I will warn you ahead of time that this post is completely stream-of-consciousness and quite without point or focus. It's also tedious. But what else are you going to do?
I am in Florida, sitting in the warm glow that is my “finished, perfect Columbia essay.” There are works that are solely the product of one’s own genius, and then there are works which take a village. The Columbia fiasco was the latter. Here were the three main challenges of the essay:
1) Please tell the beautiful smiling god that is Columbia who you are, where your education is from, what you have been doing since graduation, when you knew you needed a Master’s degree, and why that Master’s degree must be received from the beautiful smiling god that is.
2) Please do so in approximately 500 words
3) Please be sure to sell yourself
It seems so simple as I type it out, and yet and yet and yet, it is not. I want the degree for that old fashion, esoteric notion of “learning to better myself.” But everyone advises me against saying this as, apparently, universities don’t take kindly to “learning for learning’s sake anymore”. It’s all about like, being a PhD student (i.e. slave labor) or becoming someone rich or famous who will give money to the school. So right away, I’m writing based on information I suspect is true, telling people things they may or may not want to here while at the same time being ‘myself’ and ‘honest’ or whatever.
Then there is of course the problem of summarizing my life story—nomadic upbringing and good-paternal-vicarious-intentions yields to gothic friendless angsty teen years yields to emotionally vulnerable early college years produces early twenty something ice queen. Not bad, but hardly easy to summarize for a shadowy board who want intimacy without cloying emotionalism. I assume.
The biggest hassle is selling myself. Anyone who knows me knows I can’t sell myself—I have, in fact, never sold myself to anyone, which is either a very charming or incredibly arrogant trait. For better or worse, I just present myself, and I never expect anyone to pick me up, and then people choose to befriend me or choose not too. I’ve never really WANTED to be with a particular person in any respect, and the few times I tried in romantic settings to sell myself to someone—the times I’ve wanted to be wanted—the results are hardly spectacular. As a result, I’m almost always passively involved in relationships—that is, I was passively recruited, I sized the person up and said “yeah” or “no”, and then I proceeded to become an active participant. But I don’t NEED anyone. But dangit, do I NEED Columbia. I’d be happy at the other grad schools to which I’m applying, but I NEED Columbia. And now I feel like I’m 16-years-old trying to ask out Ryan Lauck to winter formal and all I can manage to say is, “so what, you skateboarding this weekend?”
But the point is, it’s done. I have to send in a writing sample, call up some schools and see if all of my information has arrived, but more or less, this was the last of the applications. So all I have to worry about from now on is having my prospective schools google me and find out that deep down, I’m a shallow hipster wannabe who watches too much BBCAmerica and reads supermarket rags EVERY WEEK. Oh my gosh I hope they don’t find this blog. It’s not that I’m ashamed of anything I’ve written, but there could be ANYTHING on here. I got an email from the supremely brilliant Leigh Notestein who said she was on a job interview and the head of the law firm asked her how she knew me, and Leigh was all “Pardon?” since we haven’t spoken since we graduated Hockaday except for the one time I was in Prague and lonely so I IMed her. And then the law firm man said that he had googled her name and my website had come up. He had nothing but good things to say about this website, of course (we ARE brilliant, truth be told), but this brings in an entire new dimension of social accountability. It’s not like when we started college and I could write “remember when X had an eating disorder and did lines of cocaine in the bathroom before assemblies?” because now I know that X could google her name and discover me and get angry OR X could lose a job because X’s prospective employer googled her name and found said rumor and then X sues me for liable, or slander—slander? Slander. So let’s just hope I keep my nose clean and my dirty bits get sent to the source code.
Since I’m celebrating, I feel like doing one of those rare(r and rarer) posts about things I’m actually feeling as opposed to things that are happening to me. I am in Florida, part of an increasing amount of wanderlust which has been interfering with my work and yes, some of it is escapism, but no you can’t know what it’s about. But as we all know, I never read over or double check these entries, so I may very well tell you what I’m escaping from by the end of the post.
I’m reading Borges “Ficciones” which I figured I would like a lot, because Borges is the great experimenter and intellectual of Latin American expressionism, and many claim him as the originator of magical realism, which j’adore. But in fact, Borges is a drag. Every short story sounds like I’m reading the appendix to some sort of Anthology of Obscure Texts Vol. XIV—dry descriptions, dense, more philosophy and idea than story. In fact, there is no story in a literal sense—more a metaphysical sense. All of this is quite exciting for a writer, but not as a reader. In one short story, he talks about a writer who attempts to write Cervantes’ “Don Quixote”—not another Quixote, but the exact same one, in order to prove genius is universal. Borges likes the idea that anything is everything and everything is a unique particular, and while I love the idea of trying to write “Jane Eyre” and seeing what comes of it, I do not want to read a summary of someone else talking about the idea of writing “Jane Eyre”—more so Cervantes.
