... image.

"'When you have lived as long as I, you will see that every human being has his shell, and that you must take the shell into account. [...] There is no such thing as an isolated man or woman; we are each of us made up of a cluster of appurtenances. What do you call one's self? [...] I know that a large part of myself is in the dresses I choose to wear. I have a great respect for things! One's self – for other people – is one's expression of one's self; and one's house, one's clothes, the books one reads, the company one keeps – these things are all expressive.'
[...]
'I don't agree with you,' [Isabel] said. 'I think just the other way. I don't know whether I succeed in expressing myself, but I know that nothing else expresses me. Nothing that belongs to me is any measure of me; on the contrary, it's a limit, a barrier, and a perfectly arbitrary one. Certainly, the clothes which, as you say, I choose to wear, don't express me; and heaven forbid they should!'"
– Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady


This caught my attention as I recently had almost this exact exchange with a friend of mine. I tend to take the latter position, but, especially as it's laid out here, I feel pretty strongly ambivalent about this debate. I suppose that's indicative of my history with myself. I've spent the last "age" of my life learning to dissociate my sense of self from superficial or inanimate things. But that world view can get to be a bit passive. Perhaps passive isn't the exact word I want. I'll try to explain.

The passivity comes from a disinclination to give a hoot about outward appearances, I suppose. I don't always portray myself in the best light because my apartment, my clothes, whether I washed my hair today, even what mood I'm in at any given moment; to my mind these things are not representative of who I am. I view my "self" as the subtext, the idea behind the words. Words themselves can be limiting, and can be as much a barrier to communication as they are a help.

That being said, words are a help. Obviously my ideas would not be communicated at all without the help of words. So, with that analogy in mind, I'm entering into a period of learning how to better express and present myself. It's a very interesting creative challenge. I think ultimately the important thing is to try to match the internal self with the presented external self as much as possible. Over all I still land on the side of "you are not your fucking khakis,"but I have certainly taken my image more into account lately. I often feel misunderstood, and although that's bound to happen no matter what, it may happen less if I'm more careful about the way I express and present myself.

However, I guarantee I will still have days when I go to the grocery store in my pajamas. And maybe that's part of the image I want to convey. That I'm someone who is capable of articulate self-expression in every aspect of my life, but I'm also not that uptight about it.

I welcome feedback on this topic, and I'd be very interested to know how you the readers approach this issue in your own lives.

... self-loathing

Today I hate myself.

Let's be clear. I do not condone self-loathing as a lifestyle, but as a mood it can be very useful. It is my belief that no self-respecting individual has become so without experiencing their fair share of self-hatred. It's a catalyst for growth.

So today, when multiple elements of the life I want came knocking on my door and I had to turn them away due to poverty, ill-health, and the simple fact that this past week I've gotten out of practice when it comes to being ready for opportunities... well, it kinda made me hate myself.

I've spent all day half-heartedly starting projects: cleaning (a bit), writing (shitty) poetry, knitting (and unravelling) various projects, contacting friends (and then flaking out on them), stretching (well, thinking about it), and basically continuing my existence as the useless lump I've been for the last 2 weeks. Except that last week I had the excuse of being deathly ill. This week I'm just being lazy.

And I HATE being lazy.

So get your lazy ass up and do something, you say. To which I reply, yes. You're absolutely right. My excuse is gone, only the habit remains. And thank god I'm fully equipped to get that awful feeling of self-disgust in the pit of my stomach when I'm behaving in a manner that I consider to be repulsive. (Repulsive for ME. If laziness is your thing and it makes you sublimely happy then I'm all for it. For YOU.)

The beauty of self-loathing is that it's absolutely unendurable. It's the emotional equivalent of extreme nausea. They both usually mean you've done something you shouldn't have done, fixing the problem is going to be very unpleasant, but afterwards you'll feel much better. And I can tell you, after being lazy, anxious, and indecisive for 2 weeks, getting myself to get up, get dressed, and leave the fucking house, is almost as difficult as throwing up. But once I get out there the toxins are purged and I can breathe again.

