I’ve been writing long-delayed emails to people back home, and I got to thinking about people whose lives I think I’ve somehow impacted, however slightly, and wondering whether this happened only because they’re unaware of the full extent of my numerous flaws. This isn’t a get-down-on-myself rant, only I think I’ve been afraid of admitting these things to other people, even as much as I’ve wholly and personally accepted them. I’m not reluctant to downplay these flaws anymore, partly because I hope people who know me well already have a sense of them and partly because I’ve realized how much I value the imperfections in the people I love. It’s not a matter of liking a certain quality, it’s a matter of being thankful for the texture of character. I wonder whether those close to me feel a similar gratitude, not as a means to justify flaws but as a determination of whether I can mean something to them, as I really am.
I can be really petty. Most of that comes from being really sensitive, and attributing more significance to actions and words than people intend. I’ve gotten better at evaluating and deciding which things are really worth getting upset over. I definitely keep more of it to myself and take it out less on other people than I used to. But it doesn’t always change the initial hurt/annoyance/anger. It frustrates me how easily I’m hurt, and maybe even more detrimental than that, I hate that I hate admitting it, I hate thinking of my sensitivity as a weakness. I suppose it’s not an uncommon thing, the desire to be stronger than you are. I have a hard time defining strength. Sometimes I think that if I don’t stick up for that something someone else passes off as insignificant, I’m betraying the part of myself that says it means something. Is it just principle, or is it really the thing, and is it valid if it’s only one or the other?
I’m completely neurotic. I think about things long, long after they’ve passed and shouldn’t matter anymore. I think about things that don’t even matter during the moment they happen. I dislike the fact that I try to prepare myself for everything and absolutely cannot stand the notion of innate failings counteracting deliberate plans. I can’t for the life of me let things take their course without my intervention. In principle I place hope in chance, but sometimes my faith wavers. I’m in love with the idea of things falling on their own, but I can’t sacrifice control for the possible benefits of spontaneity. I don’t like facing the truth of the world moving as it is without my hands in it.
I expect too much from people and I don’t live up to my own standards. I don’t like to think that I demand things from others, but I often do...except I rarely outrightly demand anything. I perpetuate a deceptive mindset that is adamant about self-sufficiency. I hate admitting that I need certain things, so I never express them aloud. Then I’m disappointed when people don’t figure it out on their own, and blame them for it. Along the same lines, I want people to be considerate and compassionate and kind and intelligent and strong and essentially good, when I have no idea really how to go about emulating all those things at once.
My desire to give is often inspired by a deep-seated fear of being ultimately selfish. Is it really that I want to be a good person, or just that I don’t want to be a bad one? Maybe there is a difference, and I worry sometimes that I fall into the lesser category. I too often think about the way I feel, this entry being a perfect example. I suppose it’s human nature to do that, because how can you really think this way about how someone else feels? Still, I think the narcissism can drive people crazy, and it’s not exactly the best thing for me either.
I mask the reality of these things by considering the other side of them. I tell myself there are beneficial aspects to these faults, and I can’t decide if this a healthy practice or just denial. To consider viewing the positive as a negative—this is what I do to myself.
Then of course there are all the superficial things I’d like to change just because everyone wants to be everything. I wish I were smarter, funnier, more outgoing. I wish I could articulate myself aloud. I wish I had real talents rather than things I just like to do and study. It’d be nice to be taller, and to have a different nose, and to look older than thirteen, and to look a little less ordinary. Being happy with yourself doesn’t mean you’re immune to such desires.