But as I’m reading through this, and sorting through my emotions after the tidal wave of love/hate that characterized deWitt’s “Last Samurai,” I thought of my own work, which has, for the last three years or so, been characterized with an extreme emotional distance and hyper-intellectualism. As far as the over-intellectualization (every word of a novel must mean something, every object a symbol, etc), I am beginning to see through reading these works that no one really likes to read books like this. Afterwards there’s a sense of fulfillment, but they just aren’t any fun. And like it or not, books are a type of entertainment—more meaningful, more artistic, more important, but they are primarily entertainment. Meaning and teaching can’t get across if someone can’t be bothered to be invested—I need to re-learn how to invest a reader.
As for my emotional distance, well, this is a fun topic. My teachers seem to love whenever I embrace the male narrative aesthetic—few descriptions, lack of morals or clear message, violence, silence, rural men with big coats and shouldered gravitas. And to be honest, I love it to, because it’s so easy and fun—I feel completely liberated when I write through this persona, as I don’t have to justify my emotions the same way as when I am emotionally invested in a piece (see Imbroglio verses Old Bill Benner for further discussion of this topic).
Ever since picking up “Atlas Shrugged” at 16 I have been drifting ever more towards an emotional coldness. My relationship with Atlas is complicated, especially since it is impossible as an educated, open-minded individual not to see the serious flaws in Ayn’s reasoning and contradictions, both personally and philosophically. I’ll probably get into this more at a later date, but to put it simply: I had made and decided who I wanted to be by the time I was 18. Every development since 18 has been solidification, polish, but no huge changes in structure. I very much like the person I’ve become, but now I’m beginning to run into unforeseen complications.
I hated myself for a very, very long time. There’s musch to dislike, but I mainly was disgusted with my attention seeking, my need for artistic validation, my emotionalism, my inability to keep secrets, my appearance, and my haplessness with men. I figured, when these things were gone, I would like myself, and everyone else would as well. So I read A LOT, I studied A LOT, I talked to A LOT of people, and through research and logic constructed a series of economic, political, personal, and religious values. I then worked on adhereing to keeping the integrity of these values. So I grew up, became quieter, applied reason instead of emotion. The biggest change was probably in interpersonal relationships—I somehow realized emotionally as well as logically that I didn’t NEED anyone—that I liked people, I liked to be with people, I liked them to think well of me and praise me, but I don’t need it. And once I got there, I really felt like I had this whole living thing nailed. And I was very happy.
But then Laura comes back into my life. And Laura, having seen the ugliest period of my life first hand, will always have a certain amount of sway. And Laura doesn’t like me. She is convinced that I am repressing this huge, untapped resource of emotions and pain and longing, and that when I tap into it I’ll be a better, more fulfilled person. She keeps looking for secrets. I told her I didn’t need people, she said I was lying, that everyone needs someone. I said I needed them less then most, that I loved people, but I got no sense of validation or unequaled joy from just having them about. She said she didn’t believe that. I told her my views on my sexuality. She said it was too intellectual, and that there was no emotional truth to my contentions. I told her my view on religion, and she said that she didn’t believe in anything that restricts personal choice as bad or good. I explained why such choices are necessary for virtue, and she said I was too concerned with rules and lines. She, in essence, believes me to be an ice queen.
Which of course, is completely understandable. When she last knew me, I was a huge ball of unfocused fury and sexuality. There is still a lot of that in my work. But I feel calm, I feel at peace—she calls it denial. And I would say it were (grammar?) she who was in denial if not for the fact that she is not the only person to call me out on being too cold. My sister Julia calls me a robot because she feels that everytime there’s a crisis, I deal with it precisely, without a single display of emotion. When I’m stressed, I sit and stare at things until I’ve regrouped mentally—she finds this terrifying. More than one individual has expressed disapproval in how I view love—I can will myself to fall in and out of love with someone based on my perception of their strength of character and their compatability. The general consensus seems to be: open up, feel, let emotions guide my decisions.
At first reflection, I can probably do with a bit more emotionalism—I could be slightly warmer, and certainly more empathetic, especially politically. I’ve allowed the emotional shut down I’ve undergone the past 2 years to take its toll on my psyche—I take little pleasure in art, music, or my appearance any more. But this emotionalism—I stress, only a little of it is necessary. I really don’t feel like I need to be on a reality show called “The Swan: Personality.”
