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pipistrellafelixWell, thanks to some of those questions and to Anneka's insights on love and Rosalind, I've been thinking. (Oh, no, I hear you cry, not thinking, please no...)
(I wrote this part yesterday, as I was going about London--sort of a free-write)
I have studied myself at length in an attempt to figure out who I am, and I have come to the conclusion that it is pointless.
-What does this mean? Because we can never figure out exactly who we are, does that mean we should give up looking? The search is still profitable even when the goal is, perhaps, unreachable. If you can't find the end and you know that, maybe you'll pay attention to more details along the way. Insights are rare if you look for them as deep, immemutable truths, but can be found all over if you take anything in.
--Is that pretentious or true? And do those things have to be mututally exclusive? Pretentiousness is annoying but sometimes necessary in English. It lends itself to high phrases--or maybe that's just me, reading too many old books.
I am selfish and generous--there are those I love better than myself and sometimes I don't love--when I don't love myself, I can't love other people. I have to feel that I am worthy of loving before I can. That's all an unconcious process, I don't think I usually have problems concerning it--but I notice sometimes that when I have a long day and am tired and dirty and covered in sweat and spots and feel ugly--those are the times when the least attention is paid to others in love and more, negatively, to myself.
I think I am more beautiful when I give love outward than when I lend it to myself. It's not much good loving yourself if you don't give any to anyone else. I'm keeping a lot of postcards but I'm sending many away too. Hm. That metaphor isn't apt--oh well.
I said once that I am never more truly myself than when I am onstage pretending to be somebody else; that when my mind is bent on discovering who my character is, I forget about figuring out myself, and it's at that point, when I stop thinking about it, that I am really myself. While that says a lot for my love of acting, is it true? (Here's where I stopped. But I don't think I'm done thinking)
I can't tell if that's true or not. Joel asked what it was about being myself that most got on my nerves--I think I said it was that I always expect myself to better than I know I am. but I don't think I phrased that right--it would be better put as, I always expect myself to be other than I am. This 'other' usually encompasses 'better' but only in that it's not me.
I don't think it's that I hate myself. I don't, I think I'm a fine and dandy human being (or whatever). Ah--and you see, that 'or whatever' is a very telling phrase--I am a human. I'm descended from humans, my anatomy and physiology and so forth is all human. It's just that I think being something other than human would be so much more interesting. I've always wanted to be interesting, I more than being pretty or talented or anything else, although I suppose being talented at something goes along with being interesting. But I always did. And so I made up characters to be, who I thought were always more interesting than I was, because it was new. It wasn't me. I could be someone in an entirely different place, and if I was a character, or if I was in a story, everything was the way I wanted. (As I grew up and learned more about writing, I found out that often stories don't go the way you plan; but I didn't know that as a child.)
Time for dinner. I'll muse over food and come back to this.
So. I'd actually been thinking about love and so forth (for stories, having read Pride and Prejudice--again--and for me), Anneka's musings prodded me into writing them.
Because I don't really know what I think...I've had two boyfriends. Whatever that means. Nothing really happened; I was too shy and felt too young to do anything. I kissed once but I would hardly count it. I dumped once (although he was about to say the same to me) and got dumped once (although I was glad; I wanted to say the same thing to him). Both breaking-offs were amiable. The first one is still one of my dearest friends, the second, not so, but I don't mind that. He changed.
I have an ideal in my head--of romantic, high-flying perfection, I guess, the book-kind, the sort where it just happens and suddenly, aha, there's my true love, we love each other and that's that. Isn't so easy, though, is it?
There are times when I want that more than anything--but if an opportunity ever presented itself, I'd run away like a frightened rabbit. It has, and I have, before. I'm too shy and too scared to get involved with anyone because I'm too afraid of what happens at the end. Because there probably will be one; despite my fancy, romantic tendencies I'm a fairly pragmatic person, and I realize I'm not living in a fairy tale. So what if I end up feeling I don't like him so much after all? Then I have to end it, and hurt him. I'm actually much more afraid of that than I am of being dumped myself. I can get over it fairly quickly, I think, even if I am really hurt. Eat some ice cream, cry some tears; cry me a river, build a bridge and get over it. It's the other way around that I can't stand. If there's someone that I care about a lot, I hate hurting their feelings more than anything. I usually hate hurting people's feelings whether I care about them or not. I'm terribly careful with social situations if I can help it. I'm honest as much as I can be, but sometimes--with people I don't know as well, I'll tell a white lie rather than hurt their feelings. No, I have to spend time with my mom, rather than, no, I don't want to talk to you. Luckily I don't have to do this often. And there aren't many people I've done it to, I don't think. My excuses are real, if I'm tired and don't want to go somewhere, I'll say so.