Having written all this, it’s more difficult than I anticipated to post it. Not so much because I don’t want to share these negativities, more because I didn’t admit half of everything, so I feel a bit like an imposter. I started thinking and writing about this because everyone constructs a portrait of themselves to present to other people. I know what qualities I’d like to have, and it’s easier than one might think to portray the longing to have as actual possession. You think that it would be satisfying to have people think of you as better or less flawed than you genuinely are, but really, it only makes you feel slightly empty and enormously guilty. In recent interactions, I find myself just wanting to be honest. Having found people who inspire this desire to be fair to them has conversely made me acknowledge my own need for people who prefer this honesty, people who, as I chip away at myself, somehow make me feel more full.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Saturday, July 9, 2005
seeing the city
It's funny how in a compact, accessible city like Boston how often you stumble across small pockets of loveliness. After three years here, I'm still seeing things for the first time, from conspicuous tourist sites to obscure patches of grass. I feel so lucky to have been able to overload my senses with this city over the fourth of July weekend, to see the people and buildings and taste the food and hear the water and crowds and feel the slight not-uncomfortable summer humidity and cool night breeze and so on, and with someone who loves it as much as I do.
On Friday, we went to the North End and ate at La Dolce Vita. The feel of warm crowds and rambunctious, good-natured noise always comforts me, sometimes before I even realize I need comfort. Being in an Italian neighborhood evokes such nice elements of the culture, as stereotypical as they are—family, wine, free spiritedness. Passion. Before dinner we walked down Hanover St. and discovered a teeny alleyway filled with photos and mementos of Catholic saints. The man who had made the space came out to speak to us, and basically knew everything about every saint who ever lived. It made me think, wow, I really do not know that much about anything. I go through phases where I would like to acquire encyclopedic knowledge about a particular subject or person, and then I try, and find that (personally) there’s a threshold of specialized knowledge where wonder is lost and pointlessness seeps in. Still, I admire those who can sustain that level of wonder, and it’s affirming to see that people can find value from unexpected sources. During dinner we sat at a cozy tight table that somehow still made me feel too small for the surroundings, and watched old Italian men serenade unsuspecting customers.
On Saturday, we went to Haymarket to browse the enormous farmer’s market. Government center was so alive, with visitors and locals and just all kinds of people out for the July 4th weekend. People dressed up in colonial wear, people handing out pamphlets, people making balloon hats, people dancing. Haymarket was so much fun—aisles and aisles of fruit and vegetables. After a couple of weeks of ramen and tomato-sauce-based canned foods, the smell of freshness and outdoors was so good. Lots of pushy people, which added to the character of the place, and as Andrew remarked, so many different sorts of people selling and buying and bartering. We bought ten plums, six kiwis, half a pound of cherries and one box each of strawberries, raspberries, blackberries and grape tomatos for roughly eight dollars. Afterwards we had lunch at Quincy Market, which was spilling forth with hungry people.
Later we went to the top of the Prudential Center. Whenever I see cities from an aerial perspective, I’m always surprised by how organized things are. From the top of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, the miles of tree-lined streets that spread radially from the center, the Arc itself. From the top of Lombard St. in San Franciso, the rows and rows of white houses stretching to the ocean. From the top of El Duomo in Florence, the uniform redness of the rooftops. From the top of Empire State in NYC, the chaotic lights coordinated in a square-based city structure. I get lost so often when I’m on the ground, that it’s always funny to see how it all makes sense when you’re looking from above. The Charles was dotted with sailboats, I could see the brownstones that comprise Copley and the Back Bay, the little forest near Longwood. We returned later for sunset, and while waiting for it we lolled around the courtyard area. We spent most of that time watching kids run around, throw rocks in the water fountain, and generally cause harmless trouble. When we came back to Prudential, the lights were on at Fenway and you could see the seats filled with people. The sun was insanely bright, but we kept looking at it anyway. We could see it in its entirety, as a dense burning sphere, rather than the usual wide expanse of rays. I stared at the space it had occupied for a while after it set, straining to see whether I could still see its waning light. Doing that was less painful than staring at it while it was still up, but it felt a little melancholy. Not in a sad way, just in a moody way.
On Sunday, we walked a bit through downtown and then met a couple of his friends to go to Castle Island near the Boston Harbor. The waves made me miss home for a little bit, but it was nice to see an eastern coastal area. It was quiet, a little windy, and salty. The ocean smell blew at us and around us, and I could feel it stick to my skin and hair, and remain there, or at least in my memory, for the rest of the day. On our walk back to the car, we saw a little playground, where he proved to me that it is indeed possible not to be able to swing. I like how the simple motion of going higher on a creaky swing makes you feel so detached from the physical earth, but so connected to all that makes it worth it to eventually come back down.