Solving this problem has been extra vomity today because on top of the vast inertia sitting on top of me, is a big fat pile of poverty. That's like eating rat poison and then finding out you can't puke it up because you ARE a rat and rats can't vomit. Ok, it's not that bad, I'm not going to die from it, but the self-loathing has been especially acute today due to the fact that most of the things I would usually do to solve my lethargy problem involve paying subway fare at the very least. Which I, quite literally, can't afford. The urge to vomit increases.

The good news and the bad news is that right now all I can do is wait. The wheels are set in motion, life is on the up and up, but until my paycheck clears my bank account I'm stuck. Well, so it goes. Perhaps this instance of self-loathing is of the "wait until it passes" variety as opposed to the "sorry, but you're just gonna have to puke your guts out" variety.

And, hello, I have a paycheck that will be clearing my bank account. If that's not good news I don't know what is.

But in the meantime, I've had enough of sitting around. I'm just gonna have to get more creative with my problem solving. I'll just have to, you know, grow. And, uhhh, use my brain. How awful. But if it weren't for hating myself today, I'd just continue to sit around waiting. Thank you, horrible feeling of self-loathing, for lighting that fire under my ass.

... living alone...

... is that sometimes you get lonely.

>_<


Today's been weird too. I guess some days you put out energy and work hard and reap the spoils immediately. And some days good things just come to you without hardly any effort. And some days you just need a rest so you rest and recover.
And some days you work your ass off and don't get shit done. You broadcast yourself to the world, but the world just isn't paying attention.
Well, I guess that's the price we pay for those amazing days when the good stuff just keeps coming in so easily. Meh, it's worth it.

:-/

:)

... euh, je suis timide

P.S. (2 posts in 1 day, what?)


Part 1

I don't know if I've discussed this in my blog before, but one of the wonderful things about living in New York City is I fall in love every 5 minutes (if I'm out and about, that is). I'll be on the subway or walking around the park and I'll see someone that just epitomizes everything I've ever wanted in a relationship/soul-mate/one-night-stand and as long as that person is standing/sitting/walking/dancing in my field of vision I can let myself go off on a beautifully romantic fantasy where we two find oneness in one another, exploring the mysterious depths of each other's souls while experiencing every detail of each other's bodies, finding love and inspiration in each other's arms...

And then he/she will disembark at his/her subway stop, or whatever, and I'll blissfully forget about the whole thing.


Part 2

New York City is the most linguistically diverse city in the world. I haven't checked my sources on that, but just from personal experience I can confidently say that it's gotta be in the top 5 at least. This is AWESOME, but, at least for now, it's only really significant for me personally when I hear people speaking french. Alors, je parle un peu le français. Mais, je suis très, très timide pour parler, especialement avec des gens francophones. Mais les gens francophones ont les meilleurs pour m'aider apprendre la langue, mais oui. Oh, ma grammaire! Je ne veux pas savoir.


1+2 (=3)

Anyway, a guy with a french accent came in to drop off laundry, and I said one phrase to him en français ("je parle en peu le français") and I'm pretty sure he fell in love with me just for the 5 minutes he was in the store. In reference to Part 1, it was wonderful to be on the receiving end of that blissful and forgettable love-at-first-sight. In reference to Part 2, I'm never gonna let myself be debilitatingly timid about speaking French again. Who knows how many other native speakers may fall in love with me when they hear their own language? What opportunities have I been missing!?!?

;)

... my window

Roof cats

There are cats. So many cats. One day I counted 15 cats on the roof of the building across the backyard from my window (I think there are about 12 in the photo above), and I'm quite certain there were some missing that day. You see, I've kinda gotten to know some of them.

I keep waiting for this situation to be horrible and annoying. I'm pretty sure most people would be upset at the idea of 15 or 20 alley cats camping out by the window. Especially if any of those people have allergies, which I do. Allergies aside there's still the caterwauling to consider. The noise of fighting... and fucking.