But I don't know...I joke about meeting hot English boys but truth be told, if I did, I wouldn't do a thing about it. Nothing's going to come of it anyway, and I'm going home in a few weeks. I don't want summer romances, because everyone's leaving for college. Long distance romances are not very easy, and not very happy. I want happiness, not longing. I want one perfect, forever one.
Not going to happen. Not going to happen. I have to remind myself. I don't make advances on anyone because I don't want to do anything physical unless there's already a relationship going. One-night stands are about as opposite of me as you can get.
But a lot of the time I wish they weren't. I wish I could just flirt with the cute ones and make out for a while and then leave and neither of us cares. Sometimes I think that would be nice. But it isn't really my personality, fortunately or unfortunately, I don't know which.
I am afraid of physical intimacy, and at the same time I crave it. That's one of the reasons hanging out with the Bathhouse crowd, and parties at Katt's, make me so happy--because everyone's all over everyone else and no one cares. I can drape myself all over someone because I want to, and no one's going to make a bit deal of it. Elsewhere, it's a bit awkward. I want to touch people--and not in a dirty way, I don't mean that, I mean hugging and wrapping my arms around someone if we're sitting together, and I wish US-ians (Americans) had more of that--in Spain and nearly all over in Europe people kiss on one or both cheeks when they meet. It just seems much more of a happy greeting than a handshake.
The thing that ties these two ramblings together is that both of them want to be stories. I want to be in a story, where there is a happy ending. I want to be a character who is interesting and nifty, the one everyone says, yeah, she's cool, I want to be her; and in happy stories, love lives end up dealt with and tied off with no loose strings. I don't mind loose strings if they don't mind being loose strings. I just want to be happy; and I can't really be happy if people I care about aren't.
I'm going to stop myself. If you've actually read that whole thing--first of all, wow. Secondly, I'd like to hear what you think...your opinions on these things. Or maybe tell me what you see me as. As Elizabeth Bennet might say, I am attempting to illustrate her character...and I cannot quite make her out.
Also, for the moment, I'm not friend-locking this entry. I'm letting everyone read it. That makes me feel a little vulnerable, and a little bit brave.
In other news, we saw The Mousetrap today, the longest running play in the world. And I can't tell you anything about it, we were sworn o secrecy. :) I can say that I was good, although I liked Patrick's Paravaccini better, and Chris Wren was better in the Ballard version. Yep. Fluffy little people, I like them.
I love you, people. Really I do. I'm going to go to the Bathhouse and elsewhere and I expect lots of hugs when I get back. Cheers.
(I wrote this part yesterday, as I was going about London--sort of a free-write)
I have studied myself at length in an attempt to figure out who I am, and I have come to the conclusion that it is pointless.
-What does this mean? Because we can never figure out exactly who we are, does that mean we should give up looking? The search is still profitable even when the goal is, perhaps, unreachable. If you can't find the end and you know that, maybe you'll pay attention to more details along the way. Insights are rare if you look for them as deep, immemutable truths, but can be found all over if you take anything in.
--Is that pretentious or true? And do those things have to be mututally exclusive? Pretentiousness is annoying but sometimes necessary in English. It lends itself to high phrases--or maybe that's just me, reading too many old books.
I am selfish and generous--there are those I love better than myself and sometimes I don't love--when I don't love myself, I can't love other people. I have to feel that I am worthy of loving before I can. That's all an unconcious process, I don't think I usually have problems concerning it--but I notice sometimes that when I have a long day and am tired and dirty and covered in sweat and spots and feel ugly--those are the times when the least attention is paid to others in love and more, negatively, to myself.
I think I am more beautiful when I give love outward than when I lend it to myself. It's not much good loving yourself if you don't give any to anyone else. I'm keeping a lot of postcards but I'm sending many away too. Hm. That metaphor isn't apt--oh well.
I said once that I am never more truly myself than when I am onstage pretending to be somebody else; that when my mind is bent on discovering who my character is, I forget about figuring out myself, and it's at that point, when I stop thinking about it, that I am really myself. While that says a lot for my love of acting, is it true? (Here's where I stopped. But I don't think I'm done thinking)
I can't tell if that's true or not. Joel asked what it was about being myself that most got on my nerves--I think I said it was that I always expect myself to better than I know I am. but I don't think I phrased that right--it would be better put as, I always expect myself to be other than I am. This 'other' usually encompasses 'better' but only in that it's not me.
I don't think it's that I hate myself. I don't, I think I'm a fine and dandy human being (or whatever). Ah--and you see, that 'or whatever' is a very telling phrase--I am a human. I'm descended from humans, my anatomy and physiology and so forth is all human. It's just that I think being something other than human would be so much more interesting. I've always wanted to be interesting, I more than being pretty or talented or anything else, although I suppose being talented at something goes along with being interesting. But I always did. And so I made up characters to be, who I thought were always more interesting than I was, because it was new. It wasn't me. I could be someone in an entirely different place, and if I was a character, or if I was in a story, everything was the way I wanted. (As I grew up and learned more about writing, I found out that often stories don't go the way you plan; but I didn't know that as a child.)