We had dinner at Texas Roadhouse in Brockton, quite possibly the essence of so-corny-it’s-great. They had peanuts in barrels in the entrance and throughout the restaurant, and peanuts at the table and on the floors. They also had a jukebox, and we chose one of the only songs we recognized, “I am a Man of Constant Sorrow” from O Brother Where Art Thou. After being stuffed with ribs and cinnamon-buttered bread, we drove back to Cambridge. We packed up our fruit, my quillow and blanket, and my handmade cross-staff, and borrowed a movie from Connie, and staked out next to the river around midnight. I had to measure the moon’s width for physics (hence the cross-staff), and we decided to wait for the moonrise, scheduled to occur at 2:30 in the morning. As we waited, we watched The Red Violin on the tiny screen of his portable DVD player. It grew colder, and the sounds of the violin from the movie mingled with the sounds of cars driving past behind us, and of the slight stream of water in front of us. The sky grew hazy, lone stars across the grayish-black fuzz seemed very distant from one another. The moon never became visible.
We spent Monday in each other’s close, lazy company, and in the evening headed to the terrace of Quincy House to watch the fireworks. Boston’s fireworks are so creative, and you can so easily feel how much this city values Independence Day. There were shapes: cubes, smiley faces, hearts and stars. There were ones that lingered long after exploding, ones that stretched in crystal-like structures, others that fell lazily like slow waterfalls, some that resembled weeping willows.
It took me a long time to write this, considering it was just a summary of events. Each time I wrote something, I read it and thought, that’s not how it really was, that’s just the surface. Each time I mentioned something I could think of ten other related and unrelated thoughts. I can’t find the right way to express what this place gives me and what he gives me, maybe because I still find it difficult to take freely. But sometimes the only way I can think of to give back is to write about it, even when my words are all wrong. The sun is intoxicating, the night relieves me. His presence makes me feel subtle senses so intensely, at the same time that it makes me content to lie without deliberate thought, without conscious feeling. I think it’s time to stop revelling in what’s been so generously given to me and finally learn how to fill the outlines of other lives with the deep blues and pure whites and rich yellows that have shaded my life. Not to say that I don’t still feel like I’m missing something, some core of experience and emotion, but maybe that something comes from releasing and giving rather than acquiring more.
On Friday, we went to the North End and ate at La Dolce Vita. The feel of warm crowds and rambunctious, good-natured noise always comforts me, sometimes before I even realize I need comfort. Being in an Italian neighborhood evokes such nice elements of the culture, as stereotypical as they are—family, wine, free spiritedness. Passion. Before dinner we walked down Hanover St. and discovered a teeny alleyway filled with photos and mementos of Catholic saints. The man who had made the space came out to speak to us, and basically knew everything about every saint who ever lived. It made me think, wow, I really do not know that much about anything. I go through phases where I would like to acquire encyclopedic knowledge about a particular subject or person, and then I try, and find that (personally) there’s a threshold of specialized knowledge where wonder is lost and pointlessness seeps in. Still, I admire those who can sustain that level of wonder, and it’s affirming to see that people can find value from unexpected sources. During dinner we sat at a cozy tight table that somehow still made me feel too small for the surroundings, and watched old Italian men serenade unsuspecting customers.
On Saturday, we went to Haymarket to browse the enormous farmer’s market. Government center was so alive, with visitors and locals and just all kinds of people out for the July 4th weekend. People dressed up in colonial wear, people handing out pamphlets, people making balloon hats, people dancing. Haymarket was so much fun—aisles and aisles of fruit and vegetables. After a couple of weeks of ramen and tomato-sauce-based canned foods, the smell of freshness and outdoors was so good. Lots of pushy people, which added to the character of the place, and as Andrew remarked, so many different sorts of people selling and buying and bartering. We bought ten plums, six kiwis, half a pound of cherries and one box each of strawberries, raspberries, blackberries and grape tomatos for roughly eight dollars. Afterwards we had lunch at Quincy Market, which was spilling forth with hungry people.