But, strangely enough, these cats have been rather a pleasant commodity in my tiny rented room with no kitchen (at all) and no bathroom except the rather filthy one down the hall. They're less noisy than the train that comes by every 10 minutes. They're far enough away from my window that they don't aggravate my allergies. They're ADORABLE! And every time I hear them meowing as I'm drifting off to sleep I think of Audrey... in a happy way. (For those of you who don't know who Audrey is, there's a rather hefty post about her in the works, so stay tuned.)

I have a tiny room. I have no furniture. I'm working overtime and making less than my rent. I'm not acting or taking dance classes or doing any of the things I came here to do. But I have kitties to make me happy.

:)

...pastels

...human trafficking.

Bear with me for a minute here.

This post is about self-worth, but not in the beautiful, happy, flowery, "we're all pricelessly unique" kind of way. I'm talking about money. How much am I worth? Not how much to I make or own or have access to. How much money am I worth? It's a difficult question because, yes, I am pricelessly unique, but I KNOW that, and that information isn't helping me form an idea of how much money I believe I deserve to make each year. I hit a wall when it comes to thinking about myself monetarily, and I'm taking a wrecking ball to that wall right now.

So, to make the question more palatable I'll change it up a bit. The new, and more effective question, is this. How much money are my skills worth? Well, hmmm. The question is more specific now, but also somehow more overwhelming. I have so many skills, you see. Surely my versatility alone is also a skill?

So that's on my to-do list. Make an inventory of my skills and set a price point for each of them. Good. But I'm not going to do that here, because really, who wants to read that shit?

I'm gonna test out a cultural/sociological theory on you guys; poor, unsuspecting readers that you are. So often we are discouraged from thinking about self-worth in monetary terms. Now, I agree, one should not develop a sense of self-worth that is tied to one's salary. But what a person makes is different from what a person deserves to make, and my theory (here it comes!) is that ENTIRELY separating money from self-worth serves to keep poor people poor. They make what they make, and if they feel they are worth more than what they make, it's an intangible worth. That intangible worth is HIGHLY valuable, but it won't necessarily help you change your stars. Those who are able to connect their sense of self-worth to a specific monetary sum are better equipped to actually go out and actually make that much money. This is what the children of rich people learn how to do from the moment they are born.

I'm learning it right now.

I deserve to make at least 6 figures. I'm gonna start with a high 5 goal (high 5!). I'll get to work on that.

...happiness

I've been here in New York for nearly 2 months and I have never looked back. Moving here from Minnesota may be the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. It's at least up there in the top 5. I'm working every day for hardly any money. I already know I won't make rent this month on my tiny little single-room, unfurnished apartment with the bathroom down the hall and the subway right outside the window. I still haven't gotten the results of my food stamp application, in the meantime I'm being fed by friends and my employer. I can't even afford train fare to get around, I'm walking everywhere. I'm in a new place with new people who don't know me that well, who I don't know that well. And I'm kind of infatuated with a completely unavailable man. Or two.

But this is the important thing.

I'm happier than I've ever been in my life.

I'm more and more convinced that there is nothing like suffering to teach a person how to find joy in, well, everything. It's not just a philosophy, it's neuroscience. Everyone has a kind of happiness set point in their brain. The brain will regulate chemical levels to keep itself approximately at that point. Constant, mild suffering keeps the brain working to maintain happiness. In other words, it releases more happy chemicals. Based on my own self-observation it is my belief that this is the most effective way to raise the brain's happiness set point.

Blissing out.

I mean, I get to work without worrying about my hours! I can be entirely self-motivated and my level of success is directly related to my level of dedication! I get to walk everywhere and see the city! I have a WINDOW! I get to work on films for the love of it instead of for the money. I have activity and responsibility without obligation! I have independence without loneliness! Such independence! I've never felt more free or more full of love. And hope. Rationally or not, there's so much to hope for here.

I still get anxious, worried, and upset. I still have days when I feel ineffectual and defeated. I still say awkward things, offend people sometimes, feel bad about it. But usually I just have a good cry and move on with my life. I used to hate crying, I used to be embarrassed by it. Now I think it's fantastic. Like laughing. Or sex. Or a punch in the face. Life.

I just can't make myself worry about things the way I used to. It's not worth it.

Ecstasy vomit.