Could it be, I wonder, that the other side of grown-up begins where you cease mainly doing things to the end of becoming the person you would like to be and you start mainly doing things because of the person you have already become?
Placing a „why” after each „I want” or ”I don’t want”. As important as the ones after `I can` or `I cannot`. As hygienic as brushing your teeth. Possibly more so.
Luminițe de Crăciun. Șiraguri nesfârșite de sticluțe de vitamină D, îndulcită cu miros de gogoși, spre tratarea instituționalizată a iernii.
We’ve been ill. The low energy that goes together with illness led to turning on the tv a few evenings ago. All in all, maybe 30 minutes to an hour of tv over about four days of proper stay-at-home illness, so still pretty reasonable. Irrelevant. The particular evening I’m talking about, there was this piece of a cheap Hollywood movie in which the slightly stuck-up, conventional American woman discovers – in Paris, of course – that life is made of less black-and-white and more shades of everything. As an ad-hoc life coach to trigger this revelation (I assume the revelation takes place based on the predictability of the plot, we gave up after perhaps 10 minutes), lovely Jacqueline Bisset impersonating a luxury `madame` (in the less than high-brow sense of the term). Irrelevant movie, plot, tv-bit of the evening. However, relevant in the same way pieces of poetry are constantly just the ones I am meant to hear at that particular moment, was the following `let me analyse you` observation: `I look at you and I wonder where that little girl who used to run free with her hair waving in the wind disappeared`. And my blood boiled with… I don’t even know what.
Because I thought I was very much aware of the fact that there are only a handful of personalities and of twists of fate and there is only a limited amount of imagination to go around in people – hence horoscopes. I thought I had made perfect peace with the feeling that none of us is special, in any way. That free will is more than limited. That we live in oh so many predetermined ways. That one could never expect a paid professional who is meant to guide you through personal dilemmas to actually take the time to feel `you`, but that, instead, what you can expect is a sketchy rendering of alternative paths that people generally take. And yet, having at some point been personally served the standard sentence above and having bought it, idiotically, ridiculously, in good faith, as meaning `you see me`, while it was plain as day that it only meant `I see the box you belong in` made me furious. And it made me feel manipulated. And, in the end, silly as hell. And justified in my original mistrust. The more so because I already had little doubt that I had paid money to be judged, not to be helped. Whereas, should one need to feel judged, that can be obtained soooo easily for free 🙂 .
… maximul de liric
e când tu de azi
te postezi în mijlocul străzii
și-l strigi din toți bojocii la geam
pe tu de alaltăieri:
„Mama lu Gigel!!!”
„Ce-i, mă, zi repede, că-mi dă laptele-n foc!”
„Sărutmâna că l-ați lăsat pe Gigel afară!”
Deși nu mi-am luat notițe la citire, îmi amintesc că m-a lovit o sentință din Kahneman (cred că atribuită lui Thaler) care, vorbind despre framing, spunea ceva de genul „nimic nu este atât de grav/important pe cât pare atunci când te gândești la el”. Corolarul ar fi ca, atunci când intri în spirala obsesivă, să încerci să nu te mai gândești la lucrul căruia îi acorzi o importanță prea mare. Dar tot de la Kahneman citire, a încerca să nu te gândești la ceva în mod voit cere un efort cognitiv de nedepus. Damn, și eram așa de mândră de puterea voinței mele…
Se făcea că eram
într-o găleată de tablă.
Din acuarelele lumii curgea,
cu regularitate de picătură chinezească,
vopsea de toate culorile-n găleata mea –
în așa fel încât să mă stropească
un strop mai vesel, unul mai trist.
Se făcea că mă scăldam,
încetul cu încetul,
într-o zeamă de gri,
She was beautiful and aware of it and yet she didn’t seem to give a damn. It was easy for her to be beautiful, it was no burden, no maintenance chore, it was how she was, pretending it wasn’t who she was, almost apologetically dressed in no-nonsense stuff, doing her thing. She was always almost within reach, so much more the way you would like to be, loveable through emulation, effortlessly loveable. She was the one whose shoes it was always difficult to fill, which, somehow, made you work harder. Or be more pathetic, whichever applies. It is even difficult to remember if ever the interest or even approval of a guy was just as relevant as chasing her shadow, embodied in so many different women. It may have been, but hey, the best way to get that would have been to be as much her as you could. Like a sort of side-effect of the intrinsic quality of conscious womanhood, of owning the difference, of being not for the sake of the other, but of yourself.
To be her, to have that ease, to absorb the honest sophistication of each of your friends, to stop playing the game with somebody else’s rules. Do you ever grow into your own shoes, actually?