Later we went to the top of the Prudential Center. Whenever I see cities from an aerial perspective, I’m always surprised by how organized things are. From the top of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, the miles of tree-lined streets that spread radially from the center, the Arc itself. From the top of Lombard St. in San Franciso, the rows and rows of white houses stretching to the ocean. From the top of El Duomo in Florence, the uniform redness of the rooftops. From the top of Empire State in NYC, the chaotic lights coordinated in a square-based city structure. I get lost so often when I’m on the ground, that it’s always funny to see how it all makes sense when you’re looking from above. The Charles was dotted with sailboats, I could see the brownstones that comprise Copley and the Back Bay, the little forest near Longwood. We returned later for sunset, and while waiting for it we lolled around the courtyard area. We spent most of that time watching kids run around, throw rocks in the water fountain, and generally cause harmless trouble. When we came back to Prudential, the lights were on at Fenway and you could see the seats filled with people. The sun was insanely bright, but we kept looking at it anyway. We could see it in its entirety, as a dense burning sphere, rather than the usual wide expanse of rays. I stared at the space it had occupied for a while after it set, straining to see whether I could still see its waning light. Doing that was less painful than staring at it while it was still up, but it felt a little melancholy. Not in a sad way, just in a moody way.
On Sunday, we walked a bit through downtown and then met a couple of his friends to go to Castle Island near the Boston Harbor. The waves made me miss home for a little bit, but it was nice to see an eastern coastal area. It was quiet, a little windy, and salty. The ocean smell blew at us and around us, and I could feel it stick to my skin and hair, and remain there, or at least in my memory, for the rest of the day. On our walk back to the car, we saw a little playground, where he proved to me that it is indeed possible not to be able to swing. I like how the simple motion of going higher on a creaky swing makes you feel so detached from the physical earth, but so connected to all that makes it worth it to eventually come back down.
We had dinner at Texas Roadhouse in Brockton, quite possibly the essence of so-corny-it’s-great. They had peanuts in barrels in the entrance and throughout the restaurant, and peanuts at the table and on the floors. They also had a jukebox, and we chose one of the only songs we recognized, “I am a Man of Constant Sorrow” from O Brother Where Art Thou. After being stuffed with ribs and cinnamon-buttered bread, we drove back to Cambridge. We packed up our fruit, my quillow and blanket, and my handmade cross-staff, and borrowed a movie from Connie, and staked out next to the river around midnight. I had to measure the moon’s width for physics (hence the cross-staff), and we decided to wait for the moonrise, scheduled to occur at 2:30 in the morning. As we waited, we watched The Red Violin on the tiny screen of his portable DVD player. It grew colder, and the sounds of the violin from the movie mingled with the sounds of cars driving past behind us, and of the slight stream of water in front of us. The sky grew hazy, lone stars across the grayish-black fuzz seemed very distant from one another. The moon never became visible.
We spent Monday in each other’s close, lazy company, and in the evening headed to the terrace of Quincy House to watch the fireworks. Boston’s fireworks are so creative, and you can so easily feel how much this city values Independence Day. There were shapes: cubes, smiley faces, hearts and stars. There were ones that lingered long after exploding, ones that stretched in crystal-like structures, others that fell lazily like slow waterfalls, some that resembled weeping willows.
It took me a long time to write this, considering it was just a summary of events. Each time I wrote something, I read it and thought, that’s not how it really was, that’s just the surface. Each time I mentioned something I could think of ten other related and unrelated thoughts. I can’t find the right way to express what this place gives me and what he gives me, maybe because I still find it difficult to take freely. But sometimes the only way I can think of to give back is to write about it, even when my words are all wrong. The sun is intoxicating, the night relieves me. His presence makes me feel subtle senses so intensely, at the same time that it makes me content to lie without deliberate thought, without conscious feeling. I think it’s time to stop revelling in what’s been so generously given to me and finally learn how to fill the outlines of other lives with the deep blues and pure whites and rich yellows that have shaded my life. Not to say that I don’t still feel like I’m missing something, some core of experience and emotion, but maybe that something comes from releasing and giving rather than acquiring more.
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