Laughing all the Way (ha ha ha)

I've had this urgent sense over the past few years that I'm running out of time, like whatever it is I'm supposed to do, I better do it soon. I've begun to realize that my anxiety isn't situational or social, but it's something I've created from this notion that I am on some kind of deadline. As a child, I was terrified of failure because it meant disappointing my parents. Now, I'm only terrified of exiting this world without accomplishing much.

It isn't that there is nothing good to read; I'm just not reading anything interesting. And it isn't that there is no potential for amazing conversation; I'm just not initiating it. Anyway, it isn't like there is no art or music or beauty in this town; I'm convinced that it exists, but I'm just missing it.

I have to silence my complaining conscience. I don't hate Jonesboro, Arkansas. I just have a persuasion toward negativity. So what if it's culturally endangered and creatively extinct? If no one else is taking the initiative, I suppose I should. I mean, that's what he said HE wanted to do. 

Over lunch today, I tried to keep my wonder at a casual level as he spoke of how he wants to change things. I was thinking yesterday of a way that I could impact the world, and then I switched over to apathy again. So, hearing his passion about making a difference, interpersonally and communally, reminded me that my good intentions are simply intentions, and ideas without resolve are useless. He started laughing mid-sentece when I indiscreetly spit food out of my mouth onto my plate, and the revelation came to me that one of the two at the table in the corner had grown up; and it wasn't me.

The very thing he has always said during our brief visits over holidays ("You haven't changed at all, have you Claire?") is something in which I used to take pride. Now, however, I realize he wasn't complimenting my consistency, but pointing out the fact that, somehow, I am still fourteen. 

So, here we are, a decade later, in the same place where it all began; only now he is an adult. We've both spent the last half of our lives trying to escape this town and now that he's living here again, he has the maturity to want to service his community and the longevity to actually do it.

Three nights ago, I considered running away. I told him that. I told him that I've just been desperate for some creative counterparts and he looked sad when I said it. 

Somehow, I always think something drastic will make things easier - different, yes; but changes only add to the complexity and frustration of life. I think without frustration, though, there is no room for the sublte interruptions of satisfaction and accomplishment.

For this very reason, I do things I know I shouldn't...because in my recovery from such mistakes, I am able to say and write and create things I would lack the inspiration for otherwise. Admittedly, I am seduced by nostalgia, remorse, heartache and all the other contents of epic art and poetry.

One amazing traveler recently said, "...the time is coming where [you] can either settle down or continue living with a fury, a fire in [your] gut that will never cease...have fun, make art, be the exception." Those words caused my creative urgency to resurface; and in many ways, I'm relieved. I'm glad someone said it. I can be thrilled, I can be excited, I can laugh at the days to come.

arks and playgrounds and that one, great hyperbole

For some reason, I was screaming when I jumped on the merry-go-round this morning and clung for dear life to the icy railing.  Neither one of us balanced well, partially due to the previous night's activities but mostly because we were giggling so hard.  I wanted a picture of that.  

I'm so afraid of being old.

About a kilometer down the trail, when we passed the tree she tagged last summer, I told her to be quiet and listen to all the Canadian geese rustle in the leaves about us.  At that point, I was really beginning to regret that I didn't have my 35 mm.  I wanted images of her running through them, with the grey sky and rows of dead trees behind us.

I'm so afraid of being boring.

A few hours later, sitting with two newly engaged women and sipping lattes, we stared blankly at each other from our respective sides of the cafe table.  I was overwhelmed by the stacks of bridal magazines in their laps and their bubble of wedding talk.  She looked the way I felt: terrified.

I'm so afraid of settling.

To escape the world neither of us could comprehend, we opted for a matinee and ended up seeing the most horrific fairytale in theatres these days.  Instead of walking out, though, we were glued to the screen in absolute bewilderment that the concept of 'happily ever after' actually sells.  Such lies are sweeter and thicker than the gooey holiday candy she snuck into the movie, and when I gagged, it's because I know I'm guilty of tasting it.

I'm so afraid of going there.

I then advised her to break up with him, never get married and be single with me forever.  I think it's the only way, really.

Later, a friend and I were rummaging through the $5 DVD bins at our local supermarche when he asked my professional opinion on the love-at-first-sight bit.  He wants to know that he isn't crazy for thinking that when he meets his matrimonial destiny, her hair will be blowing in the wind and time will stand still as they lock eyes for the first time and just "know."  I laughed at him for being so old and still holding to that ideal which I wish I weren't too cynical to embrace.  I'm an adult and know better than all that fairytale garbage.