Time for dinner. I'll muse over food and come back to this.
So. I'd actually been thinking about love and so forth (for stories, having read Pride and Prejudice--again--and for me), Anneka's musings prodded me into writing them.
Because I don't really know what I think...I've had two boyfriends. Whatever that means. Nothing really happened; I was too shy and felt too young to do anything. I kissed once but I would hardly count it. I dumped once (although he was about to say the same to me) and got dumped once (although I was glad; I wanted to say the same thing to him). Both breaking-offs were amiable. The first one is still one of my dearest friends, the second, not so, but I don't mind that. He changed.
I have an ideal in my head--of romantic, high-flying perfection, I guess, the book-kind, the sort where it just happens and suddenly, aha, there's my true love, we love each other and that's that. Isn't so easy, though, is it?
There are times when I want that more than anything--but if an opportunity ever presented itself, I'd run away like a frightened rabbit. It has, and I have, before. I'm too shy and too scared to get involved with anyone because I'm too afraid of what happens at the end. Because there probably will be one; despite my fancy, romantic tendencies I'm a fairly pragmatic person, and I realize I'm not living in a fairy tale. So what if I end up feeling I don't like him so much after all? Then I have to end it, and hurt him. I'm actually much more afraid of that than I am of being dumped myself. I can get over it fairly quickly, I think, even if I am really hurt. Eat some ice cream, cry some tears; cry me a river, build a bridge and get over it. It's the other way around that I can't stand. If there's someone that I care about a lot, I hate hurting their feelings more than anything. I usually hate hurting people's feelings whether I care about them or not. I'm terribly careful with social situations if I can help it. I'm honest as much as I can be, but sometimes--with people I don't know as well, I'll tell a white lie rather than hurt their feelings. No, I have to spend time with my mom, rather than, no, I don't want to talk to you. Luckily I don't have to do this often. And there aren't many people I've done it to, I don't think. My excuses are real, if I'm tired and don't want to go somewhere, I'll say so.
But I don't know...I joke about meeting hot English boys but truth be told, if I did, I wouldn't do a thing about it. Nothing's going to come of it anyway, and I'm going home in a few weeks. I don't want summer romances, because everyone's leaving for college. Long distance romances are not very easy, and not very happy. I want happiness, not longing. I want one perfect, forever one.
Not going to happen. Not going to happen. I have to remind myself. I don't make advances on anyone because I don't want to do anything physical unless there's already a relationship going. One-night stands are about as opposite of me as you can get.
But a lot of the time I wish they weren't. I wish I could just flirt with the cute ones and make out for a while and then leave and neither of us cares. Sometimes I think that would be nice. But it isn't really my personality, fortunately or unfortunately, I don't know which.
I am afraid of physical intimacy, and at the same time I crave it. That's one of the reasons hanging out with the Bathhouse crowd, and parties at Katt's, make me so happy--because everyone's all over everyone else and no one cares. I can drape myself all over someone because I want to, and no one's going to make a bit deal of it. Elsewhere, it's a bit awkward. I want to touch people--and not in a dirty way, I don't mean that, I mean hugging and wrapping my arms around someone if we're sitting together, and I wish US-ians (Americans) had more of that--in Spain and nearly all over in Europe people kiss on one or both cheeks when they meet. It just seems much more of a happy greeting than a handshake.
The thing that ties these two ramblings together is that both of them want to be stories. I want to be in a story, where there is a happy ending. I want to be a character who is interesting and nifty, the one everyone says, yeah, she's cool, I want to be her; and in happy stories, love lives end up dealt with and tied off with no loose strings. I don't mind loose strings if they don't mind being loose strings. I just want to be happy; and I can't really be happy if people I care about aren't.
I'm going to stop myself. If you've actually read that whole thing--first of all, wow. Secondly, I'd like to hear what you think...your opinions on these things. Or maybe tell me what you see me as. As Elizabeth Bennet might say, I am attempting to illustrate her character...and I cannot quite make her out.
Also, for the moment, I'm not friend-locking this entry. I'm letting everyone read it. That makes me feel a little vulnerable, and a little bit brave.
In other news, we saw The Mousetrap today, the longest running play in the world. And I can't tell you anything about it, we were sworn o secrecy. :) I can say that I was good, although I liked Patrick's Paravaccini better, and Chris Wren was better in the Ballard version. Yep. Fluffy little people, I like them.
I love you, people. Really I do. I'm going to go to the Bathhouse and elsewhere and I expect lots of hugs when I get back. Cheers.