But the more I think of these critiques, the more preposterous they become. Look, I won’t pretend I’m not flattered when people tell me I remind them of Domonique or Dagny (2 did! Last month!), but I also realize basing your life around Randian archtypes is a path straight to unhappiness. No, I feel these critiques are preposterous because they carry such a weight of misogynism with them. No one is sitting around telling the men of this world that they are failures because they aren’t emotional. Sure, women prefer the “emotionally sensitive male,” but I’m not looking for a woman to love me—I’m looking for a man, and men should be able to appreciate the fact that I’m logical and cold and perhaps a bit calculating—but ultimately I’m virtuous because I cannot act outside of the perameters I have drawn. This should have mass appeal—no calling just to talk! No esoteric talk of “I can’t explain it”! No expectations to try and read my emotions! No having to come over if you’re stressed! I am the most subliminally uncomplicated person ever!
We know that isn’t true. We know I have so many secrets I could send a new one to PostSecret every day of the week. We know I like strange thigns, that I harp on things I shouldn’t, that I’m guilty of the “I can’t explain it” defense. We also know that I care about people, and I don’t want to alienate them. So I’m at a completely new stage in my development—trying to better myself now that I like who I am.
When you hate yourself, self-improvement is incredibly easy, as everything has to go. When you like yourself, knowing what to change becomes more challenging, because you don’t want to risk changing the good bits.
Take the accusation that I’m not emotional enough. The logic behind such an accusation is that by not crying (I’ve shrunk back to my pre-college levels), by viewing love and sexuality rationally, and by shrinking away from obvious displays of emotion, I am somehow repressing urges that would keep my healthy. There is evidence to suggest that my lack of emotion isn’t entirely healthy. I am very prickly, generally eschewing hugs and cuddles with girlfriends and family, not really enjoying the touchy-feely aspects of humanity. Put me in a relationship, though, and I become the queen of PDA. I physically fawn all over the man I’m with, I send him presents, I kiss him on every street corner, I buy him sweaters and pounce on him at parties and hug him in ridiculous amounts. Then, whenever he’s not around, I revert. This does suggest an untapped resource of emotionalism. It also suggests that I have rational outlets for emotionalism, and that I don’t need to go around hugging everyone to feel like I’m a special.
As for my views of sex and love, sure, it may be cold to adhere to pre-twentieth century concepts of what constitutes a good marriage, but frankly, what has our parents free love ever gotten you? Is a life of forming relationships after “falling for someone”, then breaking up when you discover you have no fundamental values in common and you feel alone in the middle of the night eight years later really so much better than my preemptive discontinuation of relationships I know cannot work? I’m not saying its one way or the other, I’m saying my stance is perfectly acceptable. I may not have been swept up in love, but I can say all my relationships have been positive, nurturing, and lovely and I’m friends with all of my exes. How many people can say that? And really, why am I the freak for not having sex before marriage? What is really the benefit? Because you want to? Because it feels awesome? Because, ideally, it strengthens your relationship and lets you shop around for what you want? Well that sounds really great, but is the argument “because I want to?” or “because it feels good” really arguments we should be using as rational adults? And how many relationships are strengthened when you have sex before getting to know someone? All it does is complicate the situation in the early stages of the relationship—it takes you off focusing on who the person really is, and in the later stages, do you really need to have sex with someone to know if you’re compatible? Sex drops off after the first couple years—if you want a long term relationship it has to be based on something other than sex anyway? I’m not implying that pre-marital sex cannot fit into a moral life, what I’m saying is people rarely think about why they do the things they do, and I shouldn’t be considered cold or analytical because I think about emotional things in context of a larger picture. At the very least, I shouldn’t have to justify why “because I want to” isn’t enough of a reason to do something with such serious ramifications—mine is completely legitimate alternative. Obviously I’m on a soapbox here, but seriously, when did my world view become quaint and the much more irrational view of “because it feels good” become the norm? Exception: the Flynn. He can do whatever he wants, because he’s awesome.
I guess what this post boils down to is that I’m sensitive because I feel that there is something legitimate behind these suggestions, and I can’t put my finger on what exactly I’m doing wrong. The only problem I can see is the pillar of politics, the least developed of all of my value structures, and that’s hardly something that comes up often in conversation because I rarely rise to the occasion when baited. And I’m not in any way shape or form implying here that I am perfect, or that I am a paradigm—what I’m saying is that I’m the happiest I’ve ever been with myself, and I’m annoyed that there’s this perception that I’m repressed and unfeeling. I also can’t help but feel at this entire mindset of women having to be these intuitive, emotional creatures to be feminine. My pragmatism has given me a life without regrets, relationships I’m proud of, a retirement account, and self-respect. What has knee-jerk emotionalism ever given you?