But, honestly, I'm so afraid of being right.

Maybe my biggest fear is not of being disappointed in this hyperbolized concept of love or allowing someone second-rate to hold my hand and suck the life from me; maybe my fear isn't so much the failure, but the initial fear-of-failure which will keep me from giving anyone a chance in the first place.  I don't like the idea of my own voice reverberating in an empty room without another, warmer voice to interrupt.  As many times as I've packed a backpack and set off on an adventure, hoping to escape the guy who isn't adventurous enough to go camping with me, I still have trouble navigating at times.  I'm bothered by all the beautiful things I've seen and memories I've built on my own.  Rather than enhancing my story-telling abilities, I think the solitude has actually made me less likely to share.  But what's worse than being alone while laughing out loud is having someone beside me who doesn't understand my sense of humor.

"So, what is it about him," I asked.  "Why him?"  And she gave me the same non-specific, completely unoriginal answer I hear from everyone else.  I have to wonder if that's as good as it gets and if Ryan was right to say that something slightly insufficient is good enough.

Apparently, no one has the answers these days.  

Questions and Answers and Gingerbread Houses

It isn't the answer to the question that holds significance. True value is found in recognizing that there are even questions to be asked. He said that now that he no longer has the answers, his faith is deeper than it was when he had explanations for everything. At one time, I was too afraid of failing to try; I was scared of not having the answers, and I was too cowardly, even, to ask questions. Over time, as I've begun to loosen my grip on things, I have found that I've missed out on the fundamentals of youthful ignorance by handing out answers rather than admitting to my own curiosities...what a waste of wonder. Joni (pronounced 'yaw-nee') wanted to teach me to drive a stick one night in the snow. As I swerved onto an empty street and laughed nervously, he put his hand on mine and we did our best to communicate. Even though it was terrifying to glide along the icy road in the dark, I was alright - knowing that my non English speaking friend was guiding us to the local tavern and, somehow, we would arrive. It was difficult to relax with the seat belt choking me, the heater was on full blast, I didn't feel well that day; but any number of excuses still could not erase the pleasure of learning something new and embracing the thrill of the unknown. I had a subscription to Elle magazine all throughout Junior High school. I always felt sorry for my peers, whose concept of fashion was a direct result of what their overweight mothers picked out for them at Gap. When I visited New York for the first time with my choir group, I watched the other fourteen year old girls squeal and express surprise at the items hung on mannequins in the window displays on fifth avenue, and I shook my head saying, "duh." It's quite hilarious that I'm now an average, middle class adult who shops where everyone else shops and carries the same bag virtually year-round. Only now am I finding that I'm hardly original. There was a point in my life when I was a complete music snob, listening only to the newest of the new underground stuff and shunning anyone whose radio dial landed on KISS FM for (clearly) having no taste. I considered my itunes collection far superior to anyone else's, as I was always the first to discover and promote unknown talent. I have since developed the ability to say things like, "no, I've never heard this awesome indie band" to my cooler friends, although the process has been a slow one. Only now am I finding that I'm hardly knowledgeable. I thought I was so cool a few years later when I began cooking. When I realized that culinary art is, actually, art, I decided that only amateurs who can't determine the difference between red and green cardamon use recipes. Every morsel is a masterpiece, I thought. Now that I live alone, however, I have a high appreciation for lean cuisines and all the things I once mocked. Only now am I finding that I'm hardly versatile. I suppose it has taken time in order for me to realize that I really don't know very much, after all. I envy the way my father has marveled at the unknown in recent years in a way he probably hasn't done since childhood. I have to admire that he asks questions with no intention of gaining THE answer, but to discover what he might be missing. I love that he can admit he's lacking. I asked how things were going, and he replied,"Today has been slightly less confusing than the previous days." He maintained that today, amidst the questions and abstractions, he could see a bit of hope and was at peace, despite the complexities of his future. Sometimes, written in the grey, is the most pleasing answer of all: the fact that the answer, often, is yet unknown, and that's okay. Alli and I teamed up in the gingerbread house-making this evening. She and I both tag 'artist' onto our self-assessment, in a way that suggests our ability to create things is, essentially, our DNA. Everyone at the table knew this about us, as we nibbled on corners of gingerbread walls and claimed we had mice living in the house. Perhaps they (perhaps WE) expected a great mansion; but the end product resembled some abandoned house in the ghetto in need of condemning. The roof was caving in and each side had icing sloppily flung to its corners and gumdrops scattered sporadically about its surface. We laughed at our work and had no problem admitting that we had successfully made the ugliest one. It was fun to admit that I had no idea that adding water to the icing made it shiny. We admired the big, hideous mess we made on the kitchen table and I'm pretty sure it's safe to say we both felt pretty good about it. I am highly interested in researching the reason why I've been so prideful all of my life. I'm interested to know why I spent my childhood, unable to admit to being a child, capable of failure. I'm wondering how it is that, at my age, I feel like I'm beginning to grow up. Most of my life, I've failed to ask questions. I didn't want anyone to know that I didn't hold the explanation to things; the fact is, my hesitance to ask has hindered me from discovering much truth in the quest for answers. It isn't the answer to the question that holds significance. True value is found in recognizing that there are even questions to be asked.

