in the first passing breeze because the answers are just not available to us. More questions come and replace them, and the answers? We can't know. Does it even matter? I don't know about the cosmic sense, but it matters to me.
I want to be liked. I want to be cool, to be the life of the party, the one everyone wants to talk to. That's not so different from you, I think. And so, knowing that this is what is common to our human condition, I will give myself grace. I will wait until I can grow stronger; I will pour nourishment onto the out-branching roots I put into the soil of myself. I will drink in sun and water and wait for the day when I am strong to say "I am enough."
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