Honesty, at its best...

Before my most recent ex-boyfriend asked me to marry him, he consistently informed me that he found no satisfaction in my physical appearance. It didn't bother him to tell me daily that he was disappointed in my face and hair and body; but rather than allowing his words to motivate me to make the appropriate changes (like, kick him in the sack before telling him to screw off, for example), his 'honesty' was the key to unlocking a million repressed memories and feelings, while transforming me into a mere shadow of the person I could be. 

Piecing together the remainder since he's been gone has been a little bit like gluing back together the bits of a shattered porcelain doll face - it never looks quite the same after it's been broken. 

Now, as a result of his malice, I have these seams and scars and reminders: evidence of honesty, gone wrong.

But truth done right - honesty, at its best - should be the very thing sustaining and stimulating me.

When I talk to my best friend on the phone, the role she plays is that of the Voice of Reason. What makes her my best friend is that she rarely tells me those things I long to hear. Instead, she is brave enough to speak the truth in a beautiful and comforting way.

She said, "Now, I'm going to tell you something, Claire, and I want you to listen. If you recall nothing else, remember this..." The noise of the road disappeared as her voice filled the car with simple truth and I pretended there weren't tears in my eyes. Just because her honesty slapped me in the face, that didn't mean her intentions were to be anything but helpful and loving. I heard her; and I'm still remembering.

Now, as a new year approaches, I begin to wonder what I should do differently. As I examine things internally, I realize more and more of my neurotic insecurities: It seems that every year has been a little more chaotic than the last. 

I watched as he stood over his stove and concocted some mixture of chai tea and various other ingredients, and even though his observations about my nature made the back of my eyes burn and my stomach twist into knots, I wanted to hear it all. Even if what he said about me was said out of narcissism and diffidence, his unfavorable observation was definitive of who I am, unabashed, to another.

Later, he said that if he's going down, he wants it to be with me. Whatever he meant by that, it wasn't a compliment; but as I watched him scramble to remove his foot from his mouth, I realized that he had just said what I was never going to admit; and, truthfully, I needed to hear it.

Now, with the changing of seasons and impending holidays, I'm packing away the flip-flops and tanning oil. When I think of where I was on this day last year, it seems that I was once a little more sincere. 

My mattress was in the living room again that day, when we avoided the football game to lay side-by-side atop a pile of blankets. As we talked about the past and it's affect on our future, he offered that maybe my feelings of insufficient love for him were indications of actual, raw love. 'Maybe,' he said, 'real love is recognizing one's inability to love wholly.'

In the past, he had told me that he would prefer my selfish love to none at all. He said that if that was the best I could offer, it was more than enough.

Now that it's getting dark earlier, my evenings are extended, leaving more time to reflect. It seems every time I've thought I was right, there was still more truth to uncover; but if I had known this before, I might have been too lazy to seek it.

I'm not sure how it is that honesty is welcomed as rare and refreshing when it comes in the form of undivulged flattery, but when that honesty is delivered without the accompanying 'warm fuzzy,' we are offended and become withdrawn. We want to be coddled, but never challenged.

When my best friend failed to hold anything back, she allowed me an opportunity to stop being a fool and start being truthful.

When a new friend began to question my integrity to my face, he did it out of genuine concern; and the image I knew he had of me was, at least, a real one. Thanks to his effrontery, I can begin to make things right.

When an old friend fanned the flame of my public-display-of failure by mentioning my short-comings, he meant never to harm me. He meant, rather, to hold me in his arms as he walked me through the truth. Together, as we are walking, I desire to do the same for him...